Haze Chapter 9
Wow. Real life is messing up all my good intentions.
So I'm movng, you see. From D.C. to Alabama. It's kind of consuming my life, and definitely puts writing on the back burner. It's especially frustrating since this story is so close to an end!
And yet here's chapter nine. I've stayed up late to finish it just for you! :) So please forgive any silly mistakes; they were made with the best of intentions. There's really just one chapter to go and then Haze will be complete. I will do my best to get it written and up before my move, but unfortunately I can make no promises. Packing takes precedence!
Title: Haze Chapter 9
Rating: PG-13 (violence, language -- I'm sticking to the curses you'd hear on TV, but there's one offensive word in here. It's not one I would ever use myself, so I'm sorry if there's any offense taken!)
Category: Gen
Characters: Teen Dean and Sam (ages 17 and 13)
Word Count: 3050
Spoilers: None
Summary: High school is a difficult place, especially when you're at the bottom of the social ladder. But there are worse things out there than jocks, pop quizzes and Dostoevsky. When students start dying, can Dean keep Sam safe?
Disclaimer: Dean owns me. I don't own Dean, Sam, or anything else involving Supernatural. The original characters, however, are mine.
Chapter 9
The mammoth yellow truck hurtled down the narrow road, and for one long second Dean was convinced it was going to ram the Impala - with his brother inside. Before he could even yell Sam's name, the GM skidded to a stop slanted across the road, cutting off any possible route of escape. He could hardly afford to be relieved, though, as Greg jumped out of the driver's seat and Tom and Joel appeared around the hood. The first two were unarmed, but Joel . . .
"Oh hell." Dean backed up toward the barn, gesturing for Sam to get down out of sight. The three were so focused on him that they walked right past the car without looking, giving Dean some small relief. At least, as much as he could have while staring at the hunting rifle in Joel's hands.
"Okay, guys, lets not overreact here," he said, holding his palms out toward the three jocks. "Just calm down, okay?"
"You're not supposed to be here!" Tom yelled, his face palely contrasting with the red anger of Greg and Joel.
"And now you're not leaving!" Joel growled.
Dean continued to back up as he spoke. "Come on. The thing with JJ was an accident. I get that. No reason to say or do anything, believe me. I won't say a word."
He felt the chill of the barn's shadow fall over him, bringing him the smallest glimmer of hope. Inside he'd have a chance of survival, and when they followed him in Sam could escape. Hell, he could steal that truck so Dean could get the Impala out.
"You think we're idiots?" Greg demanded. "You got Mariah to tell you everything."
"Should've left her alone," Joel added simply as he began to raise the rifle.
Dean heard the Impala's engine rev, and for a split second he despaired that Sam was about to do something really stupid . . .
... A thought that evaporated in the chill of the white/blue form shimmering into existence in front of him.
"Crap!" Dean dove to the side and rolled just as a shot rang out over his head. The insubstantial form flickered, then reformed into the most solid ghost he'd ever seen.
There was no transparency, none at all. The specter’s flesh was mottled and rotting, its Fighting Illini shirt muddy and torn. Broken bones pierced ghostly skin and cloth, sticking gruesomely through forearm and thigh and shoulder. Another shot rang out, the bullet passing harmlessly through the apparition to dig into the barn wall. JJ disappeared, then flickered back to face the jocks. Mouth opening horribly wide - the flesh of its cheeks stretching and tearing - it howled.
It was like ripping metal. Dean dropped the salt and pressed his hands over his ears as the shriek clawed into him. He couldn't hear his own yell of pain, or the cries of the others, or even the Impala’s growing engine. Only his father's training allowed him to force his head up and look for an attack.
But JJ wasn't coming for him. The spirit lurched a step forward, then another, its scream dying off as it focused on the jocks. They were all yelling. Tom, white-faced, was backing up fast, while Greg was yelling for Joel to fire again. Shots flew; their only effect was to keep Dean crawling across the ground instead of getting the hell out of Dodge.
He looked over his shoulder to the Impala, where Sam sat frozen and clutching the steering wheel. Dean gestured at him to stay where he was; the last thing he wanted was for his brother to come to JJ's attention. If someone would just tell him where the body was he could stop all this instead of crawling off like a coward. But he knew better than to imagine that he could kill JJ without that critical information.
A very human scream pierced the air. Dean looked back instinctively just in time to see JJ yank Joel into a violent embrace. Spectral strength crushed arms into ribs, and Dean hissed as he heard the crack of bones. Joel screamed again, dropping the rifle and struggling to free himself. Tom was nowhere to be seen and Greg was frozen in horror. It was up to him.
"Greg, where's JJ’s body?" he yelled as he pushed himself to his feet. "Tell me and I can stop him!"
The quarterback's attention snapped from his imperiled friend, and suddenly Dean knew he'd made a mistake. Greg's eyes were wide and wild, swimming in shattered sanity. As they focused on Dean, they narrowed in uncanny certainty; then he lurched forward to grab the rifle.
"You gotta be kidding me," Dean complained as he turned and ran. Screw helping these guys, he decided, JJ can have them.
If he could just make it to the corn before Greg finished reloading he could get back to the cars and get his brother out of here. He looked back over his shoulder in time to see Greg raise the rifle. He swerved to the left - only 15 feet between him and the corn - and felt the solid ground turn sickeningly pliant under his feet.
Twisting his body and throwing his arms out was the only thing that saved him as rotten plywood gave under his weight. Even as he fell the scent of damp decay invaded his senses; cold air caressed desperate limbs. Somehow - through luck, talent, willpower or a combination of all three - he managed to throw his arms over the rapidly ascending edge of ground, stopping his fall with a painful jolt.
His muscles screamed in protest, but there was nothing beneath his feet to relieve his arms' burden. Nor did he have any hope of finding a foothold; the smell said 'subterranean' and to Dean that meant 'deep.' No sense wasting his time or strength on anything but pulling himself up to solid ground.
And then Greg was there, standing over him with madness in his eyes.
"I'm not who you should be worried about!" Dean yelled as he clung to the crumbling ground. "That thing's going to come after you next!"
The jock wasn't even aiming his rifle, though the careless way he held it didn't make Dean feel any safer. Greg gestured wildly back at the barn, the rifle pointing erratically at everything and nothing. "I'll just send you down there with him, huh? Send him some frickin' fag playmate to keep him busy."
"Are you insane?" he yelled, dread clenching his stomach. Suddenly he could see it - JJ running, trying to escape and heading for the high corn, just like he had. JJ was down there, below his feet in the well. And as Greg raised a foot, he knew for certain he'd be joining the dead teenager.
Ozone electrified the air as JJ appeared behind the quarterback and pushed.
Already off-balance, Greg staggered forward, trampling Dean's arms before he pitched forward into the well. Dean desperately clung to the side, scrabbling at uneven ground as the athlete's falling body battered his. Then his hold was ripped away as desperate hands yanked him down. The last thing Dean saw before he fell was JJ's gruesome grin; he tumbled into darkness hearing Sam scream his name.
Dean had learned how to fall. It was one of many lessons John had drilled into him when he was young, though he’d never fallen this far. He did his best to curl into a ball, protecting limbs and organs - yet pain radiated through him as he hit solid ground amidst the crunch of bones. There was sudden, searing pain; he cried out and grabbed blindly at his left arm. Hot blood coated his fingers and he gasped as his fingers brushed against bone piercing flesh.
But it wasn't his bone; it was much too long and dry. It took him a few dazed moments to realize that the crunch he'd heard had nothing to do with his own body.
Greg was under him, unconscious and broken, his breathing ragged. Dean scrambled off, though there was precious little room here at the bottom of the well. As his knees pressed into the ground something hard and long cracked. Hands shaking, he dug into his pocket for his lighter and flicked it on.
Bleached bones - ribs, skull, detached blocks of spine - gleamed sullenly from the muddy ground. Swallowing down his disgust, Dean slowly pulled at the bone that had impaled the flesh of his arm. It slipped free, helped along by a fresh welling of blood that soaked through his shirt in seconds.
"Dean! Dean, are you okay?"
He looked up and barely made out the silhouette of his brother blocking out the stars above. "Sam! Get out of here before you get hurt!" he yelled as he ripped a strip off the hem of his shirt.
His brother laughed; Dean could hear relief but also a lot of barely repressed panic. "I'm going to get you out of there!"
Wrapping the makeshift bandage around his arm as best he could (which was not very well at all), Dean turned his attention to kicking the bones into a pile at the far end of the pit. "Go! I'll call you when it's safe!"
"But-"
"Go, Sam!" he yelled as he looked for more bones.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered under his breath as he found a rib. Here he was, about to barbecue bones in a hole maybe five feet across, with him and another guy taking up space. He honestly couldn't say what would be worse - letting JJ kill him or accidentally setting them all ablaze.
He had to be quick, but he knew he had to be thorough. He'd collected a healthy looking pile of bones, but there could be some under Greg, and if he missed even one then JJ was going to be all sorts of pissed, but not so vanquished.
Glancing up, he caught sight of his brother. "I mean it, Sammy!" he yelled as he gingerly rolled Greg over. Trying to ignore the broken way the quarterback's body moved, Dean scoured the ground for any hint of white bone in the wavering illumination of the lighter. Throwing what he found onto the pile, he then reached into his pockets for the salt.
Salt that he didn't have. Green eyes widened and he looked up to where Sam still lingered against orders. "The salt! I must have dropped it up there!"
"I'm on it!" The shaggy silhouette disappeared.
Heart hammering, Dean turned back to Greg. He had to get him as close to the wall and as far from the bones as possible. He knew he shouldn't be touching him at all, or at least he had to be extremely careful - the problem was, he didn't have the time. He did as best he could, rolling the jock onto his side against the rounded wall of earth and then digging the lighter fluid out of his pocket along with a book of matches.
"Come on, Sammy," he prayed as he drenched the bones in the flammable liquid.
The temperature in the well plummeted. Dean dodged, instinctively moving away from the presence he felt without seeing. It didn't matter; there simply was not enough room for him to evade the arms that pinned his to the wall. Icy dead flesh seared his wrists as the rest of JJ flickered into view.
Dean kicked out hard at JJ's knees, but the blow sailed straight through. The specter grinned - the corners of its mouth ragged from the feasting of rats - and closed a freezing hand around his neck.
"Sam!" he managed to cry before the air was crushed from his throat. Dean struggled fiercely, kicking and shoving with his one free hand. But each blow passed right through; JJ's form flickered a little, but the killing pressure of those hands never relented. Dean dropped the useless lighter as his body began to weaken and a terribly cold heaviness settled in his chest.
Something small hit his upturned face; then it happened again. Suddenly a shower of hard particles cascaded down - and the choking hand was gone. Dean fell to his knees, gasping and retching painfully as rock salt pelted his hair.
"Dean, are you all right?"
"You're a… lifesaver," he gasped, his abused throat refusing to issue much sound. He waved up at his brother and tried again. "Toss it down."
Sam must have heard, because the box landed at the bottom of the well. Dean lunged and grabbed it, emptying all that remained directly onto the bones. His brother had dumped half of it down the well, but the salt that was left was enough to get the job done. He struck a match, ignited the whole book, and tossed it onto the bones.
Flames leapt hungrily as he threw himself back. He leaned against the wall next to Greg, heat beating against his face as the bones began to blacken. Then there was another inhuman shriek; Dean turned his face away as the flames surged high and blue, reaching up toward the night sky like a drowning man struggling for the surface of the water. Then they receded into sullen orange fire.
"Get me out of here," he breathed, finally looking up again only to be blinded by the beam of a high-power flashlight. Wincing, he threw his good arm up and blocked his eyes.
"You okay down there?" someone - not Sam - yelled down.
"Dean, hang on, we'll get you out!" his brother added, much to Dean's relief.
"Rope," he croaked. "Tie it to a car and pull me up."
"Is Greg still… is he alive?"
It wasn't Joel (Dean knew that guy's voice well), so it had to be Tom. As loathe as he was to ask for help from the guy who'd hurt Sam, he didn't want to be stuck down here with a possibly dying quarterback either. "Yeh, but he's hurt. I'll bring him up with me."
"I'm on it," Tom yelled down. After a moment Dean realized they'd both gone, leaving him alone with the hissing pops of burning bones and Greg's labored breathes. Unable to do anything for the jock, Dean reached up and gingerly touched his neck. Even that faint contact hurt; speaking burned painfully. He knew he'd be black and blue tomorrow, no matter how much ice he used.
If I'm gonna have marks on my neck they should be from a girl,
he thought bitterly. He was probably going to have to skip school for a few days until the bruising faded. Then again, maybe this isn't so bad.
He heard car engines, and his concern heated right back up. He knew Sam wouldn't let that jerk touch the Impala - but that meant his baby brother was behind the wheel. "So help me Sammy, if you hurt her…"
Headlights arced out above the well and away again; then a red glow illuminated the sky above. Soon enough, a rope tumbled down and Sammy reappeared above, bathed in the glow of tail lights. "Tie it around your chest; we'll haul you out. Are you strong enough to get Greg out?"
"Of course I am," Dean growled, though in truth he was having doubts. He wasn't about to let Sam get away with questioning him, though, so he tied the rope around his chest as quickly as he could and knotted it solidly. Then he knelt and gathered Greg in his arms. Knowing this was going to hurt, and hurt badly, he called up "okay!"
He'd known it was a bad idea, but didn't realize how much until the car began to drag him up and Greg's weight tried to pull him down. The rope pulled up tight under his arms as he was dragged slowly up the well, digging into his flesh and threatening to rip him in two. Or at least that's what it felt like. Closing his eyes, he groaned and willed Tom to step on the gas.
An eternity later he was stretched out on the ground, still holding onto Greg and hearing his brother yell at Tom to stop. All Dean wanted to do was breathe and maybe throw up, but he settled for rolling Greg off as gently as he could.
"Dean, you okay?" a breathless Sammy asked, kneeling next to him and picking at the knot.
"Fine," he whispered, shoving his brother’s hands away and using the little bit of slack he’d left to shove the rope down to his waist. "You did good, Sam."
"Not good enough." The youngest Winchester’s tone was subdued and even a little frightened, causing Dean to look up sharply.
"Hey, I mean it," he said with a little more force, pushing himself up to a sitting position. "You did real good."
Sam shook his head, but didn’t say anything more as Tom rushed over to check on his friend.
"Hey Tom, you got a cell phone?" Dean asked, wishing he had something to soothe his aching throat.
The jock looked up, obviously shaken, and nodded.
"Good," he rasped. "You call 911, get them out here. Lay him flat until they do. Can you handle that?"
Another nod.
"Okay then. They’re not gonna believe what happened. Tell him y’all were out here and Greg fell down the well. Joel too, if he’s still around." Dean captured Tom’s gaze and held it with a will the jock seemed unable or unwilling to break. "You leave us out of it, or I will tell them exactly what happened to JJ. Understood?"
"Y-yeh, understood."
"Good. C’mon, Sam." He got to his feet, stepping around the rope that fell to the ground.
They walked to the car silently - Dean’s throat hurt too much to speak anymore, but Sam was surprisingly subdued. Wordlessly the 13-year-old took out the first aid kit and approached, pointing at the badly bound wound. "Let me take care of that."
Dean paused uncertainly, but finally nodded. "Don’t want to get blood all over the seat," he said, holding out his arm.
Sam knew what he was doing; soon enough the wound was treated and bound with a neat white bandage. Then they got into the Impala and Dean revved the engine before pulling out. Neither of them looked back.
(end chapter 9)
So I'm movng, you see. From D.C. to Alabama. It's kind of consuming my life, and definitely puts writing on the back burner. It's especially frustrating since this story is so close to an end!
And yet here's chapter nine. I've stayed up late to finish it just for you! :) So please forgive any silly mistakes; they were made with the best of intentions. There's really just one chapter to go and then Haze will be complete. I will do my best to get it written and up before my move, but unfortunately I can make no promises. Packing takes precedence!
Title: Haze Chapter 9
Rating: PG-13 (violence, language -- I'm sticking to the curses you'd hear on TV, but there's one offensive word in here. It's not one I would ever use myself, so I'm sorry if there's any offense taken!)
Category: Gen
Characters: Teen Dean and Sam (ages 17 and 13)
Word Count: 3050
Spoilers: None
Summary: High school is a difficult place, especially when you're at the bottom of the social ladder. But there are worse things out there than jocks, pop quizzes and Dostoevsky. When students start dying, can Dean keep Sam safe?
Disclaimer: Dean owns me. I don't own Dean, Sam, or anything else involving Supernatural. The original characters, however, are mine.
Chapter 9
The mammoth yellow truck hurtled down the narrow road, and for one long second Dean was convinced it was going to ram the Impala - with his brother inside. Before he could even yell Sam's name, the GM skidded to a stop slanted across the road, cutting off any possible route of escape. He could hardly afford to be relieved, though, as Greg jumped out of the driver's seat and Tom and Joel appeared around the hood. The first two were unarmed, but Joel . . .
"Oh hell." Dean backed up toward the barn, gesturing for Sam to get down out of sight. The three were so focused on him that they walked right past the car without looking, giving Dean some small relief. At least, as much as he could have while staring at the hunting rifle in Joel's hands.
"Okay, guys, lets not overreact here," he said, holding his palms out toward the three jocks. "Just calm down, okay?"
"You're not supposed to be here!" Tom yelled, his face palely contrasting with the red anger of Greg and Joel.
"And now you're not leaving!" Joel growled.
Dean continued to back up as he spoke. "Come on. The thing with JJ was an accident. I get that. No reason to say or do anything, believe me. I won't say a word."
He felt the chill of the barn's shadow fall over him, bringing him the smallest glimmer of hope. Inside he'd have a chance of survival, and when they followed him in Sam could escape. Hell, he could steal that truck so Dean could get the Impala out.
"You think we're idiots?" Greg demanded. "You got Mariah to tell you everything."
"Should've left her alone," Joel added simply as he began to raise the rifle.
Dean heard the Impala's engine rev, and for a split second he despaired that Sam was about to do something really stupid . . .
... A thought that evaporated in the chill of the white/blue form shimmering into existence in front of him.
"Crap!" Dean dove to the side and rolled just as a shot rang out over his head. The insubstantial form flickered, then reformed into the most solid ghost he'd ever seen.
There was no transparency, none at all. The specter’s flesh was mottled and rotting, its Fighting Illini shirt muddy and torn. Broken bones pierced ghostly skin and cloth, sticking gruesomely through forearm and thigh and shoulder. Another shot rang out, the bullet passing harmlessly through the apparition to dig into the barn wall. JJ disappeared, then flickered back to face the jocks. Mouth opening horribly wide - the flesh of its cheeks stretching and tearing - it howled.
It was like ripping metal. Dean dropped the salt and pressed his hands over his ears as the shriek clawed into him. He couldn't hear his own yell of pain, or the cries of the others, or even the Impala’s growing engine. Only his father's training allowed him to force his head up and look for an attack.
But JJ wasn't coming for him. The spirit lurched a step forward, then another, its scream dying off as it focused on the jocks. They were all yelling. Tom, white-faced, was backing up fast, while Greg was yelling for Joel to fire again. Shots flew; their only effect was to keep Dean crawling across the ground instead of getting the hell out of Dodge.
He looked over his shoulder to the Impala, where Sam sat frozen and clutching the steering wheel. Dean gestured at him to stay where he was; the last thing he wanted was for his brother to come to JJ's attention. If someone would just tell him where the body was he could stop all this instead of crawling off like a coward. But he knew better than to imagine that he could kill JJ without that critical information.
A very human scream pierced the air. Dean looked back instinctively just in time to see JJ yank Joel into a violent embrace. Spectral strength crushed arms into ribs, and Dean hissed as he heard the crack of bones. Joel screamed again, dropping the rifle and struggling to free himself. Tom was nowhere to be seen and Greg was frozen in horror. It was up to him.
"Greg, where's JJ’s body?" he yelled as he pushed himself to his feet. "Tell me and I can stop him!"
The quarterback's attention snapped from his imperiled friend, and suddenly Dean knew he'd made a mistake. Greg's eyes were wide and wild, swimming in shattered sanity. As they focused on Dean, they narrowed in uncanny certainty; then he lurched forward to grab the rifle.
"You gotta be kidding me," Dean complained as he turned and ran. Screw helping these guys, he decided, JJ can have them.
If he could just make it to the corn before Greg finished reloading he could get back to the cars and get his brother out of here. He looked back over his shoulder in time to see Greg raise the rifle. He swerved to the left - only 15 feet between him and the corn - and felt the solid ground turn sickeningly pliant under his feet.
Twisting his body and throwing his arms out was the only thing that saved him as rotten plywood gave under his weight. Even as he fell the scent of damp decay invaded his senses; cold air caressed desperate limbs. Somehow - through luck, talent, willpower or a combination of all three - he managed to throw his arms over the rapidly ascending edge of ground, stopping his fall with a painful jolt.
His muscles screamed in protest, but there was nothing beneath his feet to relieve his arms' burden. Nor did he have any hope of finding a foothold; the smell said 'subterranean' and to Dean that meant 'deep.' No sense wasting his time or strength on anything but pulling himself up to solid ground.
And then Greg was there, standing over him with madness in his eyes.
"I'm not who you should be worried about!" Dean yelled as he clung to the crumbling ground. "That thing's going to come after you next!"
The jock wasn't even aiming his rifle, though the careless way he held it didn't make Dean feel any safer. Greg gestured wildly back at the barn, the rifle pointing erratically at everything and nothing. "I'll just send you down there with him, huh? Send him some frickin' fag playmate to keep him busy."
"Are you insane?" he yelled, dread clenching his stomach. Suddenly he could see it - JJ running, trying to escape and heading for the high corn, just like he had. JJ was down there, below his feet in the well. And as Greg raised a foot, he knew for certain he'd be joining the dead teenager.
Ozone electrified the air as JJ appeared behind the quarterback and pushed.
Already off-balance, Greg staggered forward, trampling Dean's arms before he pitched forward into the well. Dean desperately clung to the side, scrabbling at uneven ground as the athlete's falling body battered his. Then his hold was ripped away as desperate hands yanked him down. The last thing Dean saw before he fell was JJ's gruesome grin; he tumbled into darkness hearing Sam scream his name.
Dean had learned how to fall. It was one of many lessons John had drilled into him when he was young, though he’d never fallen this far. He did his best to curl into a ball, protecting limbs and organs - yet pain radiated through him as he hit solid ground amidst the crunch of bones. There was sudden, searing pain; he cried out and grabbed blindly at his left arm. Hot blood coated his fingers and he gasped as his fingers brushed against bone piercing flesh.
But it wasn't his bone; it was much too long and dry. It took him a few dazed moments to realize that the crunch he'd heard had nothing to do with his own body.
Greg was under him, unconscious and broken, his breathing ragged. Dean scrambled off, though there was precious little room here at the bottom of the well. As his knees pressed into the ground something hard and long cracked. Hands shaking, he dug into his pocket for his lighter and flicked it on.
Bleached bones - ribs, skull, detached blocks of spine - gleamed sullenly from the muddy ground. Swallowing down his disgust, Dean slowly pulled at the bone that had impaled the flesh of his arm. It slipped free, helped along by a fresh welling of blood that soaked through his shirt in seconds.
"Dean! Dean, are you okay?"
He looked up and barely made out the silhouette of his brother blocking out the stars above. "Sam! Get out of here before you get hurt!" he yelled as he ripped a strip off the hem of his shirt.
His brother laughed; Dean could hear relief but also a lot of barely repressed panic. "I'm going to get you out of there!"
Wrapping the makeshift bandage around his arm as best he could (which was not very well at all), Dean turned his attention to kicking the bones into a pile at the far end of the pit. "Go! I'll call you when it's safe!"
"But-"
"Go, Sam!" he yelled as he looked for more bones.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered under his breath as he found a rib. Here he was, about to barbecue bones in a hole maybe five feet across, with him and another guy taking up space. He honestly couldn't say what would be worse - letting JJ kill him or accidentally setting them all ablaze.
He had to be quick, but he knew he had to be thorough. He'd collected a healthy looking pile of bones, but there could be some under Greg, and if he missed even one then JJ was going to be all sorts of pissed, but not so vanquished.
Glancing up, he caught sight of his brother. "I mean it, Sammy!" he yelled as he gingerly rolled Greg over. Trying to ignore the broken way the quarterback's body moved, Dean scoured the ground for any hint of white bone in the wavering illumination of the lighter. Throwing what he found onto the pile, he then reached into his pockets for the salt.
Salt that he didn't have. Green eyes widened and he looked up to where Sam still lingered against orders. "The salt! I must have dropped it up there!"
"I'm on it!" The shaggy silhouette disappeared.
Heart hammering, Dean turned back to Greg. He had to get him as close to the wall and as far from the bones as possible. He knew he shouldn't be touching him at all, or at least he had to be extremely careful - the problem was, he didn't have the time. He did as best he could, rolling the jock onto his side against the rounded wall of earth and then digging the lighter fluid out of his pocket along with a book of matches.
"Come on, Sammy," he prayed as he drenched the bones in the flammable liquid.
The temperature in the well plummeted. Dean dodged, instinctively moving away from the presence he felt without seeing. It didn't matter; there simply was not enough room for him to evade the arms that pinned his to the wall. Icy dead flesh seared his wrists as the rest of JJ flickered into view.
Dean kicked out hard at JJ's knees, but the blow sailed straight through. The specter grinned - the corners of its mouth ragged from the feasting of rats - and closed a freezing hand around his neck.
"Sam!" he managed to cry before the air was crushed from his throat. Dean struggled fiercely, kicking and shoving with his one free hand. But each blow passed right through; JJ's form flickered a little, but the killing pressure of those hands never relented. Dean dropped the useless lighter as his body began to weaken and a terribly cold heaviness settled in his chest.
Something small hit his upturned face; then it happened again. Suddenly a shower of hard particles cascaded down - and the choking hand was gone. Dean fell to his knees, gasping and retching painfully as rock salt pelted his hair.
"Dean, are you all right?"
"You're a… lifesaver," he gasped, his abused throat refusing to issue much sound. He waved up at his brother and tried again. "Toss it down."
Sam must have heard, because the box landed at the bottom of the well. Dean lunged and grabbed it, emptying all that remained directly onto the bones. His brother had dumped half of it down the well, but the salt that was left was enough to get the job done. He struck a match, ignited the whole book, and tossed it onto the bones.
Flames leapt hungrily as he threw himself back. He leaned against the wall next to Greg, heat beating against his face as the bones began to blacken. Then there was another inhuman shriek; Dean turned his face away as the flames surged high and blue, reaching up toward the night sky like a drowning man struggling for the surface of the water. Then they receded into sullen orange fire.
"Get me out of here," he breathed, finally looking up again only to be blinded by the beam of a high-power flashlight. Wincing, he threw his good arm up and blocked his eyes.
"You okay down there?" someone - not Sam - yelled down.
"Dean, hang on, we'll get you out!" his brother added, much to Dean's relief.
"Rope," he croaked. "Tie it to a car and pull me up."
"Is Greg still… is he alive?"
It wasn't Joel (Dean knew that guy's voice well), so it had to be Tom. As loathe as he was to ask for help from the guy who'd hurt Sam, he didn't want to be stuck down here with a possibly dying quarterback either. "Yeh, but he's hurt. I'll bring him up with me."
"I'm on it," Tom yelled down. After a moment Dean realized they'd both gone, leaving him alone with the hissing pops of burning bones and Greg's labored breathes. Unable to do anything for the jock, Dean reached up and gingerly touched his neck. Even that faint contact hurt; speaking burned painfully. He knew he'd be black and blue tomorrow, no matter how much ice he used.
If I'm gonna have marks on my neck they should be from a girl,
he thought bitterly. He was probably going to have to skip school for a few days until the bruising faded. Then again, maybe this isn't so bad.
He heard car engines, and his concern heated right back up. He knew Sam wouldn't let that jerk touch the Impala - but that meant his baby brother was behind the wheel. "So help me Sammy, if you hurt her…"
Headlights arced out above the well and away again; then a red glow illuminated the sky above. Soon enough, a rope tumbled down and Sammy reappeared above, bathed in the glow of tail lights. "Tie it around your chest; we'll haul you out. Are you strong enough to get Greg out?"
"Of course I am," Dean growled, though in truth he was having doubts. He wasn't about to let Sam get away with questioning him, though, so he tied the rope around his chest as quickly as he could and knotted it solidly. Then he knelt and gathered Greg in his arms. Knowing this was going to hurt, and hurt badly, he called up "okay!"
He'd known it was a bad idea, but didn't realize how much until the car began to drag him up and Greg's weight tried to pull him down. The rope pulled up tight under his arms as he was dragged slowly up the well, digging into his flesh and threatening to rip him in two. Or at least that's what it felt like. Closing his eyes, he groaned and willed Tom to step on the gas.
An eternity later he was stretched out on the ground, still holding onto Greg and hearing his brother yell at Tom to stop. All Dean wanted to do was breathe and maybe throw up, but he settled for rolling Greg off as gently as he could.
"Dean, you okay?" a breathless Sammy asked, kneeling next to him and picking at the knot.
"Fine," he whispered, shoving his brother’s hands away and using the little bit of slack he’d left to shove the rope down to his waist. "You did good, Sam."
"Not good enough." The youngest Winchester’s tone was subdued and even a little frightened, causing Dean to look up sharply.
"Hey, I mean it," he said with a little more force, pushing himself up to a sitting position. "You did real good."
Sam shook his head, but didn’t say anything more as Tom rushed over to check on his friend.
"Hey Tom, you got a cell phone?" Dean asked, wishing he had something to soothe his aching throat.
The jock looked up, obviously shaken, and nodded.
"Good," he rasped. "You call 911, get them out here. Lay him flat until they do. Can you handle that?"
Another nod.
"Okay then. They’re not gonna believe what happened. Tell him y’all were out here and Greg fell down the well. Joel too, if he’s still around." Dean captured Tom’s gaze and held it with a will the jock seemed unable or unwilling to break. "You leave us out of it, or I will tell them exactly what happened to JJ. Understood?"
"Y-yeh, understood."
"Good. C’mon, Sam." He got to his feet, stepping around the rope that fell to the ground.
They walked to the car silently - Dean’s throat hurt too much to speak anymore, but Sam was surprisingly subdued. Wordlessly the 13-year-old took out the first aid kit and approached, pointing at the badly bound wound. "Let me take care of that."
Dean paused uncertainly, but finally nodded. "Don’t want to get blood all over the seat," he said, holding out his arm.
Sam knew what he was doing; soon enough the wound was treated and bound with a neat white bandage. Then they got into the Impala and Dean revved the engine before pulling out. Neither of them looked back.
(end chapter 9)