Day of the Dead Chapter 5
Day of the Dead Chapter 5
Dean couldn’t take this. He’d rather have his leg chewed off by that Chupacabra than watch his little brother toss around on the bed like that. The mewling gasping noises Sammy made sounded more like a wounded cat than his kid brother.
He’d taken only a few minutes to wrap the ace bandage tightly around his broken arm and then secured it to his side with one of his shirts. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked well enough. It was a throbbing ache that he should probably take something for the pain, but he had to stay alert, except he didn’t know what to do and it was killing him. Sammy was hurting and Dean was helpless to do a damn thing about it.
He stopped pacing and sat on the side of the bed. “Oh, Sam. Just hang on a little while longer. Dad’s . . . he’s gonna take care of this. You know Dad, he can fix anything. He’ll fix this. He’ll fix this,” his voice broke. He let his palm slide over the kid’s sweat soaked shirt, stopping above Sam’s heart. “God, Sammy.”
He lifted the washcloth out of the ice bucket filled with water he’d placed on the nightstand and started mopping away the sweat across Sam’s brow. And suddenly had an idea. Pouring a handful of salt into the ice bucket, he dipped the cloth in the salt water and began wiping Sam’s cheek.
“De . . .” The voice was so soft, so utterly wasted. Dean squeezed his eyes closed against the sound, against the whimper of the murdering ghost’s name on his brother’s lips.
“Dean,” Sam croaked.
The hunter’s eyes whipped open. “Sam? You with me?” He dropped the cloth to grasp Sam’s lax hand.
“Uhhh.”
“It’s okay, Sam. No, don’t try and talk. We know what you’re going through and Dad’s gonna fix it. He and Caleb are taking care of it right now, so just try and hang on, okay? Just hang on. Sammy?”
The kid’s eyes were barely open. Dean didn’t know if he understood him or not until Sam’s hand weakly squeezed his.
“Thank God. Sam, I’ve been rubbing salt water on you. It seems to help, but I wanna get some inside you as well. Do you think you can drink?”
For a moment he thought Sam wouldn’t respond until there was finally a little blink. “Okay.” Dean ran over to the sink, filled one of the hotel cups and brought it back where he dumped at least a tablespoon’s worth of salt into it. Holding Sam up and getting him to drink with one arm broken was going to be a bitch.
“All right, Sammy, I’m gonna slip in behind you.” Setting the glass on the nightstand, Dean shifted to the side of Sam’s back and then lifted him. Once he got Sam leaning on him, he grabbed the glass and brought it to his weak sibling’s lips. “Come on, Sam. You gotta try. Please, just take a sip. One sip.” He tilted the cup and was pleased when a little of the liquid got past the lips, though a lot more ran down Sam’s chin. Under normal circumstances salt water would have made him gag. “Okay, that’s good. You did good.” He had no idea if that was going to help or not, but Dean was willing to try anything. At least Sam wasn’t screaming or making those hideous noises anymore.
The phone rang, making him jump. Sam’s head rolled to the side. Dean patted him and shifted out from underneath to get to the phone on the other side of the bed.
“Dad?”
“Yeah. How’s Sam?”
“The salt seems to be helping a little. He actually knew me for a second.”
He heard his father’s deep exhalation. “That’s good. That’s real good to hear, Son. Keep doing what you’re doing. “
“Did you find the bastard’s bones?”
“That’s why I’m calling. There’s five Diegos buried in this town within the last thirty years. Three in one old family plot across town and the two others are buried in the city cemetery. Caleb’s taking the family plot while I go to the cemetery. We don’t have time to narrow it down any further so we’re going to burn all of them.”
“Okay, Dad, but just hurry.” Dean didn’t want to jinx it by asking what happens if Diego wasn’t one of those five.
“I will. Just as fast as I can dig. This Diego is toast. I’ll call when it’s done.”
#
John hung up the phone inside county records. The moment Dean told him Sam had revived a little his hands started shaking. Holding in the worry and anguish over what was happening to his boy was breaking him down. He couldn’t give in to it now so he did what he always did, what his marine training drilled into him-push it aside, get the job done-but damn, if witnessing his own child in the clutches of some dark force didn’t blow to hell every ounce of that training.
Suck it up, Winchester, you got a job to do. Shoving the papers he’d ripped out of the graveyard layouts into his pocket, John slipped back out through the door he’d picked-locked. He had a score to settle.
#
Resting his aching back against the headboard, Dean sat on the bed beside Sam and pulled the kid up so his head lay on his stomach. Sam’s fingers twitched. His head started moving and those damn noises gurgled from his raw throat. Dean grabbed the washcloth, dribbling salt water over his brother’s hair, then down his cheek. He’d spongebath Sam all night if he had to.
#
John was working on his second grave. He’d salted the first, sprayed a generous amount of lighter fluid over it, but left it to dig the other grave before lighting it up. He didn’t want to draw any attention to an open flame in the cemetery before he could do them both, especially with all the celebrants still out on the street. The two Diegos were buried about ten yards from each other. He’d light one and then run and finish off the second.
So far there hadn’t been any stirring on the air, no cold spots, which troubled him. In his experience, ghosts usually made a last ditch effort to stop their bones from being torched. He was counting on one of these being the right grave.
If not, he hoped Caleb had an angry Diego at the family plot. Not that he wished trouble on his friend, but if the right Diego wasn’t buried here, a little disturbance for Caleb meant saving Sam. Besides, the hunter could handle it. John stabbed the shovel into the ground. Once he was finished here, he’d head over to Caleb, just to lend a hand.
The shovel struck wood. So close. He used the shovel to scrape away the last remnants of dirt from the coffin, found the latch and lifted the top half of the lid and stared down at the skeleton dressed in his Sunday best.
John poured a generous amount of lighter fluid and salt over the corpse, climbed out of the hole and flicked open his lighter. Taking a bandana out of his pocket he held the material to the little flame, watching it burn good and bright before he dropped the bandana into the coffin and the lighter fluid whooshed to a hot blaze. “Hasta luego muchacho.”
He stood quietly for a moment, just listening, his hunter senses alert to every noise, every crackle of flame, any pulse that might slide across the still air. Nothing.
Damn he hoped things weren’t so quiet for Caleb.
Turning, John sprinted toward the first grave he’d prepared, pulling the torn paper with the grave plots out. It’d make for excellent kindling. Three steps away from the open grave, John struck his lighter, and . . . He sailed through the air, landing like a punch on his stomach. He felt himself being flipped over to his back, the specter suddenly straddling him, a meaty ghost with large drooping mustaches and greasy hair. The mechanic’s name patch declared him as Diego. “Son of a bitch he was strong!” John thought at the same time relief crashed over him. This was the grave! He had the bastard now!
Locking his fists together, John slammed his hands into the spirit’s face. Diego’s form sputtered and John’s arms went on through. Shit! John tried to buck him off. Damn freaking heavy-assed ghost! This ends now!
Grinning smugly, browning teeth dipping between fleshy lips, Diego latched onto John’s head and the hunter screamed. Every muscle in his entire body locked up tight, crackled with energy. ShitShitShit! And although Diego’s hands were clamped around his head, John knew they were, he felt them also around his neck, choking, thick fingers burrowing into his windpipe. Then he was kicked, thrown, bones breaking against a wall. No, wait, that wasn’t right. He was still flat on his back, the apparition’s hands squeezing into his temples.
#
Sam jerked upright and screamed, “Dad!”
It was the loudest sound he’d made in hours, scraping like a blade to a whetstone across his vocal chords and it scared the crap out of Dean. From behind him on the bed, Dean grabbed onto Sammy’s arm with his good hand. “Sam, what is it?”
Sam twisted around like he was startled Dean was there. His eyes looked enormous in his flushed face. But he was awake and seemed to be out of Diego’s grip and that alone made Dean breathe easier. Dad must have toasted the ghost. They could fix whatever came next.
“It’s okay, Sam. You’re okay.”
But Sam didn’t look okay. His mouth opened to say something, but all that came out was a terrible rasp. His hands flew to his throat, his eyes frightened and darting around. Dean knew that look. The kid was about to hyperventilate.
#
A knife plunged into John’s gut. He roared against the brutal pain. His already tattered dress was ripped off of him. His painted nails tore into Diego’s face. God, no, this was wrong. This wasn’t him, not . . . happening . . . to . . . him. I am John Fucking Winchester. He clawed himself away from the memories. Not his. He knew what this was. This was exactly what Diego had been doing to Sam for hours. God-damn ghost had been forcing his son to relive the last moments of every one of his murder victims as though each one gave him a sick perverse pleasure. The bastard was going to end.
John stopped feeling the pain, focused on the anger, let it wash over him with the knowledge that his son, his Sammy, had endured each one of these deaths. Over and over.
Rage fueled him, gave strength to his clenched muscles. Shaking like a loose marble on a conveyer belt, John inched his hand into his jacket, forced his fingers to curl around the salt canister, dragged his thumbnail beneath the lid and felt it open.
“Arrrrghhhh!” Using everything he had, John lifted his arm and shoved the salt into Diego’s intangible head. Shrieking, the ghost dispersed in a swirl of light.
#
Sam clutched his head and dropped back on the bed, his eyes nearly rolled up in his head. Back arching, his feet dug into the mattress.
“No no no no!” Dean leaned over him. Why was this happening again? He thought it was over. Panicking, Dean grabbed the ice bucket and dumped the rest of the salt water over Sam.
#
Where the hell is that lighter? John scrambled on all fours, looking for the little square of metal. There. Near the open grave. He lunged up like a runner off the mark only to have his legs dragged out from under him. He landed hard on his stomach. Turning, he kicked out, but Diego was holding tight, climbing up his legs like he was a horizontal ladder. John didn’t have time for this. Sam didn’t have time for this. Ignoring the ghost, John dug his toes into the soft Arizona dirt and reached. His fingers grazed the lighter. Just . . . another . . . inch.
#
Sam couldn’t take much more. Can’t breathe, can’t breathe. His chest hurt, his lungs were collapsing, fading, everything was dark. Por favor, please, I have a husband. Please don’t this, the woman’s voice, not his own, pleaded like it was his own thoughts. Aimara, I’m Aimara. Por favor, let me go home. Please. Hands were at his throat again. Dad? I want my dad. Dean! Deeeeaaaaaan! I’m Sam. I’m Sam. Not real, not real. Oh, God, it hurts. Can’t breathe. Diego. He stabbed me. I’m bleeding . . .
#
John couldn’t take much more. He’d pull every nerve ending in his shoulder before he gave up. Groaning, he stretched just a little bit farther until he reached that damn three dollar lighter, flicked it open and brought it to flame. Grinning like a maniac he tossed that sucker into the hole.
#
Dean couldn’t take much more. The salt wasn’t helping anymore. Sam was curled into a fetal position, holding his head, rocking forward and back, those freaking mewling sounds grating his throat. His entire body was tight, jerking, the veins in his neck were bulging. Dean could see, actually see, how rapid his brother’s pulse was in the throbbing artery. And he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, not a gaddamn thing.
Sam wouldn’t even tolerate his touch anymore. Every time Dean reached out to sooth his back or just let him know he was there, Sam skittered away, frightened out of his mind.
“Sammy, it’s me.” Tears streamed down Dean’s cheeks. “Just come on, come back. You can beat this Diego bastard, I know you can. Just hold on.”
Sam flung his hand out, reaching. “Deannn,” he garbled. At least Dean thought that’s what his brother cried out beneath the ruined voice. He grasped Sammy’s flailing hand with his own and Sam locked onto him like he was the road to salvation.
His hand tightened once, twice, then Sam stopped rocking altogether, his body went instantly loose, as he spilled sideways onto the mattress. Dean stared at his brother in complete shock. He looked . . . he looked dead.
Dean’s heart thudded against his rib cage. One beat. Two beats. Before he flew into action. Check pulse. Check for breathing. Begin CPR. Oh, God, don’t let it come to that.
“Sammy!” He pressed his fingers against the damp neck, found a pulse, sagged with relief, watched Sam’s chest rise and fall. Thank God, thank God. “Sam.” Dean shook the boy’s arm. “Sam.”
The kid’s eyes slid open and blinked up at him. He looked like he’d just come out of the losing end of a fight with a trash compactor, but his gaze, though weary and frightened, was focused on him and that was more than enough for Dean.
Sam tried to talk, but quickly realized he couldn’t. His brows pulled together and his chin started to tremble.
“Hey, easy.” Dean shifted closer. “I know, I know. It’s hurts, but everything’s gonna be okay now. C’mere.”
That was all the invitation Sam needed. He practically launched himself at Dean, throwing skinning arms around his waist and burying his head against Dean’s side. Dean wrapped his unbroken arm around the kid, rubbing his back while Sam shook with silent sobs.
#
That’s how John Winchester found his sons. After the damn ghost flamed away, John waited just long enough to make sure the bones were good and toasty. The moment he was satisfied the job was done, he sped back to the motel, his worry ratcheting up by mountains. What if he was too late?
When he slammed open the door and saw Dean sitting on the bed, tears blazing trails down his lean face as he held a weeping Sam, all the emotion John had held back broke like a typhoon surging over a sea wall. He didn’t say a word, just walked over to his sons, wrapped them both within the safety of his arms and let the sea wall crumble, just let it go. It didn’t even bother him when Caleb stepped into the room that the younger hunter was going to get an eyeful of the mighty Winchester sobbing. Didn’t bother him a bit.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapters Three and Four
Chapter Six