Author's note:- OK I have a million other things I should be writing. So I'd just like to say that I hate watching films particularly when a scene inspires me to put another character in the same predicament. With apologies to Rumble in the Bronx and Jackie Chan
Synopsis:- Everyday hunting for the boys- just a shameless excuse to whump Dean
Disclaimer:- This story is written as an homage to a great show and great characters in the hope that nobody minds.
Dean ran. No, he sprinted forwards, ignoring the bone jarring pounding as his feet made too hard an impact with the sidewalk. Ignoring the heaving of his chest, the sweat dripping off his brow, the desperate screams for oxygen from his muscles. Instead his concentration was around him, above and below, left and right, his head and eyes continually moving, scanning, trying to figure out what would attack him next.
He leapt over the trashcan that fell into his path, and still it almost took him down as it changed the direction of its roll, aiming to take his feet out from under him even as he landed. He feinted left then took off to the right, skirting around a fixed bench that the trash can exploded into in a shriek of tearing metal.
He blocked out the sound and kept running, but his mind screamed at him that it was too close, that the next one would take him down. He was so screwed. The objects were getting closer, harder to dodge and he knew in part that was because he was tiring. He wouldn't be able to keep this up for much longer. May not be able to keep this up for as long as Sam needed him to. He shook away the thought. That was not an option. He had to keep this thing distracted, had to keep it mad at him. Even if that meant that it threw everything on the block that wasn't nailed down at him. He had to keep going.
He ran down the middle of the street as out in the open as he could be in a town. There was no taking cover, not when whatever you took cover behind could be used as a weapon against you. Staying away from the buildings gave him time to dodge as objects shook lose from walls or flew through windows, doubling their deadly aim with shards of flying glass.
Damn this spirit was powerful, more powerful than they'd thought, more resourceful too, and quick, so goddamn quick. It flitted from object to object, from building to building faster than it had any right to, and Dean just knew he wasn't fast enough to keep dodging. . .Why hadn't it thrown anything else at him? Two big shop windows, a hanging sign. He slowed enough to turn full circle as he ran, scanning the area, wary for any movement. There was plenty of stuff that it could. . .Shit!! The truck was heading for him silently. It came from a side street, no engine, no driver, just a big fucking moving truck aimed straight at him. Dean turned away from it and ran, if he'd been sprinting before he was positively flying now, the adrenaline rush of fear heightening his senses as he moved. Faster, he pushed already screaming muscles to and past their limits. Not fast enough, faster. He could almost feel the looming presence press against his back as he ran. It was closing on him, it was moving faster than he could ever hope to.. . . He changed direction abruptly, hurling himself around a corner, and he was sure he felt the truck snag his heel as the sudden change of direction caused him to lose his footing. He went down in a rolling dive, not quite managing to finesse it so his shoulder took the brunt of the hit and he grunted with the pain. The truck couldn't make the narrow turn into the alley and it crunched hard into the wall on the opposite corner.
For a moment all Dean could hear was the cacophony of crunching as several tonnes of truck mashed into the brickwork mere feet from where he had landed. He took the opportunity to drag in desperate gasps of air, to fill his tortured lungs and then he pushed himself up stumbled a few steps forward through clouds of choking dust and smoke. He couldn't afford to stop; he had to keep moving even as he tried to clear the grit from his eyes, to gain a watery focus. He took a few more steps moving away from the deadly truck moving into the alley. Moving towards the solid brick wall.
He turned back, the truck now blocked the narrow opening that he'd flung himself through, the only way in or out. And for a moment everything froze. He couldn't take a breath, couldn't move, couldn't think and that was so much better than what followed, because the desperate gulping, the cold sweat, the feeling of being crushed and of falling from a great height altogether in one incongruous ball of panic was so much worse, because Dean Winchester didn't panic. Even when he was trapped in a blind alley, the plaything of a fricking fast, fricking psyched, malevolent spirit he didn't panic.
He tried to slow his breathing, tried to get a grip on his thoughts on his fears, tried to persuade himself that if he could only think then there must be a way out of this but he couldn't quite . . .
It had him.
He was trapped.
And now it would play with him.
Seconds crawled by.
The dust settled.
There was silence.
Dean took a step back towards the wall. Slow tentative. He moved away from the truck, not taking his eyes off it. Absently he brushed some of the dust off his sleeve and drew in another slightly too fast breath.
The roll up side on the truck shot up with a crack like a rifle and Dean couldn't help the slight flinch in response to the sound. Then he stared at the exposed crates on the inside of the truck. Some were already overturned, liquid running from them through the now open side forming amber puddles. It was a delivery truck for a bar or liquor store, a truck full of bottles, glass bottles. Dean swore softly and took a glance at his watch, not long enough, Sam hadn't had long enough yet. He had to keep it distracted or it would kill Sam too.
Absently he wondered how long he would last.
The first bottle was aimed directly at his head and he dodged to the side, shielding his face with his hands as the bottle shattered on the wall behind him, sharp glass shards tearing past the side of his head as liquor rained on his back. He just had time to glance forward and dodge the next, bringing his arms up again to shield his eyes. He wasn't so lucky with the third, which hit his lower chest doubling him over in pain even as the bottle dropped to the floor and shattered. With effort he pushed himself upright and managed a dodge before the next hit him on the shin, shattering with the force of impact. He avoided a couple more successfully at least on their way in. He felt more than one sharp pain in his upper arm as shards cut through the thin cloth of his shirt and he regretted discarding his leather jacket at the start of the run. The next bottle hit his arm and bounced off to a glancing blow on his temple and after that he pretty much lost the score. He tried to keep upright, tried to keep moving but the pain of impact was too much, another one hit his arm, this time smashing it back into his nose and he dropped to his knees, glass grinding through his jeans causing him to drop and roll away from the pain and into more as another bottle hit his shoulder.
He was too out of it to realise that that was the last. The next bottle dropped to the floor by the truck before it could be aimed. Too out of it to answer his cell as Sam tried to ring him, tried to check on him.
The ritual was over the spirit had been banished back to hell and Sam needed to hear Dean tell him that it was a piece of cake, that he had been worrying for nothing. That going with Dean's crazy plan to piss the spirit off enough to go after him so that Sam could perform the banishment ritual without it realising what was happening, wasn't so crazy after all, but Dean wasn't answering his cell.
Dean was lying in an alley in a pool of blood and liquor, of filth and broken glass, of fear and pain. Halfway between consciousness and oblivion he tried to move, because he knew somehow that it was important. He fought because he knew he had to hang on, had to keep moving, keep dodging, had to give Sammy time. Pain flared from everywhere stealing his focus and still he tried to move because. . .because. . .He couldn't remember. Tears of frustration pricked at the edges of already blurred vision. He crawled one more inch forwards pain flaring. It was too much, blackness swallowed what little consciousness remained and his head dropped to the ground as his body finally went limp.
TBC- well I can't end it there can I?