Chapter 12

They love too much that die for love. -John Ray

“Give me what is mine, boy!” Monroe gave Dave a hard shake and the teen’s terrified eyes sought out Sam’s, pleading with the hunter to do something.

“I’d listen to him if I were you.” The voice was feminine and in too close of proximity to his brother for Sam to ignore- despite all his instincts to never look away from his enemy.

Maggie, better known as Marguerrite Dellacrois, stood mere inches from Dean and she was holding his brother‘s crossbow.

Her features were easily recognizable as the genial seventy year old hostess that they had met that first morning in New Hope, but the years had amazingly slipped away- revealing a much younger woman in her thirties, at the most. The gray hair that had been curled in a tight bun, was now black and shiny and hung past her shoulders. Cloudy, brown eyes were now sharp and clear, and resembled rich honey. She could have been Maggie’s daughter.

Sam imagined that the weaker he grew-the younger she would become and soon she could easily play the part of the inn keepers granddaughter. And when the spell was complete her youth and vitality would be restored to her for another fifty years. A real sweet deal-as Dean would say.

“I’d hate for your brother to bleed all over my nice wood floors, but I will sacrifice the clean-up if you don’t lower that crude weapon and return the necklace to Mr. Monroe.”

The young hunter swallowed hard and blinked, trying to fight off another wave of dizziness. He felt his body sway as if a sudden wind had gusted over him, and his weakness elicited a cold smile from Dellacrois. “Don’t fight it, my dear. Your time is near. You don’t want to waste your brother’s life because of silly pride-now do you.”

Her finger tightened on the release mechanism and Sam quickly lowered the shotgun. “I thought you’d see things my way.”

Sam had watched helplessly as Margurerrite had forced Dave to drag Dean’s body into the sitting room. Then she‘d instructed Monroe to tie the kid to a chair in the corner-where the reservation clerk now sat gagged and wide-eyed. The young hunter guessed he was probably in shock, but his concern was focused totally on Dean, who had yet to stir.

Monroe was near the fireplace holding the necklace of Geronimo’s and watching the clock as if by will he could bid time to speed up.

Sam only wished he could wield it to slow down.

Dellacrois sat in a golden Queen Anne chair by the door, watching him like one might anticipate the basting turkey on Thanksgiving Day. She still held the crossbow at the ready and to Sam’s horror, Tapioca, the center piece that Morry had skillfully crafted, was now curled, purring in her lap.

Apparently the spell reversed time for everyone bound to Marguerrite.

The younger Winchester was still contemplating the idea of reanimated pets when Dean finally stirred. Sam put a steadying hand on his brother’s chest and couldn’t help the relieved smile that spread across his face when Dean finally opened his eyes.

“’Bout time. I thought you were going to miss all the fun.”

Dean winced in pain and brought his hand up to gingerly probe at the back of his head. “Sammy? What the hell hit me?”

Sam slipped an arm around the older hunter’s shoulder and helped him sit up, propping him against the couch. “A wall.”

“Nice,” Dean grumbled, taking a quick stock of their situation. His eyes fell on Dave and then Monroe. He glanced back at Sam, and instantly glared at his brother. “I told you to hold onto that necklace, Sam.”

Sam sighed. “Yeah, well, it was a choice between it or you. Believe it or not, I didn’t even hesitate.”

Dean held his determined gaze for a moment. “You look like shit.”

The younger hunter shook his head. “You’re welcome.”

Dean’s gaze went to the clock on the wall and he swore. “Damn it,” he hissed, keeping his voice low. It was after ten. “We’re running out of time here.” They were far enough away from Monroe and Dellacrois for their conversation not to be heard, but the witch continued to watch them with an amused smile.

“You’re telling me,” Sam slumped back against the couch. “I...don’t think I’m going... to be able to stay awake much longer, man.”

Dean reacted to his brother’s slurred words immediately, his own pain and sluggishness shoved to the background. “Don’t say that, Sam. It’s not over yet.”

Sam shook his head slightly and smiled. “Dean-did you not see the hot chick in the corner?” His brother was not one to ever overlook a pretty woman-no matter the circumstances.

His brother looked at the witch. He’d seen her already, and had quickly put two and two together. “Yeah. I saw Supernatural Botox Bitch and Zombie Cat-what’s your point?”

“My point is-she’s just waiting for her next injection, big brother. That would be me-or my soul, anyway.”

“Well, she’s not going to get it.”

“Dean-nothing stupid, right?”

“Right.” Dean looked back at Monroe. “We’ve got to get that necklace.”

Sam laughed, wincing as the movement seemed to set off tiny explosions of pain in his aching head. “And how do you plan on doing that, Merlin? I have a feeling that he’s not going to just hand it over.”

“Then we’ll just take it.”

“Right,” Sam sighed, wearily. “I forgot that Captain OneHelluva Big Brother and Geek Boy can out run speeding arrows and easily overpower a freaky corporeal poltergeist. No problem.”

Dean was staring out the window to the right of them, and Sam had to nudge him to be sure he was still listening. “Did you hear me, Dean?”

Dean absently patted his knee, still watching the window as if he‘d saw something. “I heard you, Geek Boy. You just gotta have some faith.”

Sam started to reply when a loud scratching noise echoed through out the quiet room, resonating above the crackling of the fire.

A ferocious feline growl erupted from Tapioca and the mass of fur slipped from it’s owner’s lap to stalk off down the hallway in the direction of the front entrance of the inn. Other dormant cat’s suddenly came to life and emerged from around corners and leapt from furniture to follow in it’s wake.

The scratching continued and a high pitched canine whine now joined it.

“Someone’s trying to interrupt our fun,” Marguerrite hissed, shooting her ghostly accomplice a glare. She stood and handed off the crossbow to Monroe. “Watch them, while I take care of it.”

Monroe nodded, stepping closer to the brothers, the necklace swinging like a pendulum from his right hand. He grinned at Sam and pointed the crossbow at Dean. “I haven’t captured one quite as powerful as you in a long time. Most of them are in a coma by now. Maggie will enjoy what you’ll bring to her.”

“Shut up,” Dean growled, inching his body in front of Sam’s, blocking Monroe‘s view.

“Must be hard to lose a brother…,” Monroe’s gaze was now on Dean, something akin to pity alighting his dark eyes, “…to watch him die while you can‘t do anything about it.”

Dean felt the his brother tremble behind him, and knew it had nothing to do with Monroe. “Why don’t you tell me,” Dean spat. “You held your daddy while he bled to death in your arms. Sucks-doesn‘t it?”

Monroe reacted as if the hunter had punched him. He flinched but then stepped closer- his temper flaring, which was exactly the reaction Dean was hoping for. “You don’t know anything about me! Or my pa.”

“I know you wanted revenge for your family,” Dean held the man’s fiery gaze, “I can understand that much about your sorry ass.”

“But you took it a step farther,” Sam spoke up from behind Dean, following his brother’s lead. His voice was weak but it still garnered Monroe’s attention. “You crossed the line when you couldn’t exact punishment on Geronimo. You sold your soul to trap him here-all out of hate.”

“I loved my family!” Monroe shouted. “They were all I had. Maggie helped me avenge them.”

Sam shook his head sadly. “What you did had nothing to do with love. It was twisted and ugly, and full of grief. Those things can‘t survive together.”

“And Maggie helped herself,” Dean added, with disgust. “Do you really think she gave a damn about your pain? She saw a way to use you for her own benefit.”

“That’s not true! She is helping me get to Geronimo. I will have him this time.”

“No you won’t,” Sam gasped, as a pain tore through him. He looked up at the clock. Ten minutes were left.

Dean felt his frustration and worry building as his brother fought with the pain trying to pull him under. He wanted to kill something-anything, but resisted his murderous impulse, knowing that patience was the only thing standing between his baby brother and death. “Sam’s right. Why would Marguerrite let you get Geronimo? If she did-then who’d collect her souls for her next time around?” Dean shook his head as Monroe started to waver. “You’ve been a blind fool.”

“No!” he screamed.

“You sentenced yourself and all the other people you hurt to a lifetime and beyond of pain,” Dean added. “ All for nothing. You’ll never get Geronimo. And you’ll never see your father or your family again where you‘re going.”

Monroe inched closer, his anger vibrating through every muscle in his body. The crossbow quivered mere inches from Dean’s face. “And where might that be, boy?”

“To Hell.”

“And you’re going to send me there?” Monroe aimed the arrow at Dean’s heart.

The older Winchester shrugged. “No-he is.”

A growl and a snapping of teeth had Monroe whirling around to face the white wolf and it was all the distraction that Dean needed. He grabbed for the necklace and at the same time used the momentum of his body to topple he and Monroe over the oak table behind them.

They hit the wooden floor with a bone-jarring impact, but Dean managed to keep his grip on the beaded pendant. Wrenching it away from the struggling Monroe, Dean sought out his brother. “Sammy-catch!”

Sam struggled to his knees in time to catch the necklace, but Dean’s inattention had cost him. Monroe swung the crossbow like a club, landing a blow to the young hunter’s face.

Dean cried out and Sam tried to stand. “Dean!”

The older Winchester rolled away from Monroe and spat blood onto the floor, before yelling at Sam. “Give the necklace to Geronimo, Sam! Now!”

Monroe grabbed Dean by the back of the shirt and slung him effortlessly against the wall, before turning his gaze to Sam. The younger Winchester looked at his brother and then to the necklace in his hand. Give it to Geronimo? He didn’t understand.

“Navarre, Sam!” Dean said, as he struggled to his feet. “Navarre.”

Monroe swung the crossbow to cover Sam and was about to pull the trigger, when Dellacrois rushed breathlessly back into the room.

“No! You fool!” she screamed. “You can’t kill him. If the sickness doesn’t take him, we will not have his soul.”

The photographer hesitated unsure of what to do. The white wolf inched closer to the youngest Winchester and Sam dropped to his knees, quickly sliding the beads over the animal’s head.

The room was momentarily filled with a blinding light and Monroe screeched in fury as the wolf turned from Sam and leapt through the window, sending shards of glass and wood scattering over the grass and bushes below. A burning oil lamp fell from the window ceil, skittering across the wooden floor, coming to rest beneath the curtains before it burst into flames.

An orange and red blaze raced up the drapes, licking at the old wooden walls behind them.

“No!” Monroe screamed, realizing that any ties he had held to Geronimo had just been released. “You!” He rounded on Dean, who had just managed to get to his feet. “YOU did this!”

Dean watched helplessly as the photographer raised the crossbow. The only thought that entered his mind as Monroe’s finger tightened on the trigger was that he hadn’t been able to save Sam- but then something flashed behind Monroe.

At first, Dean thought it might be Dellacrois, but then the form solidified, and he had to blink to be sure of what he was seeing. A young Indian brave stood behind Monroe. His eyes met and held Dean’s for only a moment, before he wrapped his arms around the unsuspecting photographer, and both spirits disappeared in a burst of flames.

It was Dellacrois who yelled this time-realizing that she had also been robbed. Monroe was no longer in her grasp. “No! This is not suppose to be happening!”

Coughing drew Dean’s mesmerized gaze from the circle of ash that now stood where Monroe just had.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

Sam was crawling towards him, staying low to the floor. The curtains were already completely engulfed and one side of the wall was blazing.

Dave was mumbling wildly beneath his gag from the other side of the room, and all Dean could think of was time.

Time was almost gone.

The clock’s hand was at five of eleven.

And Marguerrite was glaring at him, as if he was center and cause of the whole chaos.

Good. That’s exactly what he wanted. Come and get me, Witch.

“Guess you’ll have to find another hit man, huh, sweetheart?” Dean nodded to the livid woman. “Or you won’t be seeing that pretty face again in another fifty years-well unless it’s in a photograph.”

The witch shrieked, and her eyes darted to the mantle beside them. She lifted her arm and the jewel encrusted athame flew from the shelf to her hand.

Dean held his breath, his eyes not wavering from Margurrite. He heard Sam yell his name. He was aware his brother was trying to make it to his side. Come on. Just do it already.

And Dean stood firm, as Dellacrois flew at him and the hot blade pierced his heart-and Sam screamed his name.

Pain tore through the older Winchester in a blinding flash, stealing his breath with it’s intensity, but he stayed on his feet.

Dean grabbed the witch’s shoulders as she buried the knife deeper in his chest, and pulled her body close to his. The hunter’s blood poured over her hands, stained her dress, and Marguerrite Dellacrois smiled, as she twisted the blade.

Dean grunted in anguish, but his hands tightened are her narrow arms, and his lips brushed against her ear. He whispered, with his failing breath, “My.. life..for his...”

Even through the consuming agony, the hunter felt the witch tense, and then her body trembled in the instant that she realized her mistake.

She jerked away, pulling the blood-covered athame with her and Dean couldn‘t stop the cry that was torn from him.

He fell to his knees but kept his pain-filled green eyes locked with her shocked brown gaze. “Release... my... brother! Release them all.”

“No,” she gasped, bringing her blood covered fingers to her lips. “You couldn’t have,” she whispered, dropping the knife to the floor.

Suddenly, she held her hands out in front of her and watched in morbid fascination as they began to wrinkle, and her fingers gnarled.

Monroe had offered his life to her to trap Geronimo, and now this boy had given his to release his brother. “It can’t be,” she cried, bringing her hands once more to her perfect porcelain face. She howled as she felt the deep furrows and sagging folds of skin consuming her beauty.

And Dean smiled, blood covering his teeth, “That’s right…," he coughed, "you’re melting, Bitch.”

“Dean!” Sam finally made it to his brother.

And the clock stopped.

It’s hand resting one minute beyond eleven.

Maggie backed away from Dean, nearly stumbling over an ottoman in her rush to get away from his bleeding body, but she couldn’t escape his blood-it stained her hands, her clothes, her soul.

Marguerrite Dellacrois’ could not out run her fate.

Nor could Dean Winchester.

The room shifted and the hunter felt himself fall forward. He would have hit the unforgiving floor face first if his brother hadn’t been there to catch him.

“Dean!” Sam caught his wounded brother in his arms, and guided his body to the rug.

Dean could feel Sam’s frantic hands on him now, turning him over, tugging at his shirt to get to the wound. He blinked, trying to stay long enough to say what needed to be said.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam was whispering over and over again, between choking coughs. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

The smoke was getting thicker. Dean could hear the snap and crackle of the flames as the consumed more of the room. “Sammy-stop.” Dean pushed at his brother’s hand as the younger man used his own shirt to try and stench the blood flowing from Dean’s chest. “Just…stop...Get...out...of...here.”

“I have to stop the bleeding, Dean,” Sam rasped, continuing to apply pressure.

It should have hurt, but Dean supposed he was beyond feeling pain-the physical kind anyway.

“Sam!” He demanded, and a destroyed dark gaze finally lifted to meet his. “It’s...over. Stop it.”

Sam opened his mouth, and then closed it. Tears fell from his eyes. “You promised me,” he finally sobbed. “You promised you wouldn’t do anything stupid, you bastard.”

Dean forced a smile. “It was a choice... between you or me.” Believe it or not, I didn’t even hesitate. “Smartest thing... I ever did.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped his fists in Dean’s shirt. “Damn you!” he yelled. “Damn you for doing this.” There was so much blood-Sam couldn't stop it. "You're so fucking stupid-thinking you can control everything." He opened his eyes and looked at Dean. "You going to let an old witch do this to you?" To us. "My brother...," he choked, "he wouldn't go out like that."

"Sammy…" Dean didn’t want it to end this way-he needed his brother to understand, "…you’re my brother…and…"

Sam’s eyes snapped open and he glared at Dean-daring him to toss his own words back at him. Don’t say it. Don’t. You’re not going to die for me. No Damn Way!

Dean swallowed hard, fighting for each breath now. He lifted his hand-seeking out Sam’s that was still fisted in the front of his shirt. He covered it- his cooling blood settling between their skin like cement, and smiled. "I love you, Geek Boy."

"Don’t do this, Dean," Sam begged, seeing the sad, knowing smile on his brother's face. He let his forehead come to rest on their entwined hands. "Please!" Hot tears fell from his face and his body was shaking. "I'm sorry. You're not stupid. You're the best brother I could have. You're my family- I love you. Please."

Sam was suddenly freezing- even as the fire raged around him.

Why was he so cold?

Sam raised his head-the sudden realization jolting him out of his misery, and though Dean's eyes were still looking at him-his brother would never see Sam again.

"Dean?"

The connection he had always taken for granted was gone. That invisible thread that tethered him to his brother had vanished leaving a gaping crevice in it’s wake, and the youngest Winchester couldn't stop shaking.

And Sam knew. "No," he whispered.

His brother was dead. "No!"

A loud crash echoed from the hallway, and then he heard raised voices.

But not the one voice that mattered. "Dean?" Sam rested his free hand on his brother's face.

That voice was silent Forever lost to him-echoing only in the most bittersweet of memories

"Dean?" Sam felt his brother’s cold fingers slide from over his other hand, no longer sheltering him. And the irony tore at ever fiber of his being. "Wake up, Dean. Please, wake up." He couldn't accept it. This can't be happening. This isn't how it's suppose to happen.

"Sammy?" The familiar voice had his head reeling and him spinning around to face his father.

At first relief flooded through him, as years fell away and a little boy‘s belief that his daddy could fix anything slipped through the tough veneer of reality.

"Dad-Dean‘s hurt. Help him. Do something!"

How many times had he said those words, or similar ones-only to have John rush in and patch his brother up-save the day. No matter what had transpired between father and son, John Winchesterwas the dragon slayer from his childhood dreams, and the untouchable wizard who could concoct potions that could do anything.

Anything- but turn back time.

"We’ve got to get out of here, son." John wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulders and tried to pull him from Dean’s side.

A flashback from his vision of the cliffs in California stabbed through his mind and Sam pulled back in pained realization. His father wasn’t here to help him save Dean. He was here to tear them apart-to take his brother from him.

"No!" Sam pushed weakly at the iron-like grip. "I won‘t leave him."

"Sammy-he‘s gone." John‘s eyes finally went to his eldest son. "The spell is broken."

"What?" Sam shook his head, coughing as more smoke settled around them. How did his father know about the spell? Realization crashed down around him. "You!" He slammed his fist into his father‘s chest. "You knew that this would happen! You planned it...you...caused this."

John grabbed both of Sam‘s hands and shook him. "Listen to me-we all have to get out of here before it‘s too late." The older hunter understood Sam's grief-shared in it-but there wasn't room for it. Not yet. Hopefully not for a very long time.

Sam blinked back more tears as he glanced to his older brother‘s lifeless form and then back to his father‘s dark eyes. "In case you missed the dead body-it‘s too late for Dean, Dad. For your son!" Sam spat. "For my brother, you bastard!"

"Landry!" John shouted, and Sam noticed for the first time that the sheriff was there. "Get my son out of here."

"We all need to go, John. Morry got Dave out. This whole place is going to go." Buck reached down to grab Sam and despite his struggles the weakened hunter was no match for the burly law man. "Let‘s go kid."

"I hate you!" Sam shouted at his father as he was drug from the burning inn. "I fucking hate you!"

John blocked out the pain that his youngest son’s words inflicted and bent down to lay his hand on the side of Dean’s head. Images of him as a baby and the sweet boy he'd been rushed into his mind, and he ran his hand through his son's hair. Finally, he shook off the influx of emotion. Getting back to business, John reached up and closed his son's eyes, and then put a hand on Dean's chest before saying a quick prayer to anyone who still might be listening to him.

He grasped the protection pendant that his son wore religiously-the necklace that his brother had given him- and closed his eyes He spoke the words that the white wolf had brought to him in a dream softly and swiftly. When the final phrase passed through his lips he felt a surge of energy run through him and he snapped the pendant from Dean’s neck, holding it tightly in his hand. Old magic-simple magic-is the best.

John quickly pulled his boy close to his chest, allowing himself only a moment of weakness as his cheek brushed against Dean's too-cold face. He blinked back the tears and glanced across the room to where Maggie Dellacrois’ sat curled by the mantle where the flames were already hungrily nipping at her dress hem.

Her haunted, empty eyes met his and John’s face set in grim lines.

"Burn in hell, witch," John whispered as he lifted Dean and stumbled through the fire.

Onto Chapter 13

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