Supernatural fic - Tango Papa Romeo Sierra (2/2)
Author's notes can be found in part one.
***
The museum at night was a suitably spooky affair; without the overhead spots lighting displays, the hangars were all shadows. At least they had permission for this job, sort of. McCormick had introduced the Winchesters to the nighttime security guards - the guys who had seen a lot of the weird shit go down. They were all for getting rid of the ghost; if Sam and Dean could help, the brothers were more than welcome. As long as nothing major went down - serious damage or injuries - this hunt was sanctioned.
So far, Dean was enjoying the hell out of this job. Nice people, free food, and though he’d never admit it to Sam, he could really get into this history shit. Besides, Sam seemed to be getting a kick out of ragging on Dean’s fear of flying (flying, mind you - it wasn’t like he was afraid of planes just sitting there, not that Sam made the distinction), so it was all good.
They started out in the Early Years Gallery. Sam and Dean carried an EMF meter apiece and Dean a duffel bag, loaded for bear. Or, you know, Nazi. Whichever.
A Nazi ghost would really suck.
Nothing in that first gallery, though the pasty-faced mannequins in the basket of that observation blimp looked pretty freaky. They moved on to the Air Power Gallery, starting with Bockscar, which, Jesus, was one huge-ass plane. Dean jumped the metal barrier to get a closer look, running his fingers over a line of rivets.
“Dean, what the hell are you doing?” Sam gave him a priceless, furrowed-brow bitchface.
“Come on, it’s not like there are any of those old-guy volunteers around to yell at us.”
“Fine,” Sam huffed. “Don’t bitch at me when you break some priceless artifact.”
“Stick in the mud,” Dean muttered. He vaulted back over the rail.
The meters stayed quiet. Nothing for the Strawberry Bitch or the pieces of the Lady Be Good. Nothing for the Shoo Shoo Shoo Baby or the Nazi planes. They stopped at the display of artifacts from concentration camps, and damn, if anything in this place was haunted, that stuff should be. Nothing. They moved on to the Modern Flight Gallery.
The next notable aircraft was the Hopalong, a silver helicopter that had been used for transporting the wounded in Korea. Sam leaned over the railing and tried to peer inside. “This is the one where they say the seat is still stained with the pilot’s blood.”
“Well, you’re not gonna see anything from there.” Dean jumped the rail and peeked in the door. “I dunno, man, I’m not seeing it.”
They moved on. Their footsteps and voices echoed in the high empty space.
“So how you holding up?” Sam asked.
“Just dandy.”
“You know, a phobia’s nothing to be ashamed of. I read somewhere John Madden is afraid of flying.”
Dean just grinned, shook his head. “Sam. Don’t make me bring up clourophobia. What’s next?”
“The Black Mariah,” Sam said. “One of the ‘Jolly Green Giant’ helicopters in Vietnam, only this one was painted black, hence the name. Used for highly classified missions. Some say it was where all the ‘black helicopter’ stories started.”
Sam nodded toward the chopper. The Black Mariah was pretty ominous looking, flat black, few markings. Understandable how it could inspire dread in those on the ground. They circled it, EMF meters held at arm’s length.
The meters stayed quiet, but something about the thing raised Dean’s hackles. He passed it off with a smirk. “You know, Sammy, you think I’m scared of planes? I’m really scared of helicopters.”
That got a funny look from Sam. Dean moved ahead before he could ask. The plane directly behind the Black Mariah was under restoration, roped off with caution tape. Stencils were taped to the plane’s flank; cans of spray paint waited for the next day’s work.
Now, that could be promising. Restorations sometimes got spirits all up in arms. Besides, this particular craft, a cargo plane that had been used to spray Agent Orange, had been shot up so many times, its name was Patches.
Still nothing. Dean shook his meter, snapped it off and on, but Sam’s was silent, too.
“Damn,” Sam said. “We’re running out of options here.”
“Well, we’ve still got the Cold War Gallery. And the rockets. Maybe our spirit’s one of those monkeys they shot into space.”
And hell, maybe it was one of those monkeys, because as soon as he said it, Dean walked smack into a cold spot and the EMF meters started going apeshit, no pun intended. Dean slung the duffel around, passed Sam a sawed-off filled with salt rounds. The cold spot turned into a cold wind. His breath clouded in front of his face.
As his fingers brushed the barrel of the second gun, the energy in the air coalesced. A shimmering figure stood before him, nebulous, black holes for eyes. The image stuttered, shifted closer. Sam’s shot and the crushing blow were simultaneous; the spirit lurched out of the way of the salt spread and Dean went flying, slamming into the hangar wall.
Christ. The pain flared in his back, stole his breath, and then cold, flickering hands threw him to the ground. His head cracked against concrete. Dean had a moment to wonder, Jesus, how many more concussions before I’m a vegetable? before the wavering form loomed over him, icy fingers gripped his face, and the world went dark.
*
Smoke and sweat. Cordite. Blood. Underneath, the smell of rot and wet earth.
He ran. Past the bloated corpse of a water buffalo. Past a dead woman curled stiff around a dead child. Dead VC, staring up at the sky.
Behind him, fire. Ahead, the chopper. Flat black, rotors beating.
Just a few more yards.
*
The ghost vanished with Sam’s second salt blast. He slid to his knees at Dean’s side. “Dean. You all right? Talk to me, man.”
Dean’s eyes snapped open, the hazel muddy with pain. “Fuck.”
Sam let out his breath. He gave Dean a hand, hauled him up to sit against the wall.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “That’s gonna leave a mark.” He leaned forward a bit to take the pressure off his back.
“You all right, man?” Sam asked again. “You were out for a minute there.”
“Yeah, I think so.” Dean rubbed the back of his head, winced when he found the spot where he’d hit. “It showed me something.”
For a second, Sam wondered just how hard Dean’s head had hit. “What do you mean?”
Dean shrugged, sucked in a breath with the pain of the movement. “When I was out, I saw…I dunno…a jungle, I guess, and bodies, and smoke - I could even smell it.” He stopped, frowning down at the floor, then looked up at Sam. “And the chopper. It was the Black Mariah,” he said.
***
They got to work the next morning under the fluorescent lights of the archives room, scouring documents and databases for more information on the Black Mariah. Both of them were running on coffee, Sam having spent what was left of the night poking Dean awake every hour. The story they’d given McCormick was the sanitized version, but they both looked like shit, and the livid purple bruise that covered most of Dean’s back was visible at his neck, blooming from underneath the collar of his shirt.
By lunchtime, Sam felt like he’d spent the last three hours bashing his head against a wall. Most of the information on the Mariah was still classified. What little wasn’t could take weeks to get, and there was no way to narrow down which mission had caused their spirit’s demise. There were different crews on different flights, plus ground troops and crew members of downed craft being evacuated. Too bad Dean hadn’t been able to recall any details of uniforms or insignia. The vision (or whatever the hell you wanted to call it; Dean was pretty skittish about that word) had been too vague, too dark.
Sam watched his brother from the corner of his eye, cataloging each time Dean winced as he moved. His thoughts kept circling back to that cryptic comment Dean had made the night before, about being scared of helicopters. Was he just fucking with Sam? Had he been picking up on some freaky vibe from the Black Mariah even then? Or was it one of those nuggets of truth Dean liked to slip in amongst all the bullshit from time to time?
As far as Sam knew, the only time Dean had ever flown in a helicopter was the medevac flight after that semi had T-boned the Impala, and Dean hadn’t even been conscious then. Was there some other story - maybe something from those years when Sam was at Stanford?
It hurt Sam to think of those years, though he knew he’d needed that time away. Knew otherwise he wouldn’t be the man he was today. But those years left a black hole in his knowledge of his brother. What things had happened in that time to make Dean who he was? And if there really was no way to free Dean from his deal - how many of those stories would Sam ever get to hear?
Dean glanced up - a hunter’s sense of being watched. “What the fuck are you looking at?” The stage whisper was his only concession to the quiet.
“Sorry.” Sam turned back to his notes. Okay. Fuck. Time to refocus. Research was getting them nowhere fast. He opened their father’s journal, paged through looking for the ritual he had in mind.
A long shadow fell over the pages. Tom McCormick pulled up a chair on the other side of the table. “I haven’t had much luck,” he told Sam. “Called a few contacts. I was even able to track down a couple of pilots who flew the Mariah. But there are just too many possibilities.”
“That’s okay,” Sam said. “I think we’re moving on to Plan B. We should be able to summon the spirit and then use a banishment spell.”
McCormick tilted his head. “Is there a reason digging up and burning a corpse is Plan A?”
Touché. “Sometimes spirits don’t take too kindly to one’s efforts to remove them. There can be a bit more risk involved.”
McCormick’s eyes flicked over toward Dean, the bruise on his neck. “How did you guys get into all this in the first place?”
Sam considered and discarded his crappy-guidance-counselor line. “Family business,” he said.
“Ever consider another line of work?”
“I was going to go to law school,” Sam said. “But now - ” He shook his head. “Once you know what’s really out there…it’s kind of hard to turn your back.”
Dean kept his head down, focused on the laptop screen. Anyone else might have assumed he wasn’t listening. Sam knew better.
***
Iron Maiden on the tape deck. “Flight of Icarus.”
“What is this, the flight-themed edition of the best of hair metal?”
“Dude. Maiden is not hair metal.”
***
The candles had to be lit in a certain order, symbols chalked in a certain order. Dean laid down a thick salt circle, then stood guard, shotgun ready, while Sam set out the supplies and drew on the floor in thick, confident lines.
Flare of matches, faint smell of sulfur as Sam lit the candles. Dean kept his back to his brother, walked the rim of the salt circle, nerves thrumming. Behind him, Sam began the Latin invocation.
Nothing at first. Then Dean felt a low vibration, like the rumble of a train at a distance. It hummed in the air, through the floor, through his bones.
The cold came next, turning their breath to white mist. Dean roamed the circle, searched for any sign of a target. Nothing. Only dim light, candle flickers reflected in the sheet metal of planes.
Sam finished the first half of the spell, sifted the proper mixture of herbs into the candle flame. Soft whoosh, brief flare.
The wind whipped up, frigid, rustling the pages of the journal. Dean smelled herbs and beeswax and ozone.
Then smoke.
Then rot.
The figure appeared in a flicker of blue light right in front of Dean. He fired, but the spirit was gone before the salt spread hit. The wind whistled, stronger now. Dean glanced down at the salt line. Wouldn’t hold for long. “Sam, get on with it.”
New urgency in Sam’s tone as he began the second half of the spell, the banishment. Dean circled again. Where the fuck was this thing? The wind was strong enough now to turn rotors and propellers. Dean hoped those candles didn’t have to stay lit.
A flicker, there, out of the corner of his eye. He turned. The second he realized the salt line had broken, the shotgun ripped out of his hands, the charge in the air sending it flying one way, Dean the other.
He hit the cargo plane, Patches, with a hollow clang that would have been hilarious if not for the blinding pain. He dropped in a heap to the ground, choked back a whimper.
Fuck. Sam’s words had stopped. “Keep going!” Dean yelled. Felt like the last of his breath. The Latin started up again. Dean pushed himself up to his hands and knees. He squinted into the stinging wind, tears at the corners of his eyes.
Translucent blue shape, black shadow-eyes. It leaned in close to him; he couldn’t help but shrink back. Icy fear trickled down his spine. Low electric hum. His skin tingled where it touched him as it slammed him into the plane again. Dazed, he dropped. He held on to Sam’s voice, the comforting cadence of Latin, even as the spirit touched him, cold burn on either side of his face, and everything went black.
*
Black.
Black, but not night. Was it the jungle canopy or the billowing smoke that made it so dark? He ran, branches and vines whipping his face, lungs burning, right arm gone numb. A weight on his shoulder. Another man, lifted in a fireman’s carry. Still breathing? Hard to tell.
Clearing ahead, and the thump of the rotors. Muzzle flash from the chopper, aiming around him, lighting the bird’s flat black skin.
Almost there.
Muzzle flashes behind him. Rifle cracks. Full-auto bursts.
He was on his knees before the pain hit, then it spiked up his leg, raw agony. He couldn’t hang on. The man on his shoulder flopped forward, hit the ground.
Goddamn it, so close. Wind from the rotors beat down in waves as he tried to get his right leg under him, tried to stand, one hand still fisted in the other man’s shirt. Something punched him in the back. He looked down, surprised to see blood blossom on his chest.
When he fell, the chopper’s wind washing over him, all he could think was, nice breeze.
*
Sam forced his way through the last of the incantation, voice shaking, trying to ignore the fact that the goddamned ghost had Dean, was slamming him around, was leaning over him and doing something to him -
Just keep your shit together.
With the last of the Latin, a low rumble built in the ground. The spirit jerked back from Dean. Its form stuttered, once, twice, a guttering candle. Sam’s ears popped. Blue light blazed.
Vanished.
Sam dropped the journal, scrambled to Dean’s side. His brother laid on his back, tense and trembling.
“Dean? Oh god, Dean?”
Sam couldn’t keep the note of panic out of his voice. He wasn’t sure which was worse - the translucent blue hands that had gripped Dean’s head, or the fact that Dean was still out - sweating, shaking, breath shallow, eyes open but unseeing. How long had he been in this state? Felt like forever, but it could only have been a minute or two.
Still too long.
Sam had his cell phone in hand, ready to call 911, when Dean sucked in a deeper breath, turned his head. His eyelids fluttered.
“Jesus. Dean.” Sam left his hand on Dean’s chest, needing to feel the rise and fall.
Dean’s eyes roved, taking in the silver-skinned wing above them before settling on Sam’s face. “Sammy?” Voice small. Confused. “Did we get it?”
“Yeah, Dean. We got it. You all right?” God, the stupid shit you say at times like this. Sam swallowed back a desperate laugh.
Dean seemed to consider the question. Tried to sit. Groaned and gave up. “Hurts like a bitch.”
“I bet. Ol’ Patches here’s not exactly pillow-soft.” Sam grinned, left his hand where it was so Dean wouldn’t notice him shaking. “Made a pretty cool sound, though.”
Dean gave a crooked smile. “Did, didn’t it.”
Sam couldn’t say which one of them started first. Their laughter was breathy, borderline hysterical, and though Dean’s face screwed up in pain, neither of them could stop. Sam waited it out, one hand wiping away the tears that rolled down his face, the other resting on Dean’s chest, figuring he should just hang onto the moment until Dean smacked him away and called him a girl.
***
They left Ohio after a couple days of rest and icepacks, the longest Sam could get Dean to stay still. Sam rode shotgun, one finger tracing their route west on the map, though either one of them probably could have navigated by memory.
The classic rock station Dean had found faded to static halfway between Dayton and Indianapolis. He popped in a tape, fast forwarded until he found what he was looking for.
Iron Maiden’s “Tailgunner.”
Sam groaned, covered his face with both hands. “Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ, are all these guys’ songs about flying?”
Dean shrugged. “Well, Bruce Dickinson’s a pilot, you know.”
“Of course.” Sam slouched lower in his seat. Maybe their next job would be harder to find music for.
A few dry cornfields later, Dean turned the volume down a notch. “You get bored, I printed out some stuff the other day. Robert E. Schroeder, 465th Bomb Group, 782nd Squadron. The Easy Maid went down January 31st, 1945, on a mission to bomb the Moosebierbaum Oil Refinery. Our buddy McCormick said we can request a Missing Air Crew Report from Maxwell Air Force Base.”
Sam sat up. “No shit?”
Dean nodded toward the backseat. “It’s in with the laptop.”
Sam reached into the back, found the printouts, started leafing through. Dean had even found a message board post from the Easy Maid’s nose gunner. A slow smile spread across his face. “Cool.”
Dean grinned. The miles slipped by under the Impala’s wheels, cornfields and rotting barns and even one llama farm, the flight-themed greatest hits of (totally not) hair metal playing softly.
Maybe by Illinois, Sam would work up the nerve to ask about helicopters.
***
The museum at night was a suitably spooky affair; without the overhead spots lighting displays, the hangars were all shadows. At least they had permission for this job, sort of. McCormick had introduced the Winchesters to the nighttime security guards - the guys who had seen a lot of the weird shit go down. They were all for getting rid of the ghost; if Sam and Dean could help, the brothers were more than welcome. As long as nothing major went down - serious damage or injuries - this hunt was sanctioned.
So far, Dean was enjoying the hell out of this job. Nice people, free food, and though he’d never admit it to Sam, he could really get into this history shit. Besides, Sam seemed to be getting a kick out of ragging on Dean’s fear of flying (flying, mind you - it wasn’t like he was afraid of planes just sitting there, not that Sam made the distinction), so it was all good.
They started out in the Early Years Gallery. Sam and Dean carried an EMF meter apiece and Dean a duffel bag, loaded for bear. Or, you know, Nazi. Whichever.
A Nazi ghost would really suck.
Nothing in that first gallery, though the pasty-faced mannequins in the basket of that observation blimp looked pretty freaky. They moved on to the Air Power Gallery, starting with Bockscar, which, Jesus, was one huge-ass plane. Dean jumped the metal barrier to get a closer look, running his fingers over a line of rivets.
“Dean, what the hell are you doing?” Sam gave him a priceless, furrowed-brow bitchface.
“Come on, it’s not like there are any of those old-guy volunteers around to yell at us.”
“Fine,” Sam huffed. “Don’t bitch at me when you break some priceless artifact.”
“Stick in the mud,” Dean muttered. He vaulted back over the rail.
The meters stayed quiet. Nothing for the Strawberry Bitch or the pieces of the Lady Be Good. Nothing for the Shoo Shoo Shoo Baby or the Nazi planes. They stopped at the display of artifacts from concentration camps, and damn, if anything in this place was haunted, that stuff should be. Nothing. They moved on to the Modern Flight Gallery.
The next notable aircraft was the Hopalong, a silver helicopter that had been used for transporting the wounded in Korea. Sam leaned over the railing and tried to peer inside. “This is the one where they say the seat is still stained with the pilot’s blood.”
“Well, you’re not gonna see anything from there.” Dean jumped the rail and peeked in the door. “I dunno, man, I’m not seeing it.”
They moved on. Their footsteps and voices echoed in the high empty space.
“So how you holding up?” Sam asked.
“Just dandy.”
“You know, a phobia’s nothing to be ashamed of. I read somewhere John Madden is afraid of flying.”
Dean just grinned, shook his head. “Sam. Don’t make me bring up clourophobia. What’s next?”
“The Black Mariah,” Sam said. “One of the ‘Jolly Green Giant’ helicopters in Vietnam, only this one was painted black, hence the name. Used for highly classified missions. Some say it was where all the ‘black helicopter’ stories started.”
Sam nodded toward the chopper. The Black Mariah was pretty ominous looking, flat black, few markings. Understandable how it could inspire dread in those on the ground. They circled it, EMF meters held at arm’s length.
The meters stayed quiet, but something about the thing raised Dean’s hackles. He passed it off with a smirk. “You know, Sammy, you think I’m scared of planes? I’m really scared of helicopters.”
That got a funny look from Sam. Dean moved ahead before he could ask. The plane directly behind the Black Mariah was under restoration, roped off with caution tape. Stencils were taped to the plane’s flank; cans of spray paint waited for the next day’s work.
Now, that could be promising. Restorations sometimes got spirits all up in arms. Besides, this particular craft, a cargo plane that had been used to spray Agent Orange, had been shot up so many times, its name was Patches.
Still nothing. Dean shook his meter, snapped it off and on, but Sam’s was silent, too.
“Damn,” Sam said. “We’re running out of options here.”
“Well, we’ve still got the Cold War Gallery. And the rockets. Maybe our spirit’s one of those monkeys they shot into space.”
And hell, maybe it was one of those monkeys, because as soon as he said it, Dean walked smack into a cold spot and the EMF meters started going apeshit, no pun intended. Dean slung the duffel around, passed Sam a sawed-off filled with salt rounds. The cold spot turned into a cold wind. His breath clouded in front of his face.
As his fingers brushed the barrel of the second gun, the energy in the air coalesced. A shimmering figure stood before him, nebulous, black holes for eyes. The image stuttered, shifted closer. Sam’s shot and the crushing blow were simultaneous; the spirit lurched out of the way of the salt spread and Dean went flying, slamming into the hangar wall.
Christ. The pain flared in his back, stole his breath, and then cold, flickering hands threw him to the ground. His head cracked against concrete. Dean had a moment to wonder, Jesus, how many more concussions before I’m a vegetable? before the wavering form loomed over him, icy fingers gripped his face, and the world went dark.
*
Smoke and sweat. Cordite. Blood. Underneath, the smell of rot and wet earth.
He ran. Past the bloated corpse of a water buffalo. Past a dead woman curled stiff around a dead child. Dead VC, staring up at the sky.
Behind him, fire. Ahead, the chopper. Flat black, rotors beating.
Just a few more yards.
*
The ghost vanished with Sam’s second salt blast. He slid to his knees at Dean’s side. “Dean. You all right? Talk to me, man.”
Dean’s eyes snapped open, the hazel muddy with pain. “Fuck.”
Sam let out his breath. He gave Dean a hand, hauled him up to sit against the wall.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “That’s gonna leave a mark.” He leaned forward a bit to take the pressure off his back.
“You all right, man?” Sam asked again. “You were out for a minute there.”
“Yeah, I think so.” Dean rubbed the back of his head, winced when he found the spot where he’d hit. “It showed me something.”
For a second, Sam wondered just how hard Dean’s head had hit. “What do you mean?”
Dean shrugged, sucked in a breath with the pain of the movement. “When I was out, I saw…I dunno…a jungle, I guess, and bodies, and smoke - I could even smell it.” He stopped, frowning down at the floor, then looked up at Sam. “And the chopper. It was the Black Mariah,” he said.
***
They got to work the next morning under the fluorescent lights of the archives room, scouring documents and databases for more information on the Black Mariah. Both of them were running on coffee, Sam having spent what was left of the night poking Dean awake every hour. The story they’d given McCormick was the sanitized version, but they both looked like shit, and the livid purple bruise that covered most of Dean’s back was visible at his neck, blooming from underneath the collar of his shirt.
By lunchtime, Sam felt like he’d spent the last three hours bashing his head against a wall. Most of the information on the Mariah was still classified. What little wasn’t could take weeks to get, and there was no way to narrow down which mission had caused their spirit’s demise. There were different crews on different flights, plus ground troops and crew members of downed craft being evacuated. Too bad Dean hadn’t been able to recall any details of uniforms or insignia. The vision (or whatever the hell you wanted to call it; Dean was pretty skittish about that word) had been too vague, too dark.
Sam watched his brother from the corner of his eye, cataloging each time Dean winced as he moved. His thoughts kept circling back to that cryptic comment Dean had made the night before, about being scared of helicopters. Was he just fucking with Sam? Had he been picking up on some freaky vibe from the Black Mariah even then? Or was it one of those nuggets of truth Dean liked to slip in amongst all the bullshit from time to time?
As far as Sam knew, the only time Dean had ever flown in a helicopter was the medevac flight after that semi had T-boned the Impala, and Dean hadn’t even been conscious then. Was there some other story - maybe something from those years when Sam was at Stanford?
It hurt Sam to think of those years, though he knew he’d needed that time away. Knew otherwise he wouldn’t be the man he was today. But those years left a black hole in his knowledge of his brother. What things had happened in that time to make Dean who he was? And if there really was no way to free Dean from his deal - how many of those stories would Sam ever get to hear?
Dean glanced up - a hunter’s sense of being watched. “What the fuck are you looking at?” The stage whisper was his only concession to the quiet.
“Sorry.” Sam turned back to his notes. Okay. Fuck. Time to refocus. Research was getting them nowhere fast. He opened their father’s journal, paged through looking for the ritual he had in mind.
A long shadow fell over the pages. Tom McCormick pulled up a chair on the other side of the table. “I haven’t had much luck,” he told Sam. “Called a few contacts. I was even able to track down a couple of pilots who flew the Mariah. But there are just too many possibilities.”
“That’s okay,” Sam said. “I think we’re moving on to Plan B. We should be able to summon the spirit and then use a banishment spell.”
McCormick tilted his head. “Is there a reason digging up and burning a corpse is Plan A?”
Touché. “Sometimes spirits don’t take too kindly to one’s efforts to remove them. There can be a bit more risk involved.”
McCormick’s eyes flicked over toward Dean, the bruise on his neck. “How did you guys get into all this in the first place?”
Sam considered and discarded his crappy-guidance-counselor line. “Family business,” he said.
“Ever consider another line of work?”
“I was going to go to law school,” Sam said. “But now - ” He shook his head. “Once you know what’s really out there…it’s kind of hard to turn your back.”
Dean kept his head down, focused on the laptop screen. Anyone else might have assumed he wasn’t listening. Sam knew better.
***
Iron Maiden on the tape deck. “Flight of Icarus.”
“What is this, the flight-themed edition of the best of hair metal?”
“Dude. Maiden is not hair metal.”
***
The candles had to be lit in a certain order, symbols chalked in a certain order. Dean laid down a thick salt circle, then stood guard, shotgun ready, while Sam set out the supplies and drew on the floor in thick, confident lines.
Flare of matches, faint smell of sulfur as Sam lit the candles. Dean kept his back to his brother, walked the rim of the salt circle, nerves thrumming. Behind him, Sam began the Latin invocation.
Nothing at first. Then Dean felt a low vibration, like the rumble of a train at a distance. It hummed in the air, through the floor, through his bones.
The cold came next, turning their breath to white mist. Dean roamed the circle, searched for any sign of a target. Nothing. Only dim light, candle flickers reflected in the sheet metal of planes.
Sam finished the first half of the spell, sifted the proper mixture of herbs into the candle flame. Soft whoosh, brief flare.
The wind whipped up, frigid, rustling the pages of the journal. Dean smelled herbs and beeswax and ozone.
Then smoke.
Then rot.
The figure appeared in a flicker of blue light right in front of Dean. He fired, but the spirit was gone before the salt spread hit. The wind whistled, stronger now. Dean glanced down at the salt line. Wouldn’t hold for long. “Sam, get on with it.”
New urgency in Sam’s tone as he began the second half of the spell, the banishment. Dean circled again. Where the fuck was this thing? The wind was strong enough now to turn rotors and propellers. Dean hoped those candles didn’t have to stay lit.
A flicker, there, out of the corner of his eye. He turned. The second he realized the salt line had broken, the shotgun ripped out of his hands, the charge in the air sending it flying one way, Dean the other.
He hit the cargo plane, Patches, with a hollow clang that would have been hilarious if not for the blinding pain. He dropped in a heap to the ground, choked back a whimper.
Fuck. Sam’s words had stopped. “Keep going!” Dean yelled. Felt like the last of his breath. The Latin started up again. Dean pushed himself up to his hands and knees. He squinted into the stinging wind, tears at the corners of his eyes.
Translucent blue shape, black shadow-eyes. It leaned in close to him; he couldn’t help but shrink back. Icy fear trickled down his spine. Low electric hum. His skin tingled where it touched him as it slammed him into the plane again. Dazed, he dropped. He held on to Sam’s voice, the comforting cadence of Latin, even as the spirit touched him, cold burn on either side of his face, and everything went black.
*
Black.
Black, but not night. Was it the jungle canopy or the billowing smoke that made it so dark? He ran, branches and vines whipping his face, lungs burning, right arm gone numb. A weight on his shoulder. Another man, lifted in a fireman’s carry. Still breathing? Hard to tell.
Clearing ahead, and the thump of the rotors. Muzzle flash from the chopper, aiming around him, lighting the bird’s flat black skin.
Almost there.
Muzzle flashes behind him. Rifle cracks. Full-auto bursts.
He was on his knees before the pain hit, then it spiked up his leg, raw agony. He couldn’t hang on. The man on his shoulder flopped forward, hit the ground.
Goddamn it, so close. Wind from the rotors beat down in waves as he tried to get his right leg under him, tried to stand, one hand still fisted in the other man’s shirt. Something punched him in the back. He looked down, surprised to see blood blossom on his chest.
When he fell, the chopper’s wind washing over him, all he could think was, nice breeze.
*
Sam forced his way through the last of the incantation, voice shaking, trying to ignore the fact that the goddamned ghost had Dean, was slamming him around, was leaning over him and doing something to him -
Just keep your shit together.
With the last of the Latin, a low rumble built in the ground. The spirit jerked back from Dean. Its form stuttered, once, twice, a guttering candle. Sam’s ears popped. Blue light blazed.
Vanished.
Sam dropped the journal, scrambled to Dean’s side. His brother laid on his back, tense and trembling.
“Dean? Oh god, Dean?”
Sam couldn’t keep the note of panic out of his voice. He wasn’t sure which was worse - the translucent blue hands that had gripped Dean’s head, or the fact that Dean was still out - sweating, shaking, breath shallow, eyes open but unseeing. How long had he been in this state? Felt like forever, but it could only have been a minute or two.
Still too long.
Sam had his cell phone in hand, ready to call 911, when Dean sucked in a deeper breath, turned his head. His eyelids fluttered.
“Jesus. Dean.” Sam left his hand on Dean’s chest, needing to feel the rise and fall.
Dean’s eyes roved, taking in the silver-skinned wing above them before settling on Sam’s face. “Sammy?” Voice small. Confused. “Did we get it?”
“Yeah, Dean. We got it. You all right?” God, the stupid shit you say at times like this. Sam swallowed back a desperate laugh.
Dean seemed to consider the question. Tried to sit. Groaned and gave up. “Hurts like a bitch.”
“I bet. Ol’ Patches here’s not exactly pillow-soft.” Sam grinned, left his hand where it was so Dean wouldn’t notice him shaking. “Made a pretty cool sound, though.”
Dean gave a crooked smile. “Did, didn’t it.”
Sam couldn’t say which one of them started first. Their laughter was breathy, borderline hysterical, and though Dean’s face screwed up in pain, neither of them could stop. Sam waited it out, one hand wiping away the tears that rolled down his face, the other resting on Dean’s chest, figuring he should just hang onto the moment until Dean smacked him away and called him a girl.
***
They left Ohio after a couple days of rest and icepacks, the longest Sam could get Dean to stay still. Sam rode shotgun, one finger tracing their route west on the map, though either one of them probably could have navigated by memory.
The classic rock station Dean had found faded to static halfway between Dayton and Indianapolis. He popped in a tape, fast forwarded until he found what he was looking for.
Iron Maiden’s “Tailgunner.”
Sam groaned, covered his face with both hands. “Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ, are all these guys’ songs about flying?”
Dean shrugged. “Well, Bruce Dickinson’s a pilot, you know.”
“Of course.” Sam slouched lower in his seat. Maybe their next job would be harder to find music for.
A few dry cornfields later, Dean turned the volume down a notch. “You get bored, I printed out some stuff the other day. Robert E. Schroeder, 465th Bomb Group, 782nd Squadron. The Easy Maid went down January 31st, 1945, on a mission to bomb the Moosebierbaum Oil Refinery. Our buddy McCormick said we can request a Missing Air Crew Report from Maxwell Air Force Base.”
Sam sat up. “No shit?”
Dean nodded toward the backseat. “It’s in with the laptop.”
Sam reached into the back, found the printouts, started leafing through. Dean had even found a message board post from the Easy Maid’s nose gunner. A slow smile spread across his face. “Cool.”
Dean grinned. The miles slipped by under the Impala’s wheels, cornfields and rotting barns and even one llama farm, the flight-themed greatest hits of (totally not) hair metal playing softly.
Maybe by Illinois, Sam would work up the nerve to ask about helicopters.