Bumf*ck, Nowhere - Part Ten

[9tiptoes]

Master Post

Part Ten

“I need to know what you remember,” Sam had encouraged.

Mrs. Heiser had become greatly agitated by the mere mention of a ‘yellow-eyed man’, so Sam had suggested that they move the conversation into the living room where she might feel more at ease. It hadn’t helped much.

Once she was faced with both her husband and their son, she’d broken down; her eyes welling with tears and her breath becoming ragged with grief and guilt.

Sam pulled a small ottoman over to the sofa where she sat, and took a seat there in front of her, shielding her from the prying eyes of her family. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket - something he’d become quite used to carrying specifically for this reason - and pressed it into her hand.

“Mrs. Heiser…Renee, look at me,” he said, “I know this is hard, but it’s very important that you tell me everything. If I’m going to help your family, I need to know.”

Mrs. Heiser dabbed at her reddening eyes, composed herself and nodded.

“It happened so long ago,” she said, “when Mark was still a baby. He was upstairs in his crib, sleeping, and I was busy doing laundry, and…he just wanted to see the baby. Everyone wanted to see the baby, so I didn’t think anything of it.”

“You let some stranger into our house?” Joe exclaimed, “Into our son’s bedroom?”

“No, of course not. It was Jerry.”

“Jerry? You mean my brother, Jerry?”

“Yes.”

“What are you - are you saying you think Jerry burned our house down?”

While his parents shouted back and forth at one another, Mark rocked up and out of the recliner and began nervously pacing the narrow end of the room, and just like that, the picture perfect family dissolved into chaos. Sam was quickly losing control over the situation.

“Stop.” He interjected firmly. “Save the family therapy session for a time when you’re all not in mortal danger, okay? That thing…wasn’t your brother.”

“He’s right,” Renee added, shakily. “I thought it was Jerry, but I was wrong,” she looked up at her husband, who had also risen to his feet. He stopped his pacing and looked to her hopefully. “It looked just like him, Joe; sounded just like him. He’d stopped over real late one night; it was harvest, I remember, because you were working nights at the scales. I was surprised to see him, but it was Jerry, you know? He’s always had a habit of showing up at weird hours unannounced, so I let him in. He went upstairs and I went back to folding clothes and nothing seemed out of place until he came back down and went to leave. I came out of the laundry room just as he was heading for the door, and I noticed these spots on the floor; like a trail of dark red paint on our tan carpet. I remember being upset because we’d just had that carpet installed that summer, but then I realized that it wasn’t paint, it was blood.”

There was a soft gasp, and Renee paused to glance over at her son, who was standing at the back of the room, listening to her, with his hand wrapped around his mouth; his eyes wide and fearful.

“I asked him then,” she continued, “‘Jerry, are you bleeding?’ and he turned around and I nearly screamed. His eyes were this gold color; lit up from the inside like sun through amber, and then all of a sudden, I couldn’t move. He had pinned me against the wall, except that he wasn’t touching me; never laid a hand on me. I tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let me. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. He just held a finger up to his lips and shushed me, and then he left, and I could move again. I ran upstairs to check on you, Mark, but you were fine; sleeping and perfect and not a hair out of place. I thought maybe I imagined the whole thing, except that there were still these spots of blood on the carpet.”

“Jesus, Renee,” Joe breathed. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Don’t think I’m crazy or anything, but I think your brother is Satan.’ Oh yeah, that would have gone over real well.”

“It’s not Satan, but it might as well be. What you saw, Mrs. Heiser, was a demon; a very powerful demon, possessing the body of your brother-in-law. Although, honestly, it could have been anyone,” he added as an afterthought.

“There’s no such thing,” Joe Heiser argued.

“Dad, be quiet.” Mark came back into the center of the room and turned to Sam. “This yellow-eyed man, this demon…he takes control over people?”

“Their bodies, yes.”

“Why is he targeting our family?”

“It’s not targeting your family…it’s targeting you.”

Mark turned on the ball of his foot and fled from the room.

“Whoa whoa whoa. Mark, stop!”

The front door banged open as Mark stormed out of the house, taking the front steps in one and tearing down the snowy driveway in a panic.

Both his father and Sam were out the door and hot on his heels a beat later, and although he had a head start on them, it didn’t take much effort for Sam’s long legs to cut the distance and catch up with Mark. He stepped in front of him and placed an open hand firmly against the other man’s chest.

“Where are you going?” he asked Mark, tilting his head so that he could make eye contact with the very upset man.

“Away,” Mark answered, dodging away from Sam, but Sam was quick and caught him around the chest and hauled him to a stop. “Le’go,” Mark demanded, but Sam held firm.

“You need to come back inside and quit drawing attention to yourself.”

“No, what I need to do is get the fuck outta Dodge before this thing comes looking for me. You heard her,” he said pointed to the house and his mother who stood just inside the doorway, “she said it came for me…in my Uncle’s skin. And you tell me it’s coming for me now? That it could be anyone? For all I know, it could be you!”

Sam rolled his eyes and blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s not me. Look, you have every right to be scared, okay? But you running away…” Sam shook his head, “it’s not going to prevent them from getting hurt. It’s still gonna come and it’s going to use your family as leverage to get to you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t I? It killed my mother. Twenty-two years later, it killed my girlfriend. It burned them both alive on the ceiling. Six months ago, I lost my father to it. Tell me again that I don’t know what I’m talking about. So…you’re gonna suck it up, walk back inside and we’re gonna figure out our next move, alright?”
***

It was a quarter past two in the afternoon and Dean was bent over the grill, scrubbing away at the hot cook plate, when Carrie walked into the kitchen of Paul’s bar and directly up to his side. She stabbed a sharp finger into the meat of his shoulder causing him to rear up in surprise, banging the back of his head against the range hood.

“Ow, shit!” His grease covered hand flew up to the source of flaring pain and rubbed, coating his hair with the thick black grime. “What?”

“Why do y-” Carrie’s voice cut off sharply; her jaw falling slack at the sight of him. Dean frowned at her and then followed her line of sight down to his chest. He was dressed in a plain white v-neck - probably one that belonged to Sam as it seemed a bit on the small side - and sweating profusely. His lips quirked and he looked up at her from beneath long dark eyelashes; eyes twinkling with mischief.

“My eyes are up here sweetheart,” he teased.

Carrie blushed, and then squared her shoulders, regaining her composure. “Why is my little brother bussing tables?”

Ryan chose that moment to come around the corner with a short stack of dishes. He dropped them into the dish water, smiled brightly at Dean, and held up two dollar bills.

“He’s staying busy,” Dean offered. “The kid was bored, so we put him to work. It’s not gonna hurt him none to help out, besides, I’m splitting my tips with him, so it’s not like slave labor or anything.”

“And Timmy? What do you got him doing, serving beer?”

“No.” Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head. “He’s in the cooler with Paul doing inventory.”

Dean grinned behind Carrie’s back as she made a beeline for the cooler and pulled on the handle, swinging the door open wide. Inside, Tim stood on a step stool, wrapped up tight in his winter coat and hat and mittens, counting out the beer bottles, one at a time, while Paul did his own counting, scratching figures down on a clipboard as he went. Carrie couldn’t help but smile at the amusing scene.

“How’s it going in here?” she asked.

Tim looked up and beamed at his sister. “Carrie! Look, I’m helpin’. I counted all these bottles. There’s…um…oh man! I forgot where I was! Carrie!” he cried, accusingly.

“Is he helping or hurting?” she asked Paul.

“No, Timmy’s doing a great job, aren’t ya buddy?” Tim nodded enthusiastically and went back to counting. “Although his counting out loud tends to throw off my own count,” Paul answered with a laugh.

“See,” Dean spoke quietly over her shoulder, “everybody’s good.”

Carrie turned and followed Dean back out of the cooler. He stopped at the sink and scrubbed down with a bar of Lava Soap, but watched her out of the corner of his eye.

“Relax,” Dean whispered just loud enough for her to hear, “We’ve got everything under control.”

“Sorry.” She sagged against the wall, letting her head thump back against the paneling. “I’m just…”

“Yeah, I know. Come on,” he tilted his head toward the front room, “we need to pow wow.”

Dean led Carrie into the main room of the bar and pulled a chair out for her at the head table. “You want a soda?”

“Soda?” she asked, taking a seat. She cocked an eyebrow in mocking judgment. “Where are you from?”

“I…am a man of the world,” he remarked. “Do you want one or not?”

“Yeah, I’ll take one or your sodas.”

Dean poured Pepsi from the tap into two glasses and before joining her at the table, checked on Ryan to be sure he was staying busy with the dishes and out of earshot.

“Sammy called a couple hours ago and -”

“Are the Heisers okay?” Carrie interrupted.

The girl had a good head on her shoulders, Dean thought, smiling. Not many not-quite-seventeen-year-olds would put someone else’s wellbeing before the thoughts of their own family. “They’re safe,” he answered, “for now. I wanted to talk to you about tonight and what’s gonna go down.”

“Okay.”

“You and the boys are gonna stay here with Paul tonight,” he started.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to be with someone I trust; someone who can keep you safe…just in case.”

“Just in case, what? Are you going after my mom?”

Dean could hear the tension building in her voice; could see it etched across her face and beginning to shimmer in her eyes.

“Yeah Carrie, we are.” In an attempt to be comforting, Dean reached across the table and placed his hand over hers, but she quickly pulled her hand free and laid both hands clenched in her lap.

“What’s wrong with her, Dean? What’s wrong with my mom?”

Dean swallowed uncomfortably and steeled himself for the conversation he’d been dreading since the day before.

“It’s bad; I know it is, because you and Sam shut up real fast when any of us come around, but you don’t have to bullshit me, okay? I’m old enough for the truth.”

“Age has got nothin’ to do with it, Carrie. I just don’t-”

“If this was your mother, you’d want to know.”

“Yes, I would.”

There was no doubt about it; no hesitation what-so-ever. If their situations were reversed, Dean would fight tooth and nail to know the truth, but a 16-year-old Dean and a 16-year-old Carrie were two completely different animals and Dean couldn’t bring himself to hurt the young girl in front of him; couldn’t strip away her innocence, like his had been taken from him.

He took a long deep breath that filled his lungs to the top, and then blew it out through pursed lips and ran a hand over his face, feeling a thin layer of lunch grease painted across his forehead.

“But, there’s just some things in this world you shouldn’t have to know about and this is one of them. And you can be pissed at me if you want, but you can’t blame me for wanting to shield you kids from this.”

Carrie’s eyes grew stormy and moist, but she didn’t say a word. Instead she brought a hand up to her mouth and pressed the backs of her fingers to her lips in a subconscious measure to stay quiet and stop her from saying the wrong thing.

“Whatever it takes, Carrie, I’m going to bring her back.”

Dean reached out again, but Carrie was quickly on her feet, knocking the chair over in the process and moving away from Dean.

“Where are you going?” he called after her; concerned that she might make a run for it.

“To stay busy,” she shouted angrily, pushing her way past a frightened Ryan and into the kitchen.

---
Part Eleven