Chapter Text
1.
Serva me, servabo te
Save me and I will save you
A tall figure in black lurked at the end of the trash-strewn alleyway but Marcus didn’t notice. He was too intent on his task. He had been casing the store for a week and he knew his window was narrow. The rusty dock door still hung lazily half-open as the delivery truck rumbled off down the alley in the opposite direction, its blinker reflecting at strange angles off the wet brick and murky puddles peppering the blacktop. It had rained most of the day, thunder still rumbled low in the distance, and the smell of ozone in the air was masked by the foul odor of garbage and molding cardboard. Marcus crept around the dumpster, hopped up on the crumbling concrete receiving platform, and slipped under the roll-up door. He wrapped his thick, ebony arms around the first large box of leather jackets he spotted and backed out the way he came, as slowly and quietly as he could, trying not to draw the attention of the poor schmuck who just signed for the delivery. With any luck he could lug the package out of earshot and get the stack of coats back to his car before anyone realized a box was missing from inventory.
The box was bulky, awkward, and heavy but Marcus could manage. The long hours he put in at the gym were good for more than just his physique. Sure, it kept him in shape for his part-time gig as a bouncer at The Gallery and it was great for burning off the cocktail of uppers he regularly pumped into his system. As an added bonus, Dante seemed to appreciate the extra effort too. The boss had been giving Marcus more jobs on his own lately and the cash was nice. It was certainly more than his scrawny, junky cronies were getting as table scraps and Marcus didn’t mind. A little muscle here, a little petty theft there, it was nothing he wouldn’t be doing on his own. The more Dante trusted you, the better. If Marcus was lucky, Dante could fence the jackets he lifted for at least a hundred a piece and Marcus would get half the take for his trouble if he played his cards right. Marcus was showing initiative with this little endeavor and he hoped the payoff would be worth more than a few extra bucks.
He stopped for breath at the end of the alley, tucking the box discreetly next to a dented, tagged up dumpster and waited for an opening in the traffic out on Bristol. The fewer potential witnesses, the better. This was a part of town where Marcus would stick out in the mind of passersby with his onyx skin and menacing physique. The bundle of twisted braids pulled into a wrist-thick ponytail down his back didn’t help and neither did the long, leather trench coat that inspired his little visit to the back entrance of Wilson’s Leather. He’d get pegged in a lineup if he was sloppy; a few extra precautions made sense.
The street was clear, easy enough since all the shops in the affluent suburb were shuttered up by nine o’clock anyway. Marcus dipped back into the shadows, pulling a small, silver box cutter from his pants pocket. He sliced down the front of the box gently, mindful of the merchandise beneath the layers of cardboard and tape. The scent of leather rushed up, making Marcus hum. Ah, the smell of money.
“Six-hundred bucks, easy as pie,” he mumbled happily as he folded back the packaging to inspect coats beneath.
“Those don’t look like your size, Marcus.”
Marcus spun around, brandishing the tiny blade in defense. “Hey, fuck you, man. Mind your own fuckin’ business, alright?” Marcus barked, slashing at the air separating him and the tall, broad man standing like a sentry at the mouth of the alley. The man stood firm and quiet, his arms crossed, the front of his body shadowed as light from the street behind him carved his silhouette into Marcus’ vision.
He was six-four, six-five, easy with shoulders as wide as Marcus’ own but a narrow waist and lean legs like one of The Gallery’s dancers. Beads of moisture glistened on his bare biceps and dark hair hung in damp, loose waves around his face which was painted white and black like some character from a comic book.
“The fuck you all painted up for, man? It’s a long fuckin’ time ‘til Halloween.” Marcus’ laugh sounded more nervous than mocking so he extended his arm again, the stubby razor blade glinting in his thick, dark fingers. “Think you’re the fuckin’ Joker or somethin’?”
“Do I look like I’m laughing, Marcus?” Mr. Freakshow took a step closer, holding eye contact and spreading his arms out, palms up. “You and I need to have a talk.”
Marcus took a step back, the heel of his boot teetering at the edge of a deep, water-filled pothole, forcing him to brace himself for a moment against the dumpster.
“Do I make you nervous, Marcus? Big guy like you?” The man chuckled, a sound from deep in his chest, more like the thunder rumbling in the distance than a laugh. His forehead furrowed as he glared down at Marcus with his black-smudged eyes. “Tell me where I can find your friends, Marcus.”
“The fuck you think you are, man? You don’t know who you’re messin’ with. Dante don’t take kindly to whack jobs fuckin’ wit’ his crew. You got a fuckin’ deathwish?!”
The man’s laugh was boisterous and pure. It echoed down the alleyway, reverberating in Marcus’ ears. Marcus did his best to hold his ground, wishing desperately that he hadn’t left his .45 in the glovebox of the El Dorado. Chills ran over his skin as the man’s laugh trailed off and the menacing figure took another step closer.
“Deathwish, Marcus? I. AM. DEATH.” The man stepped into Marcus’ space, face tipping down in a manic, terrorizing grin. “Now, where are they?”
Marcus slashed across the man’s chest in desperation. He knew the blade was pathetic but it would hurt, it would draw blood, and then Marcus could cut his losses and get the fuck out of there. He felt the tearing of cloth, the ripping of flesh, under the razorblade but the clown didn’t cry out, he didn’t even flinch. Instead his long arm swooped in a wide arc and he snatched Marcus’ wrist in his huge right hand, yanking it up and making him lose grip on the measly weapon. He lifted Marcus’ sturdy frame like he weighed nothing, leaving the toes of his black Lugs scrambling on the wet pavement, unable to get balance or leverage.
Thunder cracked, closer now, a flash of lightning illuminated the alley. Marcus stared at the blood pouring from the jagged wound he’d carved across the man’s abdomen. His tight, black tank top pulled back in an angry grin not unlike the man’s own. The pale flesh beneath it was sliced open and a torrent of red gushed out over the ruined skin and slashed black cotton.
“Man, you must be dusted not to feel that shit,” Marcus croaked as he thrashed like a hooked trout.
“Pain? This,” the man raked the long, pale fingers of his left hand over the gash in his own stomach. “This, Marcus, isn’t pain. I have known pain at a molecular level. Pain has transformed me. Pain was my maker. I welcome it. Do you?”
He was still smiling as he brought his hand to Marcus’ face, dragging his bloodied fingertips down Marcus forehead, nose, lips, and chin, painting him with crimson.
“Houston. Jonsey. Dante. Where are they?” The man’s hand tightened around Marcus’ wrist. Marcus heard the bone and sinew pop before he felt the white-hot lightning bolts of pain rush down his limb, tearing an agonized scream from his lips. For a moment the alley closed in around him, brick and grime circling his vision like he was being flushed down a filthy drain.
“Marcus…” The man’s hand loosened slightly and he lowered his hold a few inches. Marcus’ wrist throbbed but his soles were on the ground again. He sucked in air like a drowning man, tears stinging his eyes.
“Okay, okay! Jesus Christ, okay,” Marcus gasped. “Look, man, I ain’t seen Jonesy in weeks. Houston’s holed up at the Bel-Air Motel off the interstate and Dante’s at the club, man, like always. The fuckin’ Gallery.”
“Thank you, Marcus,” the man said, his hands suddenly landing heavy on Marcus’ biceps. “That’s a beautiful coat…” He said almost reverently as he stroked the leather, tugging Marcus closer by the lapel.
The serrated, stag-horn handled blade sunk into Marcus’ sternum slowly, the sound like the muffled suck of gravely mud under Sam’s boots. Marcus gurgled from somewhere deep and low in his chest as the tip of the knife slid into his esophagus. The blade didn’t spark or let of a noxious, sulfurous stench like the hundreds of times it had been used to kill before. It still parted the mortal man’s flesh like butter, muscle and bone parting readily for the finely honed steel. Marcus collapsed to his knees as Sam divested him of the leather trench coat. It might be a little short on him but at least it would fit his shoulders.
Thunder crashed loudly overhead as the sky opened up again. Rain pelted Marcus’ skin, his blood washing into the grey muck filling the puddles that surrounded his twitching body. Sam pulled the jacket on, happy for the residual warmth of Marcus’ body on his own chilled skin.
It was raining that night too, the night Sam lost Dean. He wiped the blade clean on his thigh, vengeance surging righteous in his veins. One down, three to go.
Sam’s memories slotted in easily against the jagged, bloody edges of the present.
It was midday and warm, golden light filtered in through the dusty classroom windows, elm trees that were just starting to leaf cast lacy shadows across the faces of Sam’s students.
Chalk scratched stark white across the dusty blackboard. The words, in Sam’s swooping script read, Serva me, servabo te.
Sam turned to face his class. Teenagers, just like those in any other school, in any other town, only these were enrolled by devout parents into Vitus Christian Academy in Lawrence, Kansas.
“Can anyone translate?”
Sam straightened the knot of his tie where it had bunched up under the v-neck of his navy blue sweater while he waited for an answer. All he got was a cough, a soft giggle, and the shuffling of feet on linoleum. Eyes everywhere but on Sam, their Latin instructor for the next 45 minutes.
“Come on, guys. This one is easy.” Sam put down the chalk and wiped his fingers off on his grey slacks. He took a small sip of his lukewarm coffee and gave them more time. The class squirmed in the silence as Sam grinned softly to himself, wishing he didn’t enjoy their discomfort quite so much.
“It says ‘save me and I will save you.’” So much for the renaissance of dead languages.
“Alright, have it your way. Open your books to page 138, we’re going to talk about the use of allusion in ancient literature.”
Now the words on the chalkboard say “One day you will lose everything you have.”
Ironically, Sam didn’t have all that much. He never did. He never wanted much, either. Not really. He thought he did for a time, while he was young and idealistic, unable to accept the simple truths of his own existence. Sam wasted his adolescence wanting what circumstances said he could never have. An ordinary, apple-pie life behind a white picket fence and a manicured lawn. A job he could talk to his friends about. A framed diploma from some prestigious university on his library wall. No more lies. No more secrets. No more fear. It sounded like paradise to the Sam he used to be. He could see now they were just the frustrated dreams of a boy not in control of his own fate. It took a while for him to accept, but looking back, those were dreams of naiveté and self-indulgence. Sam’s lot in life didn’t make room for much of either.
He was at peace with that now. Proud of the years he spent on the razor’s edge between life and death, good and evil. Years he spent with his father and brother, fighting the good fight, no matter the damage it did to their own lives. They saved people. They made a difference. But when Sam took a step back and really looked at his life, at his hopes and dreams, at his motivation for getting out of bed in the morning, there was truly only one thing that kept him going. Only one thing he would always fight for without question. Kill for. Learn to really live for. Dean.
Acclimating to civilian life once he and Dean quit the life was a balancing act, something Sam had to consciously work at every single day. It was hard some days to stop himself from being hardened and cynical. A challenge to look at the people around him with anything but self-righteous pity. Even once they found some semblance of normalcy Sam would sometimes find himself gazing sadly at the faces of his co-workers, fellow commuters, shoppers at the grocery store, trying not to judge. They were all cogs in the big, cosmic machine, working sixty hours a week to make enough money to afford a huge house in the suburbs they would never spend any time in. In debt up to their eyeballs while happily carting their kids off to expensive universities as soon as they were grown. Watching those children grow into strangers, fated to start the cycle all over again.
Most days it only hurt Sam’s heart a little. Other days it made him angry. Most people had no idea how good they had it and yet they took the peace for granted. Sam, he could count the things that were really his on one hand, the things that really mattered.
Even with all the introspection Sam did, he found it a bitter pill to swallow. How true it was that you didn’t really knew what you had until it was gone.
The words "sorry for your loss" burnt like salt in Sam's wounds. Dean wasn't lost. He was torn, tear-streamed and screaming, from Sam's bloodied hands. Most of what was good in Sam died that day too, twisted him into something beyond hunter or monster, someone with nothing but the rubble of tragedy to comfort him. Sirens filled his ears, the rushing of wind. Rain, blood, and fire filled his vision until time lost all meaning and it all went black.