Bury Me In Fire - Part 4
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( Master Post )
Part 4
Dean had an idea. It came to him when he woke snuggled close to Sam. The world right then was warm and soft, the hardness even of Sam's body giving way to welcome him, and he wondered like a child why it couldn't always be this way. Then, the idea came.
He slipped from Sam's limbs, getting off the bed as gingerly as he could. He found his jacket, retrieved his phone, and tiptoed to the bathroom. He shut and locked the door, then turned on the fan to drown his whispers. Dialing, he dropped down onto the plush mat on the floor beside the claw foot tub. He pulled his knees to his chest and waited for Bobby to answer.
"I need your help with something," he said when Bobby did.
Afterward, Dean showered. When he stepped out of the shower stall, he stopped to consider the image of himself in the long mirror. He still looked pale and his eyes still had dark circles around them and there were still traces of his rash, even. But his cheeks showed evidence of life, now slightly pink.
The thought made him blush. He turned to look at the reflection of his butt in the mirror. The initial pink of flush was gone, but there were still red patches, which looked more swollen or chafed than bruised. He drew his fingers across the reddened skin, marveling at the feel of his own touch on the sensitive flesh.
Dean caught himself smiling at his own ass in the mirror, but he couldn't help it. Where had his Sammy learned to do that?
He shook himself out of his thoughts. There was work to be done, and if his plan was to come to fruition, there were plenty of steps that still needed to be taken. He dried himself quickly and left the bathroom.
He found Sam awake, but still curled under the covers.
"Mornin', cupcake," Dean said.
"Mornin'," Sam replied, grinning.
Dean dropped his towel and grabbed a fresh pair of boxer briefs from his bag. "Why don't you go to the bathroom while I put on some clothes," he said, "and then we can talk."
Sam, eyes wide, lifted his upper body and said, "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Dean answered. He rooted around his bag for clean socks, sweatpants and t-shirt, while Sam stretched his long body, then shuffled off to the bathroom.
After he dressed, Dean climbed back onto the bed. When Sam exited the bathroom, Dean asked, "So, where should we start?"
Sam hesitated. "The red eyes?"
Dean shook his head. "No," he said, perhaps a little harshly. More softly, he added, "I'm not ready for that yet, but I'll tell you someday, okay?"
"Of course," Sam replied. He seemed to think about it for a moment, then said, "How about the dogs?"
Dean hadn't expected that, although what he had been expecting, he didn't know.
His silence gave Sam the wrong impression. "It's just that you had that panic attack-"
"I know," Dean interrupted. "I know what you meant." He inhaled slowly and deeply, then looked at Sam with determination. "So, the dogs," he said. "Okay."
Sam smiled warily and came closer. Dean made room for him on the bed, and Sam joined him, pulling the covers up over them both. Dean let Sam control it from there, lying pliant as Sam maneuvered them into a comfortable position.
"When you're ready," Sam whispered.
Dean lay his head on Sam's shoulder and began to speak.
"It was the hellhounds. When they came for me, they didn't just drag me down to the pit. They kept me." His voice shook a little and he paused. Sam rubbed a small circle into his back, but kept quiet.
"So, yeah, that's where I lived down there - well, not lived, exactly, but you know… Anyway, time's different there. There's never any real light, but there're still nights and days, sort of. During the days… Well, stuff happened. Different things in different places. But at the end of every one-"
His voice broke. He took a few breaths and then resumed his story. "-I'd go back to their den. It was… It was awful. An awful place, even for Hell. Rotting blood, and dog shit everywhere...
"And the walls, the walls were made of eyes."
His throat was thick now, and it was getting harder to talk and to breathe. Sam pulled him closer, tightened his hold.
"Eyes, not the red eyes, not dead eyeballs, but eyes that moved and stared and watched." He gave up trying to breathe as words began to tumble out. "Watched, they watched while the hounds ate me, my fingers and toes and then kept going, all the way to my torso, and you know, you never die in Hell, you can't, and you never pass out, so you feel everything, every bite-"
"Oh, Dean," Sam exhaled into his hair.
"-and you see the eyes, thousands of them, watching you, watching it, it happening, watching the hounds take turns raping you while the other ones eat you alive, barking and growling for their turn to fuck you, and when you're just a torso lying in blood and shit, the one inside you explodes a million pin pricks into your guts, and then your arms and legs grow back, and the next hound takes his place and it all starts up again, over and over, all night long, every night, forever."
Dean tried to breathe then, but still couldn't get in one whole breath. He jerked against Sam's chest, hyperventilating. Sam sat them both up, then pushed Dean's shoulders down gently until Dean was folded over, head down. Sam ripped off his t-shirt and placed it, bunched up, in front of Dean's mouth. Dean dropped his face into it and tried to breathe more deeply, more slowly, like into a paper bag, Sam right there beside him, rubbing his back in swift circles.
Eventually, it worked, and his breathing calmed as his body settled.
After a long time had passed, Sam interrupted the silence. "Man," he said. "I can't believe you went through that for four months…"
Dean swallowed. As Sam continued mumbling his sympathies, Dean battled internally, both wanting and not wanting to tell his brother about time and what could happen as it passed.
"… I would've gone nuts, wouldn't even be able to stand upright now. I don't know how you do it." When Dean failed to respond, Sam added, "You're pretty amazing, you know that?"
Dean snorted. "Right," he said. "My whole body's going to shit and my brain's not far behind. Real impressive."
Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Dean cut him off. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, lifting his hand in a stop gesture. "I know." He dropped his arm, bending forward again. His back ached and his guts felt twisted. "Everything's so fucked up, Sammy," he continued. "Everything we've been through, everything we've done, and now the world's probably going to end anyway, you're BFFs with a demon, and I only feel alive when I'm in pain."
Sam winced. "Come here, Dean," he said.
"Never mind, Sam," Dean replied. "Just forget it."
"Come here."
Dean gave in and shuffled closer to his brother. Sam angled him to sit between his legs and rest his back against Sam's chest. "I love you more than I've ever loved anything or anyone else, Dean," Sam whispered into his ear.
Dean began to pull away, but Sam wrapped his arms around Dean's torso and held him firmly. He said, "I'd do anything for you."
Dean sighed, rubbed his face. "Anything, huh?"
"Yeah, Dean."
"Okay, then, I want you to stop using your demon powers for real and to stay away from Ruby for good," he offered gruffly, not wanting to cause a fight, but not wanting to lie anymore, either.
Sam stiffened for a moment, then said softly, "Okay."
There was a promise in his voice, backed by full sincerity. Dean relaxed in his brother's arms and leaned back against his chest.
"I just want to feel clean, Sam," he said.
"I know, Dean, I know," Sam said, then rested his cheek on the top of Dean's head.
Dean climbed into the Impala an hour later. After they'd gotten dressed, he told Sam that he wanted to get right back to work. They'd grabbed breakfast and coffee to go, and Dean had assigned his brother the victim in Newark to investigate, telling him that he'd deal with the one in Syracuse. Sam had assented with an "Aye, aye, Cap'n," and a gentle squeeze of Dean's arm.
Dean popped open the lid on the paper cup and took a sip of his coffee. He watched Sam roll away in his Prius. The coffee felt good on his tongue and in his throat, and he drained half the cup in seconds. He started the engine and smiled at the comforting sound of its rumble.
If he booted it, he could get to Buffalo and back without arousing Sam's suspicion. If he was lucky, he might even be able to check out that victim in Syracuse.
The next day, Dean sent Sam to the countryside upstate. They were running out of victims to investigate, so Dean hoped that Sam learned enough to figure it out since he himself would likely not get to work on the case. He had business in Queens, and after discussing the situation with Bobby, he knew it couldn't wait.
Everything went well in Queens, even better than Dean had hoped it would. The loft was just as he remembered it, as though it had remained untouched since its owner's death. Dean found exactly what he needed among carefully filed and hidden papers.
Success was immediate.
When Dean returned from his business in Queens, having slipped into Manhattan first for the remaining bit of business, he found Sam at the dining table, flipping through papers, ecstatic.
"I know what it is," he said.
Dean almost dropped the coffee cup in his hand. "No shit, really?"
"Yeah," Sam replied, beaming. "The victim I looked into upstate, his pattern was different. No one noticed any burns on him before he died, or heard anything about strange dreams or red eyes."
"And?"
"And then I learned two things: First, his wife died three years ago under suspicious circumstances; second, his organic orchards stopped bearing fruit. Like, one hundred per cent. First, it was the cherry trees, then the pears, then the apples, each group at the exact same time. His neighbors said it was the weirdest thing, because no one else had any problem, there was no blight going around, and no one had ever seen trees go like that. His entire orchard just died, and fast. The neighbors said that he'd thought he was going nuts, but everyone in the area saw the trees up and die, too."
Dean was confused. "What does that have to do with the haunting?"
"Nothing," Sam replied, "because it's not a haunting like we thought." After a dramatic pause, he said, "It's a Fury."
"What?"
"A Fury," Sam repeated.
"Like the Greek goddesses?" Dean asked.
Sam smiled, nodded energetically. "Exactly. It makes so much sense, I can't believe we didn't think of it before."
"Well, we have a lot more experience with ghosts and demons, even angels, than Greek gods," he said. "But I still don't get it. What's the guy's farm got to do with it, and what about all the rest?"
"The Furies are basically vengeance demons," Sam explained. "Their Greek name is Erinyes, which means 'the angry ones'. They specialize in avenging people who were murdered or betrayed by their own family. They curse them with madness, get into their victims' heads, accusing them and showing them horrific images, and make them go insane, ultimately driving them to suicide. But sometimes, they curse them with dearth, too."
"Shit," Dean said, getting caught in a tide of anticipation and dread.
Sam continued. "And get this: When they show themselves to their victims in their true, horrific form, they bleed from their eyes, sometimes even wearing the face of the betrayed."
Dean swallowed thickly. He tried to push down his emotions, focusing back on work. "So, are we dealing with one Fury or all of them?" he asked.
"That I don't know," Sam replied. "The old myths don't really give the impression that they lead separate lives, but in a few epic poems, Tisiphone, literally 'avenging murder', has some solo roles. Dante even wrote about her in Inferno."
"You think it could be just that one?" Dean asked. "Let me see what you've got there." Sam turned his laptop around so Dean could see it. Dean skimmed past what Sam had already told him, and scrolled down further.
He stopped short on a name, one that lit a fire in every pore on his body. He thought his head might explode at that very moment. "Fuck me."
He turned on his heel and ran out the door, Sam calling at his back in confusion.
When he got to the diner, he weaved through the crowd and went straight into the kitchen. He found his pie mistress rolling out pastry, but she paused as soon as she sensed him near.
"I have to talk to you," he said. "Now."
She put down her roller, wiped her hands on her apron, and said, "Sure." She turned around and looked at him, a mixture of curiosity and concern in her eyes.
"Don't," he said. "Don’t you look at me like that, like you’re a human being who gives a shit."
She inhaled sharply. "Okay," she said simply, but the look didn't leave her gaze.
"Fuck." Dean was filled with too many emotions and he didn't know what to say exactly. "So, it's you, isn't it?"
She didn't bother to pretend that she didn't know what he meant. "Yes, it's me."
"Unceasing anger, right?" he demanded.
"Yes."
"You tried real hard to hide yourself there, Alec," he said. He shook his head and laughed humorlessly.
"I don't hide, and I never use a stranger's name," she replied. "Everyone here calls me Alec, but on all the papers for the diner and the inn, it's printed out clearly as Alecto." She smiled. "I even have a driver's license with my name on it, if you'd like to see."
"So you own all this? I should have known," Dean muttered. "What the hell do you use as your last name, then? Demon-Bitch?"
"Hey!" she said, and she had the nerve to look offended. "I'm not a demon, and no one gets to call me 'bitch'." After a tense pause, she continued, "To answer your question, the last name I use now is Eumenides. It's what I am."
He didn't back down, vengeance goddess or no. "I thought it was Erinyes," he spat. "A fucking angry supernatural murderer. You can call yourself whatever you like, but you killed those people. Probably thousands more."
She shook her head. "No, Dean," she said softly. "I've never killed anyone."
"Well, you drive them to suicide, what's the difference?"
"The difference," she said, "is that I show them their own sins, and they act upon their own sense of guilt."
"What-"
"Each of them has committed a heinous act, a crime against someone they loved, who loved and trusted them. I show them their sin. And yes, when I go to them, I am terrifying. They need to see the true horror of what they've done. They already have the necessary guilt buried deep inside them; I just draw it to the surface, as hard and as often as needed, until-"
"Until what?" Dean was enraged and terrified at once, and he could hold neither emotion at bay.
"Until they are cleansed," Alec replied.
Dean's anger was drowned by shock. "What do you mean?" he asked.
She rubbed her eyes, and how odd was it to see a vengeance god weary, he thought. "These souls are already in torment, they just don't realize it. I bring forth their guilt, and the horror surrounding it, so that they may atone. When they burn, they sacrifice themselves to restore the natural order, they purge their sins. If I left them alone, those sins would fester and rot inside them, and when they died, well, they wouldn't go into the light, let's say."
Dean scrutinized her every word and breath. "You mean you… save them?"
"I guess," she said. "I save them from what mine called Tartarus - what you call Hell - or else from a desperate, disembodied existence here."
"From becoming restless spirits," he whispered.
"Yes."
"Or demons," he added.
"Exactly," she said.
"Fuck." He deflated. But the absence of rage and shock left him to be consumed by plain fear. "But how-How do you choose them? There are a lot of people out there who've done awful things."
"I only chase the ones who deserve it. If they don't feel any remorse for what they've done, well, then they're not mine to deal with," she explained. "But how I choose the specific individuals?" She smiled, and it was bittersweet. "I dream about them. And then I know."
"Shit," he said. He wasn't satisfied quite yet. First, he had to know, "The man in Schenectady, with the wife and daughter, what did he do? We found dirt on everyone else, but he seemed clean, and decent, too."
Her expression turned sad. "You don't want to know, Dean."
"Yeah, I do," he insisted. If it didn't make sense, he couldn't get over it.
She looked away and said, "It was to his little daughter, what he did. He felt awful about it, but he just couldn't stop."
"Oh god."
"Is that enough?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said. "That's enough."
They stood there quietly for a long moment. It occurred to Dean that the noise of the crowd had disappeared, and that no one had come into the kitchen or asked for an order since they'd begun talking. He looked around.
"I stopped time for you," Alec said. When he turned to look at her, amazed, she added, "I thought we might need it."
"You can stop time?"
She gave him a knowing smile, a little naughty, and said, "I can do a lot of things."
Dean laughed, but then remembered himself. It seemed like the moment was over, but he couldn't leave without knowing exactly what it was that did him in, if there was just one thing. "What about me?" he asked, serious again.
"How do you mean?" She seemed genuinely confused.
"I mean me," he whispered. "Why are you coming after me?"
Her face almost crumpled. "Oh, honey, I'm not after you. Why would you even think that?"
His eyes filled with hot tears. "Just, the dreams, red eyes, and everything I've done, and…"
"Oh, darlin', no. Whatever's going on with you, it's just your own natural emotions, your own memories." She stepped forward and touched his face lightly. "And I know enough, I see enough, to be able to tell you truthfully, when your time comes, there will be light."
"Oh, please-"
"It's true," she said. "You're not damned, Dean Winchester. I only wish I could take away the pain you're suffering here and now..."
The sound of his own name startled him a little, and he noticed that Alec seemed warmer, softer, almost hazy, even- "Are you glowing?"
She laughed. "Yeah, I do that sometimes. Like I said, I prefer to identify with the Eumenides part of me. The Erinyes part, well, that's my burden." When he looked at her questioningly, she added, "Ask your handsome brother, he'll know." Then she winked.
He blushed, but he felt oddly peaceful.
"Is that it, then? Are we done for now?"
Dean was exhausted, overwhelmed, but satisfied. "Yeah," he said. "Well, almost."
"What is it?" she asked, worry ruffling her glow.
"Why does a vengeance god run a diner in a tiny town in upstate New York?"
Serious, she replied, "I like pie," and after a moment, she added, "especially apple."
He stared at her for a second, then choked out a harsh laugh. "Of course. What was I thinking?" He quieted, then nodded goodbye to her.
She smiled and nodded back. The world around them slipped back into motion and noise, and her glow abated. With a last look, he left.
Sam was out there, waiting for him.
Part 5