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Fic: Winchester Synchronicity (NC17, Chapter 5)
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Chapter Five
He knew he was stronger and faster than he used to be, but Dean attributed that to his changed body. It was taller and broader, so stronger made every kind of sense. It took beating a big blue cocksucker with the strength of a fucking elephant in the ring before he’d admit to himself that he was more than human-strong. It was embarrassing how long after that it took for him to figure out he healed faster too.
He tried not to wonder if he even qualified as human anymore.
Sometimes Nazim caught him staring into the infirmary mirror while he was getting patched up. Nazim teased him, accusing him of fearing for his handsome face. Really, he was trying to recognize some part of himself in his own reflection, trying to figure out how the fuck he had missed a change this huge even before he saw himself in that mirror. The best Dean could figure, it had to have been the drugs. Or maybe there hadn’t ever been any drugs and it had been the fucking magic. He was never going to know, but that hadn’t kept him from staring. Or from wondering if he was still him, or if Sammy’d hijacked someone else’s body to stash him in.
That thought kept him up sometimes, though it wasn’t exactly alone.
*****
Really, Dean’s life wasn’t that different. The food changed some; after the first few days it was only canned vegetables, and he got a lot more meat, although nothing sat as well in his stomach. When he asked Nazim about it, he learned that everything – cows, chickens, cockroaches, even people – everything just dropped where it stood when the Boom happened. The interesting thing was, nothing was rotting. The towns and cities were just littered with perfectly preserved meat, like some giant butcher shop, and Dean tried to ignore the idea that people were probably on the Demons’ menu just as often as cow.
No one seemed to care enough to do a real census, but Nazim thought that about 1% of the human population had survived the Boom, along with anyone demon-touched. Nothing else survived though, and Dean hated walking around above. Even the plants weren’t growing, their green-yet-lifeless forms adding a surreal, barren feeling to places Dean would usually have described as lush. Not that they really could have grown anyway, since the sun was never visible. It was always cold and dusk-like outside and there was never even the tiniest breeze to move the zombie grass.
Creeped Dean the fuck out.
*****
He actually started to feel grateful for the time that he spent underground, grateful even for the bars on his cell. It wasn’t
At least Nazim kept the arrogant, entitled sons-of-bitches off him when they were topside. The fights were big business – Ketill’s biggest, from what he could tell – and Dean had apparently become a major asset. Nazim no longer handled any fighters but him, and Dean was mostly just fucking relieved to have him there. He had no idea how he’d’ve dealt with the damned bastards if they had been constantly in his face, offering to buy him.
*****
By early September, he was fighting all the time, usually in huge arenas, and always on the main stage. One day, as he was leaving the local ring, he recognized it as fucking
Dizziness made navigating the swarming backstage crowd almost impossible, and he slammed hard into a prissy little demon that was blocking his way. Dean sent the thing flying before fully assessing its threat, instinct the only fuel he had left in him.It careened off the cement wall of the stadium, and Dean was on it in a second, his addled brain not registering the incongruity of the thing’s double-breasted suit, or that it was far too easy to take down.
What did register was Nazim’s bellowed “Erich!” echoing down the hall, and Dean hesitated, a breath away from snapping the thing’s neck. Its struggles were completely inefficient against his chokehold, so he tried to locate Nazim, finding him at the far end of the hall, moving quickly toward his charge. Exhaustion crept back in as the adrenaline started its inevitable fade. In its wake, the demon’s attitude and costume finally sunk in, and he figured out he’d just jumped a buyer.
Oh Shit.
Dean released the creature just as Nazim reached them through the crowd they’d drawn, careful not to let it crash too hard into the floor. Nazim offered it a polite hand up, apologizing profusely for the “misunderstanding” while he got the bastard steady on its feet. It and Nazim had an obvious history though, and the demon wasn’t buying any of Nazim’s patter, clearly having found an unexpected advantage. It demanded the retribution it was entitled to – namely the immediate surrender of Dean’s contract.
Nazim talked fast, but Dean couldn’t hear any of it over the pounding of his heart. He hadn’t realized until that moment just how much he was counting on the protections Sam had arranged for him. He hadn’t even been aware of thinking about it, really, but now that they were about to vanish, he was acutely aware of how much his brother had to have known before he set this all in motion, how much Sam had to have set up for him. Things could have been one hell of a lot worse, and he really didn’t want to find out firsthand how much worse they might get.
It was far easier to deal with the rage that bubbled up in him whenever he thought of what his brother had done than with the soul-crushing dread that always accompanied it. He let the anger flow through him, and it grounded him, allowing him to breathe deliberately again and calm his pounding heart, allowing him to focus again on the argument over his fate.
They were talking punishment instead of ownership. Relief flooded Dean, so acute he could barely stand, and he lost the thread of conversation again, actually graying out for a moment. He rejoined reality just in time to watch the son-of-a-bitch stalk off angrily.
Nazim practically jumped him, almost frantic in his efforts to find and stop his bleeding from the fight. He didn’t even pause long enough to answer any questions, yet still had only managed to tend maybe a quarter of his major wounds by the time the guards arrived to drag Dean back out onto center stage for his punishment.
The crowd was howling as they marched him into view, so loud he honestly couldn’t tell if they were booing him, or his punishment. They were certainly excited though, that much was clear. The announcer blathered on about the reputation of the Xeing-hai Clan while the guards strapped him securely, hand and foot, face-down onto a large cross. Ah, Dean judged from the rise in booing, they don’t much like the bastards.
The guards cut his already ragged shirt from his body – though why they hadn’t done that before tying him down eluded Dean until he remembered where he was: Fucking showmanship. The prissy little fucker bounced onto stage, bowing for the manically booing crowd a few times as he was introduced as Eboeh Xeing-hai. He recited some ceremonial-sounding bullshit about receiving blood and forgiving injustices before moving in behind Dean.
Nazim moved into view off to Dean’s left, fury and impotence writ large across his face. Dean wasn’t happy about any of this either, but he’d been telling himself it was better than being sold. He still felt that way, but Nazim really wasn’t helping here.
The crowd’s tone changed, alerting Dean that something was about to happen. He tensed instinctively, but still wasn’t able to bite off the string of obscenities that left his mouth as the first blow landed across his back. What the fuck did I just get hit with?
Panting heavily from the pain, he watched as his accuser came into view on his right, handing a fucking bullwhip to the red-clad guard standing there. The bastard moved back in behind him, and Dean struggled against the straps to follow its progress as far as he could, a sick feeling building in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t help bucking up against the straps when he felt the thing’s hands come to rest firmly on his shoulders. It let out a smug little chuckle, and he hated himself for giving it an excuse.
He steeled his spine up and didn’t move at all when it bent its head and jabbed its tongue into the bottom of the track left by the whip.
Motherfucker!
He sucked in ragged breaths, but didn’t otherwise move as it jabbed its tongue in deep, slowly following the trail of the whip up his back. It worked along the track cruelly, lapping up the blood it encouraged to flow, raping the wound with its mouth. Dean fought hard to not let anything but disgust show on his face, viciously stomping out the white-hot anger bubbling up inside him. It lingered for a long moment when it finally reached the top, playing obscenely with the raw skin there, thrusting its tongue in and out of the gash. Dean told himself he wasn’t going to be sick - he just fucking wasn’t. Nazim caught his eye and the anger he saw there steadied him a bit, enough to fight down his nausea until the fucker finally released him.
He heard it take a few steps away before it said, “I accept this offering of first blood. You may continue.” Great. It moved around in front of him and locked its eyes with his. This game, Dean knew. If Sammy couldn’t outstare him, there was no way this fucker was going to. He matched its glare as the guard moved in behind him and brought the bullwhip down onto his back.
Fire ripped through him as the heavy lash landed again and again. The guard was completely merciless, pounding his spine and kidneys, letting it wrap around and tear into his chest – sometimes landing it again and again in exactly the same spot, over and over, cutting deep enough Dean knew bone must be showing through the blood. He welcomed the support of the straps by the ten count, certain they were all that was keeping him upright. Glad they kept him from falling in front of his crowd.
Even though they were calling it out, he lost track of the count somewhere just past 50. He’d been so sure they’d stop there… how the fuck was he supposed to survive this? He didn’t let the fucker’s eyes go though, rage keeping them locked tight, pain feeding the rage and making it burn fiercely in his eyes. I’m going to kill this bastard. There was no doubt in him about that at all.
Of course, he eventually lost the staring contest, eyes falling shut between the rhythmic blows, his consciousness finally slipping away, stripped from him by the lash. The last number he heard being called was one-hundred-and-fucking-sixty-four.
Nazim later told him they went to 250 before they cut him down and let the bastard back at him with its tongue.
*****
A week later, they stood on the top of
Cheeks flushed with reflected fire, he turned stiffly to face his companion, abused muscles still refusing to move smoothly, face refusing to let the pain show through. “Are you sure this isn’t hell, Nazim?”
Nazim sighed. “It’s Hell’s prime vacation spot right now, and if they get their way, it may be a suburb someday, but…” the demon hesitated and, because he was watching closely, Dean caught his slight shudder before he continued, “… there’s no way this is actually Hell.”
*****
In spite of the extra security Ketill sent out, they were attacked on the way to their landing zone. It was totally predictable, and the guards handled it easily enough, so everybody was in good spirits when they reached their secured camp.
They’d just crossed inside the fence line when Nazim, keying on something Dean couldn’t see from his protected position inside the main transport, sent everyone into defensive positions. He usually bristled against his confinement, especially when they encountered problems on the road, but this felt different, somehow more urgent. A hyperawareness, honed through years of hunting, flooded his system with adrenaline and made him twitchy as fuck. He tried to convince the driver to release him, but found no joy there.
From what he could hear on the radio, the entire earlier attack had been a setup. The Xeing-hai had arraigned a diversion for them while the bulk of their forces took over their main camp at the landing zone. None of their own force survived that second attack, and the caravan troops were now vastly outnumbered and taking heavy fire with only their vehicles for cover.
Dean heard Nazim call for a retreat just seconds before snipers took out his driver. He reached into the front seat and grabbed the driver’s gun, then began to pound frantically on the side window with his feet, lying on the seat and throwing all his strength into the blows, desperate to get out of the transport, to no longer sit like a fat sacrifice waiting for the knife to fall.
An explosion rocked the vehicle, and the area around it filled with a thick yellow smoke that hung low in the air. Dean redoubled his efforts on the window, nearly flying out of the car with the force of his kick when the door suddenly flew open. He recognized Nazim and managed to stop himself a bare fraction of a second shy of blowing him sky-high with the driver’s gun, just barely pulling his finger off the trigger in time. He bolted from the vehicle in the direction Nazim urged him, and together they ran for the cover of a nearby building.
An hour of frantic duck-and-cover later, it seemed likely that they were clear of the worst of the fighting. They climbed the stairs of a nearby 4-story building to get the lay of the land, hoping to spot some of their own people. Dean hesitated on the dark landing, ill-formed fear making him cautious as Nazim emerged onto the roof and went down in a flash of blood and gore, jumped by five agile bodies as soon as he’d crossed the threshold.
Dean renewed his longstanding vow to listen to his fucking instincts, then jumped into the fray without another thought. He’d taken three of the bastards down before he had a chance to realize how badly Nazim was injured. His keeper hadn’t moved at all, and there was a large, dark pool gathering under his gaping belly.
The last two demons were tough, but Dean had armed himself from the others, and, in the end, they were no real match for him when he let adrenaline and anger ride him. He strode back across the roof, dripping blood that wasn’t his, mostly, and came to stand over Nazim.
His eyes opened as Dean approached, filling with fear, then resignation and, finally, surprise as Dean nodded, then knelt down beside him. A lake of dark-gold blood had formed on the cement roof around them, and his pale-yellow intestines glistened against Dean’s hand as he calmly stuffed them back inside Nazim’s pallid body. He moved off then, listening at the stairwell for a moment and quickening his pace as he crossed to the closest of the corpses and pulled off its shirt. He knelt again at Nazim’s side and tore the shirt into long strips, expertly binding up the man’s gut before asking in a low, urgent voice, “Think you can walk? Because we’re about to have more company.”
Two more demons burst onto the roof as Dean got Nazim to his feet. Nazim was slumped unconscious by the time he’d finished dispatching them, and Dean considered his wounds for a moment before sighing and hoisting him up into an awkward fireman’s carry. Trying to find a way to be cautious of the gaping hole he'd just bandaged, Dean shifted Nazim a couple of times on his shoulder before giving up and starting down the stairs.
*****
He played hide-and-seek with the Xeing-hai for 36 hours before Nazim woke again, and it was another two days before Ketill himself arrived to get them home.
Dean stuck to the edge of the group, allowing the medics to crawl all over him. He didn’t see any advantage in subverting Nazim’s glory, so he refrained from pointing out Nazim’s much greater injuries, letting them waste their time discovering for themselves that he, himself, had no truly major wounds. No one needed to know who’d really kept them alive for the last three days.
Nazim was deep in conversation with Ketill, and Ketill seemed very, very pleased with his man. Relief had flooded his eyes when he’d first seen Dean, quickly replaced by a huge smile for Nazim, and Dean had finally placed his captor’s scarred face, recognizing him as the Trickster he and Sam had thought they’d killed what seemed like a lifetime ago.
Make that he’d thought they’d killed. Sam obviously knew otherwise.
Unfuckingbelievable. At least now he was sure that Ketill actually had some answers for him.
The Trickster – fucking Ketill – shot Dean a quick, hard look before the medics hustled him into their still-running Blackhawk helicopter. Great, Dean thought as he jumped aboard, Of course he knows I know. Because it was so easy to talk to him before. He looked back outside while the crew got him settled with their straps and headsets, and saw Ketill talking intently with his head medic. The rest of them were trying to convince Nazim to get on the stretcher they’d brought over.
In the end, Nazim collapsed into the seat next to Dean under his own power. The medics hovered nearby, but didn’t interfere. Dean didn’t blame them; he didn’t offer to help either.
Ketill was still on the ground when their Blackhawk took off. When Dean asked, Nazim replied ominously, “He has a few things to take care of. He’ll be staying in LA for a few days.”