Out Through The In Door part one
A/N Bowtrunckle beta read this for me but alas I lost her notes but I still want to thank her because she's awesome and she worked hard on doing that for me. I wrote this a long time ago, at the end of season three to be exact, something to get Dean out of hell for the summer between season three and four. It was fun to write.
Title: Out Through the In Door
genre hurt/comfort, humor, angst ... pretty much everything. AU version as to how Dean got out of Hell.
Summary: Hellhounds will bite the hand that feeds them in favor of a new master who can offer them more. Now, go fetch!
There didn’t seem to be a reason to run anymore. They’d left, all of the demons, once Lilith had fled. All that remained were the empty corpses of the victims in their suburban paradise. But things would happen quickly as they always did and Sam and Bobby would have to run from people who would want answers they couldn’t give.
Bobby sprinted across the lawn, through the holy water, leaving trails of mud as he entered the house where it all had gone so very wrong. He’d watched through the upstairs window of the house across the street as Dean was torn apart, as Sam screamed, feeling every rip of his brother’s flesh, as Lilith fled. And there was nothing he could do.
The hounds taking Dean looked bad enough through doubled-paned glass from a distance, as if he had been watching a horror movie, the picture without the sound, black and white in his memory. But the sound that greeted Bobby was worse than the full color picture. Pleading, soft sobs heaved from a throat torn from screaming. The amount of blood on the floor told the story; Dean’s wounds no longer bleeding. It was hard to distinguish Dean’s clothing from the shredded skin that mottled together in sponge-textured crimson. Flecks of blackened blood dotted Dean’s face and hair, his eyes unblinking but hauntingly focused like an old photograph staring out of an empty frame.
“Dean, please…” Sam pleaded.
Bobby placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam didn’t turn around. Bobby racked his brain for something to say, something that would change things. But there was nothing.
From the other room came the sound of a crying child and a phone being snatched off its base. Bobby ran into the room. He yanked the jack from the wall and ordered Lilith’s victims to stay put and not contact anyone until he and Sam were gone. He regretted having to threaten them with the return of the deadly guests if they didn’t comply. The fear on their faces was something he’d never forget.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Bobby said to Sam who sat quiet now, shaking.
Steeling himself, Bobby knelt down next to Dean, blood seeping into the fabric of his jeans. Bobby waited for Sam to fight him as he picked Dean up over his shoulders into a fireman’s carry. No fight came. Blood ran down Dean’s legs and into his boots overflowing and dripping from his dangling ankles. His left boot slid off with a sickening thwack onto the floor, leaving a trail of glistening crimson liquid mixed with the holy water. Sam watched as the river of death rolled toward sewers and drains, so much blood. He flinched when he stepped to the Impala, water and his brother’s life filling his shoes as it ran down the gutter. He opened the door of the car and stepped back.
Bobby opened the passenger side door of the front seat and gestured for Sam to get in, but Sam crowded into the back seat and cradled his brother’s body back against his.
A horrible silence later, Bobby could only find the words, “Sam, the keys, son.”
Bobby heard Sam mutter apologies as he watched Sam search his brother’s pockets. Sam’s shaking hands emerged from Dean’s pocket with a jangle.
“It’s okay, Sam,” Bobby said gently, reaching over the seat.
Sam’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His jaw clenched hard, his cheekbones standing out against skin drained of all color. When Bobby’s hand touched the keys, Sam dropped them.
Sam fumbled in the dark. His hand found Dean’s hand, keys lying across slackened fingers stained red and slashed. Sam wrenched them free, still holding the hand that was rapidly going colder.
The engine roared to life. Sam half expected in his haze of shock for the sound to magically start Dean’s heart beating again. With every burst of speed Sam stared at Dean’s chest, his eyes, the still vein in his neck, hoping every press of the accelerator would wake him.
Take care of my car, Dean’s voice rang in Sam’s ears. Sam watched the large capital H signs go by, indicating off ramps leading to hospitals. His ire grew with each one they passed, though he knew Dean was gone.
It was forty minutes before Bobby said anything. His voice was hoarse as if he hadn’t spoken in years.
“Are you hurt?”
Sam looked down at his own body, feeling it for the first time since he’d been pinned to the wall. There was only numbness. Everything worked, everything moved. He’d be able to see two fingers put up before his eyes and tell everyone his name and the date and the current president. But his heart felt as still as Dean’s.
“No,” Sam answered quietly. So Bobby kept driving.
Flashing lights in the rear view mirror indicated an emergency vehicle. An ambulance zoomed by them.
“Sam,” said Bobby breathlessly. “We ah, we gotta hide him. If we got pulled over...”
Sam said nothing. Bobby took an exit that had no indication signs like the little man under a roof beside a spoon, fork and plate or anything that offered the probability of running into people. Cows stood beside trees in the darkness, tractors slept in rusted bliss for the night. Crickets called from all directions, passing the news of their insect days.
The Impala crunched softly on the gravel road, as if tiptoeing, almost as if it knew the sombre load it carried. Dean’s body slid slightly to the left as the car pulled over near a sloping ditch. Dean’s head lolled further onto Sam’s chest from where it had rested on his shoulder and Sam caught the scent of hotel room shampoo mixed with the horrible coppery smell he shouldn’t have to be able to identify.
Bobby killed the lights and got out of the car, shutting the door as quietly as he could. He walked around the car several times, pushing his hair from his eyes, scratching his beard in grief and frustration. The crickets stopped chirping, the song replaced by toads in the tall grasses surrounding the wheat fields.
Bobby opened the trunk and drew out a blanket from amongst the many weapons. There was a whole, bizarre, tragic life in here. Coke bottles, chocolate bar wrappers, guns, two small duffels of dirty clothing and several large, leather bound books.
The slamming of the trunk jarred Sam. He compulsively shook Dean to check if it was he who had made such a jolt. Cold air rushed into the warm interior of the car. Sam clutched Dean tighter.
“Close the door. He’s getting cold,” Sam yelled
Bobby’s hand passed roughly over his face. Sam rocked Dean back and forth, his chin resting on the top of Dean’s head. He muttered incoherently for the most part, Bobby catching only snippets of what was being said.
“I don’t know what to do, Dean. You and Dad would know what to do.” Sam looked up into Bobby’s eyes for the first time. “Bobby, what should we do?”
Bobby met Sam’s gaze. It cost him everything to enforce to Sam the awful truth. “He’s gone, Sam.” We lost. The kind thing, the responsible thing, would be to burn his empty shell to ensure it wasn’t used by the likes of Lilith but Bobby couldn’t bring himself to say that.
Bobby reached gently into the backseat, his back cracking as he bent lower to relieve Sam of his burden. His hand slid on a smooth surface, slick with blood. The entire backseat was covered with a blue plastic tarp, no doubt Dean’s handy work. Dean had prided himself on making sure that Sam inherited his baby in perfect condition, threatening to haunt Sam if anything happened to her and knowing this would be impossible from where he was going.
“Sam, you need to let go of him. We need to ... we need to hide him until we can get him someplace to ... we can’t risk driving around with him like this.”
Sam slid mechanically toward the door, still cradling Dean’s head in his lap. He brushed the hair back from Dean’s face to gently shut the staring eyes. Dean’s eyes slowly reopened, the unkind result of the beginnings of rigor, staring up at nothing, empty ... soulless.
Bobby fished in his pocket. He drew out two small coins and placed them on Dean’s eyelids, securing them crudely in place with some tape he peeled from one of Dean’s cassette cases which promptly fell apart.
The coins served to stop the empty stare. There would be no payment to Hades to gain entry into the afterlife. Dean was making his eternal payment for something he bought a year ago that no coin or barter would ever be able to pay off.
Dean’s right hand curled slightly, catching on Sam’s jacket as Bobby pulled him out of the car and laid him on the ground. The tinkle of sunglasses and loose change falling from Dean’s pockets and hitting the tire wells made Sam think of the stupid saying every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.
Bobby grasped the tarp as Sam gently repositioned his brother. Dean’s leg thumped against the gravel as the tarp slipped from Bobby’s grasp and Sam exclaimed in disgust, as though Dean could be harmed further.
Bobby placed some of the large trunk’s contents into a duffel bag and placed it into the backseat. He wished this indignity wasn’t necessary but Dean had to be placed in the trunk where he would not be seen.
Sam began talking fast, and Bobby knew it was all to distract him from his grim task.
“Dean put me in the trunk once when I was thirteen to sneak into a drive-in movie. I remember him opening the trunk and throwing in a flashlight and some snacks and shutting the lid, telling me the concession-stand girl was getting off work and to keep my cake hole shut.”
Sam kept talking about everything and nothing. He drew Dean’s body up into his arms and walked to the trunk.
At that moment, headlights of an approaching vehicle shone on the Impala. Pure instinct alone was the only thing that could make Sam do it. He closed the trunk lid after depositing Dean as gently as he could.
Sam made his way to the side of the car and pretended to stretch. Bobby had made it to the side of the road and was convincingly urinating on a tree, holding a road map under his arm.
It was a small town, not a private road, but sparse enough to make anyone living along it feel entitled to ask strangers what they were up to. A man in a pickup truck held them in his gaze while he passed and in his rear view mirror until he turned off along a long farm driveway.
Without a word, Bobby and Sam got in the car and headed back toward the interstate.
Bobby had never seen Sam so pale. Sam winced every time the car went over a bump or turned a sharp bend in the road. He looked as if he’d be sick any moment and kept glancing over his shoulder as if he’d be able to see into the trunk. Sam turned around and watched the steering wheel; it’s subtle turns taking them to wherever the end of the road was.
XXXX
Sam didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep, he only knew waking was a regret. The sun peaked over the horizon; pink and broken by silver-gray lines around light clouds. The shapes were all Hellhounds, daggers, and accusing eyes, broken by purple veins of light like bruises on the skyline.
The car was parked under a flashing neon sign of a burger joint. Sam’s stomach turned. Bobby was just visible at the till through the plastic plants hanging in the window.
When Bobby opened the car door, the smell of the grease made Sam wretch. He bolted from the car and into the washroom. Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d ate or drank as acid splashed through his throat like fire and someone in the next stall ranted about hung-over jerks.
At the sink, Sam splashed water on his face. The front of his shirt was soaked in cold water, making Sam shiver. As the man from the other stall left the washroom shaking his head in disgust, Sam felt the urge to go after him. To hurt him; to make him understand that people should be saying how sorry they were for his loss, for people to thank him, to thank Dean for their sacrifice and appreciate being able to go to bed without fear.
Sam! Sammy! Help me! Help!” Dean’s voice rang in Sam’s ears. Then Sam pictured Dean from the night before: holding out his hand to him, eyes rolling up into this head, silently screaming Sam’s name. Dean being taken…
Sam clapped his hands to his ears and looked around the old tiled washroom. No one was there. Sam stooped low, feeling the pull in his lower back. He let the water run into his mouth and back out into the sink, unable to swallow past the lump in his throat.
Sam stepped out of the washroom to find Bobby standing outside the door talking on his cell phone. He couldn’t concentrate on a word Bobby said before hanging up his phone. Bobby wrapped a jacket over Sam’s shoulders and led him from the diner. Sam shivered in the early morning air.
Sam offered to drive but Bobby waved him off and told him to stretch out in the backseat. For a moment, Sam was Horrified, but the stiffness in his entire body forced better sense into him and he obeyed. As Sam stretched his neck, a glint of gold between the door and the car mat caught his eye.
Sam picked up a small pendent with numbers and symbols etched around a raised relief of a dog. It was strangely warm to the touch. Sam’s lips curled into a small, sad smile as he wondered which of Dean’s girls it had belonged to. Perhaps he would place it on Dean’s body when he burnt it. But he couldn’t concentrate on that right now. The clicking of the road under the tires was mesmerizing and welcome.
XXXXXXX
Hours later, the Impala pulled up to a tree-lined curb in a suburb of a wealthy area full of health centers and small specialty boutiques.
“Wake up kid, we’re here.” Bobby nudged Sam gently.
Sam woke with a start, swinging his fist blindly and connecting with Bobby’s chin.
“Sam! Sam, it’s me.” Bobby grabbed Sam’s chin and slapped his face gently.
Sam’s eyes darted toward the trunk before a look of comprehension passed over his drawn features.
“Sorry, Bobby, I just …”
“Save the apologies, that hit of yours ain’t worth it. We’ve got work to do.” Bobby handed Sam a blue uniform with crests on both arms and said, “Put this on, we don’t have much time.”
“I don’t understand,” said Sam. “I thought we were taking Dean to...”
“Change of plans,” Bobby ordered gruffly as Sam was about to protest. “You want to save your brother, don’t you?”
Sam shut his mouth and wiggled into the uniform in the back seat. He got out of the car to fasten the buttons and do up the fly, then leaned on the trunk lid to put on the black shoes Bobby had given him. He straightened up feeling half alive. Right about now Dean should be standing beside him getting ribbed about needing a children’s size uniform. He got back in the car just as Bobby was fastening the top button of a sweater that would suit Mr. Rogers.
“You see that building two doors up on the right?” Bobby asked.
Sam squinted at the sign over the door: Amenhotep Cryogenic Services.
“Bobby, freezing a body is no good without preserving the soul. Besides, the cryogenic processes must start at the moment of death.”
“You’re thinking with your head again, Sam. The supernatural don’t give a rat’s ass about science and logic.” Bobby paused and shook his head. “Life and death is as much about faith and the unexplainable as it is about anything else. We just gotta keep Dean’s body together so he’s got something to step back into, otherwise he’s gonna kick your ass and, one day, your Dad’s gonna kick mine.”
Sam decided to go along with whatever Bobby had planned. Short of taking a crow bar and beating the hell out of the Impala to see if his brother really would haunt him, he had nothing. Because if Dean couldn’t come back to save him from the pain he was in now, he couldn’t come back on his own. Dean had never willingly left Sam in pain. I won’t leave you either, Dean.
An ambulance pulled around the corner. Bobby got out and walked up the street toward it. Sam watched as a man counted some money Bobby handed him and walked away up the street to a cab.
Bobby pointed at Sam to follow him so Sam pulled the Impala around the corner and followed the ambulance to a back alley behind the Cryogenic Lab.
Sam’s breathe hitched as a gurney was wheeled down pitted steel ramps. His eyes adjusted to the bright lights from the interior of the ambulance. Nothing remained of the usual supplies, and the interior had been gutted.
“One of my parts dealers has a place around here. I called him while you were out. This was the best he could do. He had a hearse but we all know what kind of evil son’s a bitches you can get tangled up with using one of those.”
Bobby cut away Dean’s clothing and took all of his identification, real and fake. He handed the documents to Sam and deposited the bloody strips of clothing into the back of the ambulance.
Sam reached out to cover his brother from this indignity as they placed Dean in a black bag on the gurney. Bobby zippered up the bag, pausing when he got to Dean’s face.
“I’m going to give you a minute with him Sam, because in there, he’s not your brother. I’m his rich, eccentric uncle and you’re the witness from the hospital that he was released from the coroner, the victim of a hunting dog with rabies.” This would have been laughable if it weren’t in some twisted way, the truth.
Sam bit the inside of his cheek to distract him from the pain in his heart.
Bobby had taken the coins from Dean’s eyes, but they had done their job. Dean’s eyes were closed as if in sleep.
“You’d hate this if you were here,” Sam told the still form, his voice barely above a whisper. “But we have no choice. If I thought Dad was still there ... where you are, the two of you would already be plotting your escape. If I knew you weren’t alone … I hate that you did this for me. But I never thanked you. I don’t even know how. I’m still pissed at you, know that, but I understand why you did it, Dean ... jerk.” Sam let Bobby fold the black velvet material over Dean’s face.
Sam stepped up to the dimly lit back doors of the lab and rang a service bell. He willed his knees not to buckle. A tall man in a white coat propped the doors open with a steel spike that fit into the hole in the white, gleaming, ceramic floor. This was the business entrance, not the customer friendly facade.
“What have we got?” asked the man who introduced himself as Quincy, laughing as he said it. “Night shift humor, get it? It’s my favorite show. My real name’s Marty.” Marty stuck his hand out to Sam who shook it and tried to smile while wanting to run and take Dean as far away as possible.
Sam pushed the gurney, the black bag half bathed in the light from the lab, the other half shrouded in the back alley darkness. And at that moment, Sam took heart at the sight. Maybe only half of Dean’s soul was someplace dark, a small thread of it dangling in the light just beyond his reach.
“Male, twenty-nine, killed on a hunting trip by a hunting dog with rabies.”
Marty retracted his hand immediately from the bag.
“This better be a full-corpse cryo procedure. I’m not decapitating a potential rabies case. They’re as dangerous dead as alive, I read To Kill A Mocking Bird,” Marty said looking aghast. He pushed his square glasses up on his nose.
“Heads up, here comes the mourner,” said Marty, becoming instantly serious
Bobby wiped his eyes. “I called ahead about the special circumstances,” said Bobby, sitting heavily into a chair.
“You’ll need to sign a waiver,” Marty said. “We offer no guarantees that after a period of thirty minutes from the time of death, we’ll be able to reanimate the deceased when a solution is found for his, um, problem.”
Sam could hear Dean in his head as Bobby reached for the pen and contract.So you mean if we’d gotten me here in thirty minutes, you’d be able to guarantee you could fix me? Crap, should’a called Pizza Pizza, thirty minutes or I’m free.
“Okay, sir, if you’d like a few moments alone, I’ll go prepare.” Marty slipped behind a curtain, and the sound of running water allowed Sam to let out a long breath.
Sam placed his hand on his brother’s torso. Dean’s chest cavity reminded Sam of a dead shark, ribs exposed as it hung on hooks while people posed for morbid pictures.
“Dean, I told you I don’t have a plan. But Bobby does. Whatever it takes, we’ll bring you back. Cause this is different. I know you said what’s dead should stay dead, but a part of you is alive ... somewhere. So that’s a technicality and I should know, I took a lot of Pre- Law courses. See? They did come in handy for something ... God, Dean, I don’t know what else to say...” A tear fell and disappeared into Dean’s chest.
Sam quickly swiped his face.
“Okay, I’m ready. Sooner the better,” called Marty. He took Sam aside. “Look, if you want to stick around, it might be good for the old uncle to see him again after I’ve worked my magic. I’m an artist.”
“Oh ... okay.” Sam stammered. “I’m gonna stick around and drive this guy back to the hospital parking lot. Unless my pager goes off,” said Sam, trying to sound indifferent, patting his pocket.
The curtain swished a few times and unpleasant noises made Sam want to punch Marty for whistling while he worked. In two hours, the curtain parted and Marty called Bobby in, whispering in Sam’s ear that he might want to take a peak as well.
Dean lay on a table, fully covered in white plastic except for his face. His many scratches and gouged out pieces of flesh were much less noticeable, his hair had been cleaned and combed. Dean’s skin was grey and toneless, but he looked at peace. He was like the front of this place of fanciful hope, a facade.
“I’ll be putting him in a number three cell,” explained Marty. “One of our best. Has a window. You can call ahead for a viewing.” Marty was pleased with himself. “It’s too bad he was tied up with the police investigation for so long. But he’s actually not the worst I’ve seen. Of course, the others opted for cranial preservation only. Again, as it says in the contract, we make no guarantees but if a solution is found, you can always opt for complete decapitation and new body later. If you’d like to pay in advance for that, we offer a fifteen percent discount on the final payment and who knows what the cost of a replacement body will be in the future.”
“Tell me, Marty, are you on commission?” Sam asked in a perfect channeling of Dean.
Marty informed Bobby he would need to make monthly payments on top of the down payment. Bobby produced a credit card, his own while Sam’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair wondering where Bobby had gotten that much credit.
Sam expected Dean to be laid out straight but Marty told them that due to limited space, he’d be placed into a fetal position, which was also more conducive to keeping tendons and joints intact.
The door to the chamber closed with an awful finality. Bobby gripped Sam’s shoulder as he lurched slightly toward his brother, mouthing his name silently. Sam forced himself to turn away so that Marty wouldn’t see his face. He stared at smaller chambers, shuddering, knowing that eyes stared blankly in darkness waiting for a day that would likely never come.
“You store sperm here, too?” asked Sam, reading a label on a metallic unit. Sam almost expected Dean to make a clever remark about preferring doing things the natural way. These thoughts sustained Sam just a little. He took mental notes of things he would share with Dean once he came back.
“Oh yes, embryos, sperm, stem cells and even bone tissue and blood for the local hospital.” Marty lowered his voice. “I’m not supposed to say, strictly speaking, but we’ve even got a celebrity here. Yep, people have looked everywhere for him, under pitcher’s mounds and buildings but you understand his family paid for him to rest here. So we’re not allowed to te...”
“Secret’s safe with me,” said Sam, clapping Marty on the shoulder and feeling slightly sorry for him. The long hours alone in such a place must cause awful things to happen to a person over time. The chamber Marty had pointed out read Mr. John Smith. Still, Sam had seen stranger things.
“Listen, Marty. I’ll keep your secret if you’ll do something for me. Protect him ... for that old man over there, his uncle. Don’t let anyone ... mess with him. And we’ll, that is, he, the uncle, will be the only one allowed to make an appointment for a visit, you understand? Otherwise, old Jimmy’s news’ll be out all over the country and you’ll have a million Teamsters after your head.”
Marty glanced at the metal containers of heads and blanched. “I’m such a blabber. And I hate night shift. Got stuck on night shift when I told a woman who came in to purchase an erm, specimen that the old doc had donated all the stuff here. Ooo, I shouldn’t have told you that. You won’t tell, will you? During the day, this place has people here. Real people. Well, I mean...” Marty glanced around to indicate the jars and oblong freezers that he meant no offense. “Live people.”
“I think we understand each other then,” Sam said, clapping Marty on the shoulder.
It was hard to leave. But the secretary had started her shift as Bobby and Sam pulled out of the back alley. Sam hopped out and got into the Impala and was alone for the first time. Having Dean’s body, even in the trunk, hadn’t let the finality sink in. But Bobby still hadn’t explained his plans, so Sam forced his hands to grip the wheel, turn the key and pull away.
A few blocks away, Sam pulled up behind the ambulance. Bobby got out, leaving the old vehicle where it was for his acquaintance to pick up later. Bobby offered to drive, but Sam saw the bags under his eyes, and he wasn’t sure he could let go of the wheel just yet; it was a part of Dean.
XXXXX
“Sam, we need to rest. Just for a few days,” Bobby said.
Sam was going to argue, but looking at Bobby, the awful truth hit him. Besides freezing Dean’s body, Bobby hadn’t said anything to indicate that he had any idea how to get Dean’s soul back.
The further Sam drove from the Cryogenic Lab, the more he longed to return.
Eventually, Bobby succumbed to sleep. Sam kept turning to the seat beside him to say something but stopped himself. The urge to turn on the radio was overwhelming. It went along with driving the Impala. Sam sat straighter and tried to concentrate on driving but the yellow lines dividing the road were becoming harder to focus on. Images kept popping into his mind, inanimate objects like mailboxes seemed to turn into people and shapes as he drove along. He imagined black dogs on every corner until he couldn’t take the silence. He nudged Bobby.
“Hey, Bobby, hungry?”
“Wha-?” Bobby sat up, pulling his cap from his eyes back onto his head. Sam stopped looking at the corners; afraid the black dogs would still be there. Real and not imagined.
“Turn left, Sam. You woke me just in time.”
After the turn, a towering pile of half crushed cars came into view, headlights peaking out from the debris, battery wires like veins no longer connected. Sam pulled up to a house very much like Bobby’s. A scrap yard dog was chained to the engine of an old tractor, too fat to bother barking, too friendly to want to.
“Buick, at least bare your teeth, yeh dumb dog,” said a man whose face was hidden under a red baseball cap and straddled by two long sideburns.
The brown and white mutt stood up to greet the guests, his whole body wagging. Sam absently stroked the wiry hair, bits of sand from the fur imbedding under his fingernails.
“Good to see you again, man,” the man clapped Bobby on the back before turning to Sam.
“I’m Clive.” The man held out his hand and Sam shook it and followed Bobby into the house.
The interior of the house was a surprise. The gleaming floors made Sam automatically kick off his shoes at the door. The furniture was large and comfortable looking.
“Look, Bobby, you’re both welcome to stay here for as long as yeh need. I would have lent you the money, you know.” Clive gestured for them to sit and handed them each a beer.
Sam stared at Bobby for an explanation, but it hit him before Bobby spoke. Bobby must have sold everything he owned to buy Dean time in a cryogenic chamber. Sam had no idea what to say. If for some miracle Bobby lived to the age where hunting was beyond his years, he’d have nowhere to go. Hunting didn’t exactly have a pension plan.
“Don’t say anything, Sam. I promised your dad I’d take care of you boys.”
XXXX
Sam pushed food around his plate. It was only Bobby’s look of concern that made him take a bite. He hated to admit the hamburger casserole tasted good. Dean would have loved it. When Sam put the glass of milk to his lips, he drained it in seconds. The coating effect of the milk steadied his stomach. He took a few more bites of casserole, suddenly ravenous.
Sam’s gusto for the food lasted only long enough to nourish him. He declined a piece of store-bought pie that Clive offered. Bobby also declined and they set their dishes into the deep porcelain sink and made their way into the living room. Clive turned on the television for a comfortable background noise. Clive and Bobby were in deep conversation as Sam listened to the evening news telling him that tomorrow would be a beautiful day, cloudless and perfect picnic weather. He looked up at the smiling, blonde weather girl and kicked himself for turning to his left to hear Dean’s rating of the woman. Sam was sure Dean would’ve rated her a nine out of ten.
As tired as he was, Sam went outside to the car to get his laptop. The warm breeze hit his face and brought the guilt of breathing to him fully. A porch swing waved gently but it wasn’t the place for him. Sam let his legs carry him out among the car graveyard’s many rows. He remembered Dean smashing in the Impala with a crow bar when their dad had died and again considered tempting Dean’s soul by doing the same. But it wasn’t his style and when no one came to defend Dean’s baby he’d lose what thread of hope he had left.
Sam turned at the sound of a whining dog, thinking that the old mutt he’d seen earlier must have somehow followed him. But it wasn’t there.
Sam sat in a wrecked Dodge Charger whose passenger side door was hanging open, the seat still fairly well intact. He put his head down on the steering wheel, the scent of spilled oil mixed with mud filling his senses. His eyes opened and a small flower caught a last ray of sunset through the gaping hole in the floor. He watched as the flower folded itself to sleep for the night.
It was almost dark when Sam’s legs started cramping. He hadn’t been aware of time passing, but he knew Bobby would be worried, so he quickened his pace back to the house. He froze mid-stride as a dog whined again. There was something pitiful about the sound but it sent a chill up his spine as he recalled Dean’s wild eyes as they ran from the Hell Hounds that Sam couldn’t see or stop.
Back at the Impala, Sam grabbed his duffel bag, looking around furtively. It wasn’t until he was halfway back to the house that he realized he also carried Dean’s bag. Tears stung his eyes. He swiped them away, sinking to his knees. A chain rattled and Buick was at his side, licking the salt from the back of Sam’s hand.
“Hey, boy,” said Sam.
Buick stared into his eyes, and for a junkyard mutt, had the impeccable manners not to lick Sam’s face. His long ears flopped as the head turned to the side as if understanding Sam’s grief. There was a small yip as Buick demanded to be pet again.
The door of the house banged open and Bobby stopped in his tracks as if in debate as to whether turning around and going back inside or going to Sam would be the better option.
“I, uh, was just coming to see if you needed help bringing anything in,” Bobby said, staring down at the two bottles of beer in his hands.
Sam got to his feet and picked up the bags. Clive was behind Bobby with a stainless steel bowl of casserole for the dog. Buick head butted Sam’s leg affectionately and dove into the food.
Sam stopped what he hoped was a purposeful gait toward Bobby when he heard a dog whimper again somewhere out in the junkyard. Buick momentarily lifted his head and circled his bowl but tucked back into the food quickly, seeming to take his cue from Clive that nothing was amiss. When the whining stopped. Sam looked toward Bobby and Clive who seemed not to have noticed the break in the cricket’s song of the night.
Sam followed Bobby and Clive inside, taking the beer. His eyes lingered on the bags, side by side, knowing that the contents of Deans’ bag wouldn’t be strewn all over the place to annoy him in the morning, that there would be hot water left to take a shower, that there would be bacon left over, no one to tease him about his girly shampoo. No one to save him from what he was to become.
Sam lost himself in his laptop. He stared at the screen until Bobby told him to go to bed. It sounded like an order to Sam, or something in his mind needed it to be. He was tired but needed the permission to stop.
“We’ll figure it out. Even if we can’t get him back. We’ll set him free,” Bobby handed Sam his bag and led him to a bedroom.
Sam nodded mutely and heard Bobby shuffle away. He opened the window, moonlight casting sudden shadows across the hardwood floor. The night air revived him, though he didn’t want it to. He watched as Clive unchained Buick and led him into the house for the night. The front porch light was extinguished.
Sam stood staring at the mountains of cars, his eyes making shapes of twisted metal angels and animals as if he were staring into the clouds. When he was a kid and Dean was a teenager, they would argue about what shapes the clouds held. Sam would swear there were dragons while Dean saw buxom women. Sam shook his head, and as he turned away from the window he thought he saw a black dog running into the woods beyond the wrecking yard.
“Bobby...” Sam clapped his hands over his mouth, hoping that Bobby hadn’t heard him but within seconds, his door was flung open and Bobby rushed in, shot gun in his hands, pointing the weapon into every corner and shoving Sam behind him.
“What’s wrong?”
“N ... nothing, I just thought ... I just don’t know where the washroom is.”
“Bobby’s eyes locked on Sam’s face for a long moment, then his expression went soft and he drew in a breath. Sam waited for Bobby to tell him he should stop lying through his teeth, but he only placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder and silently led him to the washroom, pointing out the linen closet full of fresh towels absently with the barrel of the gun.
Sam turned the shower on. His clothes hit the floor, perspiration scent rising from them. Sam pulled the frosted shower door closed and let the warm water pound into this body. The warmth soothed him. And then the guilt came again. Dean’s body was frozen while his soul burned in hellfire.
The hot water zapped whatever strength remained in Sam’s legs. He sank into the tub, shoulders slumped, head down as he breathed the steam. He felt like the kid from Home Alone. Hey, Buzz, I’m drinking all the soda!, mom, dad, I’m jumping on beds! And then, Dean, I’m driving the Impala on cheap gas! I’m using all the hot water!
Sam’s head snapped up to the sound of scratching on the bathroom door. For one stupid minute he expected Dean to yell at him that he needed to shower too. But then his flesh rose in goose bumps as he shut the water off, his senses catching up to his heartbeat. He flung the door open, steam escaping in sudden puffs making the mirrors drip loudly onto the floor. There was nothing there.
Sam dried off and wrapped a towel around his waist.
Bobby waited to shut the door of the room he was in until Sam came out of the washroom. They said goodnight and Sam looked up the hall. Buick was in the kitchen behind a gate, unable to gain entry to the hall or scratch the bathroom door. There were no scratch marks on the outside of the bathroom door. I just need to sleep, Sam told himself firmly.
Sam put on a pair of pajama bottoms. They were part of a set. Jess used to wear the top when it was cold. Sam never wore the top, knowing he used to be half a couple, one quarter of a family, not knowing what to do with the remaining fractions that made up his utterly broken life. He pulled a blanket over himself, gripping it tightly, wanting to scream into the pillow. Sleep claimed him when he lost the strength to fight himself.
XXXX
The sound of scratching woke Sam the next morning. He flung the door open, standing to the side, but again no one was there, and Buick lay in the door of the kitchen on a dog bed, snoring, his paws twitching in dreams.
There was no use in trying to go back to sleep.
Eating became a requirement. The breakfast of bacon and eggs squirmed in Sam’s stomach. His eyes became itchy after two hours of looking up sold souls, poring over notes he made the night his father escaped from hell, and staring at the pendant he found in the backseat of the Impala after putting Dean in the trunk.
Sam ran his thumb over the raised relief of the dog. In the light of day, the pendant was more intriguing, still warm to the touch and getting warmer. The numbers on the opposite side were etched with symbols, hidden among the fancy designs. Small silver dots that looked as though they weren’t a part of the original design stood out on a smooth ring of copper edging the pendant.
Sam absent-mindedly picked at the raised dots as though he were reading in Braille, his mind’s eye seeing what the pendant wanted to show. the way home … packs of black dogs, a bone to chew … A HUMAN BONE! Sam’s eyes snapped open but he was unable to look up from the coin, hands shaking, almost unable to master the dexterity necessary to keep hold of the small pendant.
“Sam! Sam!”
Sam’s neck snapped painfully back and forth and his eyes focused on Bobby’s anxious face. The pendant fell from his fingers.
Bobby grabbed the hand that had been gripping the pendant and turned it over. Sam’s fingernails had pierced his own skin and an angry blister was forming on his palm. Clive wrapped a cold, wet towel around Sam’s hand while Bobby picked up the pendant.
Sam pressed his head to the cool kitchen table. “Wha-what happened?”
“That’s what you need to tell us,” said Bobby. “Buick was going berserk, ripping at your pant legs and sleeves before he turned tail and took off.”
“Before you jarred me I saw - dogs … a pack of dogs. All black, like the ones from the books, like Hellhounds. They were eating, getting treats and praise ... that much I could hear. And then someone was angry, screaming. Fire lashes ripped the dog’s fur and skin off right to the bone and it grew right back. Someone screamed for the dogs to go. Then there was more anger ... The next thing I knew, there were five sets of eyes looking at me, with ears trained back, teeth bared, tails wagging.” Sam looked down at his tattered cuffs and the minor scrapes on his legs.
“Sam, I’m only gonna ask you this once, son; you didn’t try to make any deals, did you?”
The part of Sam that wished he had made a deal was scared of the vision he’d just had. The part that promised Dean that he would save him would still make a deal despite the horror of the vision, maybe even because of it. But he looked at Bobby and made the older hunter believe with one look that he did not go against his word to his brother.
Sam straightened in his chair with a jolt as Clive kicked aside the splintered wood from the doggy-door and went outside in search of Buick.
Bobby reached for the pendent. “Where have I seen this symbol before?”
Sam reached for his hand. “Careful, it’s hot.”
Bobby paused, his fingers flexing around the pendant. “No, it’s not.”
Sam snatched the pendant back, grimacing in pain, unable to let go. His eyes grew wide yet he seemed unable to hear Bobby yelling at him to drop it.
The pull was irresistible. Sam’s mind moved past the horrors of his earlier vision, pride building in his chest as smoky figures bowed to him as he walked on a path of fire, yet unconsumed by it; women stood, barely clad, ready to do his bidding; a throne of fire and glass-like ice awaited him at the end of the path. A stupid part of him expected slippers and a smoking jacket with a martini to appear before him right about now. But the voice in the back of his mind, the one that had always been Dean’s voice, implored him to run.
The fire started to burn his feet, the throne melted but the liquid that looked like water did not soothe them, the women’s faces melted into hideous beasts, sulfur filling his senses as he turned to run only to find nowhere to go.
“What the hell, that’s mine!” Sam roared as Bobby, panting for breath leapt out of his seat, pendant in hand as the table flew across the room at Sam’s mighty push to get away.
Sam’s pupils shrunk to normal size. “Bobby, I’m sorry,” he panted, looking down at his hands where a second burn was already blistering in a perfect circle imprinted with the dog-like a brand.
“What, ya never heard the term once burned twice shy, ya idjit?” Bobby righted the table, softening a bit when Sam stumbled trying to get back to the chair.
Bobby pocketed the pendant and fetched the first aid kit, his hand gentle on Sam’s shoulder keeping him still. Sam didn’t want to talk about what happened this time. The pendant had seemed normal when he’d first found it. Shame crept into his tired body. He trusted Bobby but at the same time felt utterly alone to fight what he was to become. What if Dean’s voice faded to a memory and he could no longer count on it to keep him from his destiny, to tell him everything would be alright, that he could fight it.
Sam hissed as Bobby poured holy water over the burns turning them an angry red and impregnating the blisters, which burst open and smoked faintly. The open skin crawled with pain as if a knife were probing around the delicate bones that lay underneath. Sam wrenched his hand but Bobby held it firm until the sizzling stopped.
A sob escaped Sam’s throat, deep and shocked. Bobby set a glass of whisky on the table as he soaked a gauze pad in holy water and wrapped the hand. The fingernail marks and burns were puckered like Sam had spent too much time in the water.
Sam pushed the glass away. He deserved the pain.
“Drink it, son.” Bobby’s tone, purposeful like John’s brooked no argument and Sam was too tired to fight. Sam didn’t feel the burn of the amber liquid but it only took a minute before it hit his head.
Bobby poured himself a significantly larger portion of whisky and settled back at the table where Sam sat with his head propped in his good hand breathing in shaky gasps of pain.
“Well, I don’t think you should touch this medallion again. Where did you get it?” Bobby asked.
“It was in the backseat of the Impala. I found it when ... when we moved Dean.”
“And Dean never mentioned this before?”
Sam’s brain was fuzzy and he was glad of the interruption as the door banged open, and Clive carried Buick in and placed him on his dog bed. Clive knelt next to the large dog, which was whimpering and refusing to stay put.
“He doesn’t look hurt other than his nose from breaking through the dog door,” Clive remarked, hanging onto Buick’s collar. Buick strained so hard, the collar broke. The dog bolted from the room, overturning the couch trying to hide under it.
Sam forgot about his own pain and helped Bobby and Clive set the couch upright and hold Buick so his nose could be cleaned. When Buick fell asleep, Clive and Bobby hammered a piece of wood over the hole in the door until Clive could go to the store to get new hinges to make a new dog door.
“Never saw nothing like that,” Clive commented between raps of the hammer.
XXXX
Bobby retreated to a recliner in the living room, dusty tomes on his lap and all around him. The pendant rested on his knee and Sam tried to stop himself from feeling protective of it.
Sam tried to distract himself but his hand hurt too much to type. He decided to walk among the dead cars again. It reminded him of Dean, who could resurrect even the most hopeless of the old junkers if he put his mind to it.
A dog whimpered, a lone melancholy whine. Sam whipped around to reprimand Buick for being out when he was as Clive told him, under house arrest until he stopped acting like he was rabid. Buick wasn’t there. Gulping, Sam told himself that Hellhounds only hunted those who had made a deal for their soul. But, then again these were the same noises he heard when he’d held the pendant. When it came to what they hunted, there were no rules. Women in White were only supposed to kill the unfaithful, and hadn’t the one he’d dealt with tried to kill him when he refused her advances?
At first, Sam quickened his pace toward the house. But anger grew in him as the haunting whine followed him. He spun on his heels, a swirl of wind causing a dust devil. Sam kicked the dust in frustration causing it to fly into his face. He clawed at his eyes, tearing up and stooping over in pain. As he straightened, opaque, reddish eye disappeared from his view before he could tell if he’d really seen them or if they were blobs of lights from rubbing dust into his tired retinas.
“I think I’m losing my mind,” Sam said quietly. Sam had seen people who’d lost loved ones talk to the sky before, but he wasn’t sure where to look. He was only sure that Dean couldn’t hear him.
“Dean, I don’t know what to do. I’m scared.”
Title: Out Through the In Door
genre hurt/comfort, humor, angst ... pretty much everything. AU version as to how Dean got out of Hell.
Summary: Hellhounds will bite the hand that feeds them in favor of a new master who can offer them more. Now, go fetch!
There didn’t seem to be a reason to run anymore. They’d left, all of the demons, once Lilith had fled. All that remained were the empty corpses of the victims in their suburban paradise. But things would happen quickly as they always did and Sam and Bobby would have to run from people who would want answers they couldn’t give.
Bobby sprinted across the lawn, through the holy water, leaving trails of mud as he entered the house where it all had gone so very wrong. He’d watched through the upstairs window of the house across the street as Dean was torn apart, as Sam screamed, feeling every rip of his brother’s flesh, as Lilith fled. And there was nothing he could do.
The hounds taking Dean looked bad enough through doubled-paned glass from a distance, as if he had been watching a horror movie, the picture without the sound, black and white in his memory. But the sound that greeted Bobby was worse than the full color picture. Pleading, soft sobs heaved from a throat torn from screaming. The amount of blood on the floor told the story; Dean’s wounds no longer bleeding. It was hard to distinguish Dean’s clothing from the shredded skin that mottled together in sponge-textured crimson. Flecks of blackened blood dotted Dean’s face and hair, his eyes unblinking but hauntingly focused like an old photograph staring out of an empty frame.
“Dean, please…” Sam pleaded.
Bobby placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam didn’t turn around. Bobby racked his brain for something to say, something that would change things. But there was nothing.
From the other room came the sound of a crying child and a phone being snatched off its base. Bobby ran into the room. He yanked the jack from the wall and ordered Lilith’s victims to stay put and not contact anyone until he and Sam were gone. He regretted having to threaten them with the return of the deadly guests if they didn’t comply. The fear on their faces was something he’d never forget.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Bobby said to Sam who sat quiet now, shaking.
Steeling himself, Bobby knelt down next to Dean, blood seeping into the fabric of his jeans. Bobby waited for Sam to fight him as he picked Dean up over his shoulders into a fireman’s carry. No fight came. Blood ran down Dean’s legs and into his boots overflowing and dripping from his dangling ankles. His left boot slid off with a sickening thwack onto the floor, leaving a trail of glistening crimson liquid mixed with the holy water. Sam watched as the river of death rolled toward sewers and drains, so much blood. He flinched when he stepped to the Impala, water and his brother’s life filling his shoes as it ran down the gutter. He opened the door of the car and stepped back.
Bobby opened the passenger side door of the front seat and gestured for Sam to get in, but Sam crowded into the back seat and cradled his brother’s body back against his.
A horrible silence later, Bobby could only find the words, “Sam, the keys, son.”
Bobby heard Sam mutter apologies as he watched Sam search his brother’s pockets. Sam’s shaking hands emerged from Dean’s pocket with a jangle.
“It’s okay, Sam,” Bobby said gently, reaching over the seat.
Sam’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His jaw clenched hard, his cheekbones standing out against skin drained of all color. When Bobby’s hand touched the keys, Sam dropped them.
Sam fumbled in the dark. His hand found Dean’s hand, keys lying across slackened fingers stained red and slashed. Sam wrenched them free, still holding the hand that was rapidly going colder.
The engine roared to life. Sam half expected in his haze of shock for the sound to magically start Dean’s heart beating again. With every burst of speed Sam stared at Dean’s chest, his eyes, the still vein in his neck, hoping every press of the accelerator would wake him.
Take care of my car, Dean’s voice rang in Sam’s ears. Sam watched the large capital H signs go by, indicating off ramps leading to hospitals. His ire grew with each one they passed, though he knew Dean was gone.
It was forty minutes before Bobby said anything. His voice was hoarse as if he hadn’t spoken in years.
“Are you hurt?”
Sam looked down at his own body, feeling it for the first time since he’d been pinned to the wall. There was only numbness. Everything worked, everything moved. He’d be able to see two fingers put up before his eyes and tell everyone his name and the date and the current president. But his heart felt as still as Dean’s.
“No,” Sam answered quietly. So Bobby kept driving.
Flashing lights in the rear view mirror indicated an emergency vehicle. An ambulance zoomed by them.
“Sam,” said Bobby breathlessly. “We ah, we gotta hide him. If we got pulled over...”
Sam said nothing. Bobby took an exit that had no indication signs like the little man under a roof beside a spoon, fork and plate or anything that offered the probability of running into people. Cows stood beside trees in the darkness, tractors slept in rusted bliss for the night. Crickets called from all directions, passing the news of their insect days.
The Impala crunched softly on the gravel road, as if tiptoeing, almost as if it knew the sombre load it carried. Dean’s body slid slightly to the left as the car pulled over near a sloping ditch. Dean’s head lolled further onto Sam’s chest from where it had rested on his shoulder and Sam caught the scent of hotel room shampoo mixed with the horrible coppery smell he shouldn’t have to be able to identify.
Bobby killed the lights and got out of the car, shutting the door as quietly as he could. He walked around the car several times, pushing his hair from his eyes, scratching his beard in grief and frustration. The crickets stopped chirping, the song replaced by toads in the tall grasses surrounding the wheat fields.
Bobby opened the trunk and drew out a blanket from amongst the many weapons. There was a whole, bizarre, tragic life in here. Coke bottles, chocolate bar wrappers, guns, two small duffels of dirty clothing and several large, leather bound books.
The slamming of the trunk jarred Sam. He compulsively shook Dean to check if it was he who had made such a jolt. Cold air rushed into the warm interior of the car. Sam clutched Dean tighter.
“Close the door. He’s getting cold,” Sam yelled
Bobby’s hand passed roughly over his face. Sam rocked Dean back and forth, his chin resting on the top of Dean’s head. He muttered incoherently for the most part, Bobby catching only snippets of what was being said.
“I don’t know what to do, Dean. You and Dad would know what to do.” Sam looked up into Bobby’s eyes for the first time. “Bobby, what should we do?”
Bobby met Sam’s gaze. It cost him everything to enforce to Sam the awful truth. “He’s gone, Sam.” We lost. The kind thing, the responsible thing, would be to burn his empty shell to ensure it wasn’t used by the likes of Lilith but Bobby couldn’t bring himself to say that.
Bobby reached gently into the backseat, his back cracking as he bent lower to relieve Sam of his burden. His hand slid on a smooth surface, slick with blood. The entire backseat was covered with a blue plastic tarp, no doubt Dean’s handy work. Dean had prided himself on making sure that Sam inherited his baby in perfect condition, threatening to haunt Sam if anything happened to her and knowing this would be impossible from where he was going.
“Sam, you need to let go of him. We need to ... we need to hide him until we can get him someplace to ... we can’t risk driving around with him like this.”
Sam slid mechanically toward the door, still cradling Dean’s head in his lap. He brushed the hair back from Dean’s face to gently shut the staring eyes. Dean’s eyes slowly reopened, the unkind result of the beginnings of rigor, staring up at nothing, empty ... soulless.
Bobby fished in his pocket. He drew out two small coins and placed them on Dean’s eyelids, securing them crudely in place with some tape he peeled from one of Dean’s cassette cases which promptly fell apart.
The coins served to stop the empty stare. There would be no payment to Hades to gain entry into the afterlife. Dean was making his eternal payment for something he bought a year ago that no coin or barter would ever be able to pay off.
Dean’s right hand curled slightly, catching on Sam’s jacket as Bobby pulled him out of the car and laid him on the ground. The tinkle of sunglasses and loose change falling from Dean’s pockets and hitting the tire wells made Sam think of the stupid saying every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.
Bobby grasped the tarp as Sam gently repositioned his brother. Dean’s leg thumped against the gravel as the tarp slipped from Bobby’s grasp and Sam exclaimed in disgust, as though Dean could be harmed further.
Bobby placed some of the large trunk’s contents into a duffel bag and placed it into the backseat. He wished this indignity wasn’t necessary but Dean had to be placed in the trunk where he would not be seen.
Sam began talking fast, and Bobby knew it was all to distract him from his grim task.
“Dean put me in the trunk once when I was thirteen to sneak into a drive-in movie. I remember him opening the trunk and throwing in a flashlight and some snacks and shutting the lid, telling me the concession-stand girl was getting off work and to keep my cake hole shut.”
Sam kept talking about everything and nothing. He drew Dean’s body up into his arms and walked to the trunk.
At that moment, headlights of an approaching vehicle shone on the Impala. Pure instinct alone was the only thing that could make Sam do it. He closed the trunk lid after depositing Dean as gently as he could.
Sam made his way to the side of the car and pretended to stretch. Bobby had made it to the side of the road and was convincingly urinating on a tree, holding a road map under his arm.
It was a small town, not a private road, but sparse enough to make anyone living along it feel entitled to ask strangers what they were up to. A man in a pickup truck held them in his gaze while he passed and in his rear view mirror until he turned off along a long farm driveway.
Without a word, Bobby and Sam got in the car and headed back toward the interstate.
Bobby had never seen Sam so pale. Sam winced every time the car went over a bump or turned a sharp bend in the road. He looked as if he’d be sick any moment and kept glancing over his shoulder as if he’d be able to see into the trunk. Sam turned around and watched the steering wheel; it’s subtle turns taking them to wherever the end of the road was.
XXXX
Sam didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep, he only knew waking was a regret. The sun peaked over the horizon; pink and broken by silver-gray lines around light clouds. The shapes were all Hellhounds, daggers, and accusing eyes, broken by purple veins of light like bruises on the skyline.
The car was parked under a flashing neon sign of a burger joint. Sam’s stomach turned. Bobby was just visible at the till through the plastic plants hanging in the window.
When Bobby opened the car door, the smell of the grease made Sam wretch. He bolted from the car and into the washroom. Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d ate or drank as acid splashed through his throat like fire and someone in the next stall ranted about hung-over jerks.
At the sink, Sam splashed water on his face. The front of his shirt was soaked in cold water, making Sam shiver. As the man from the other stall left the washroom shaking his head in disgust, Sam felt the urge to go after him. To hurt him; to make him understand that people should be saying how sorry they were for his loss, for people to thank him, to thank Dean for their sacrifice and appreciate being able to go to bed without fear.
Sam! Sammy! Help me! Help!” Dean’s voice rang in Sam’s ears. Then Sam pictured Dean from the night before: holding out his hand to him, eyes rolling up into this head, silently screaming Sam’s name. Dean being taken…
Sam clapped his hands to his ears and looked around the old tiled washroom. No one was there. Sam stooped low, feeling the pull in his lower back. He let the water run into his mouth and back out into the sink, unable to swallow past the lump in his throat.
Sam stepped out of the washroom to find Bobby standing outside the door talking on his cell phone. He couldn’t concentrate on a word Bobby said before hanging up his phone. Bobby wrapped a jacket over Sam’s shoulders and led him from the diner. Sam shivered in the early morning air.
Sam offered to drive but Bobby waved him off and told him to stretch out in the backseat. For a moment, Sam was Horrified, but the stiffness in his entire body forced better sense into him and he obeyed. As Sam stretched his neck, a glint of gold between the door and the car mat caught his eye.
Sam picked up a small pendent with numbers and symbols etched around a raised relief of a dog. It was strangely warm to the touch. Sam’s lips curled into a small, sad smile as he wondered which of Dean’s girls it had belonged to. Perhaps he would place it on Dean’s body when he burnt it. But he couldn’t concentrate on that right now. The clicking of the road under the tires was mesmerizing and welcome.
XXXXXXX
Hours later, the Impala pulled up to a tree-lined curb in a suburb of a wealthy area full of health centers and small specialty boutiques.
“Wake up kid, we’re here.” Bobby nudged Sam gently.
Sam woke with a start, swinging his fist blindly and connecting with Bobby’s chin.
“Sam! Sam, it’s me.” Bobby grabbed Sam’s chin and slapped his face gently.
Sam’s eyes darted toward the trunk before a look of comprehension passed over his drawn features.
“Sorry, Bobby, I just …”
“Save the apologies, that hit of yours ain’t worth it. We’ve got work to do.” Bobby handed Sam a blue uniform with crests on both arms and said, “Put this on, we don’t have much time.”
“I don’t understand,” said Sam. “I thought we were taking Dean to...”
“Change of plans,” Bobby ordered gruffly as Sam was about to protest. “You want to save your brother, don’t you?”
Sam shut his mouth and wiggled into the uniform in the back seat. He got out of the car to fasten the buttons and do up the fly, then leaned on the trunk lid to put on the black shoes Bobby had given him. He straightened up feeling half alive. Right about now Dean should be standing beside him getting ribbed about needing a children’s size uniform. He got back in the car just as Bobby was fastening the top button of a sweater that would suit Mr. Rogers.
“You see that building two doors up on the right?” Bobby asked.
Sam squinted at the sign over the door: Amenhotep Cryogenic Services.
“Bobby, freezing a body is no good without preserving the soul. Besides, the cryogenic processes must start at the moment of death.”
“You’re thinking with your head again, Sam. The supernatural don’t give a rat’s ass about science and logic.” Bobby paused and shook his head. “Life and death is as much about faith and the unexplainable as it is about anything else. We just gotta keep Dean’s body together so he’s got something to step back into, otherwise he’s gonna kick your ass and, one day, your Dad’s gonna kick mine.”
Sam decided to go along with whatever Bobby had planned. Short of taking a crow bar and beating the hell out of the Impala to see if his brother really would haunt him, he had nothing. Because if Dean couldn’t come back to save him from the pain he was in now, he couldn’t come back on his own. Dean had never willingly left Sam in pain. I won’t leave you either, Dean.
An ambulance pulled around the corner. Bobby got out and walked up the street toward it. Sam watched as a man counted some money Bobby handed him and walked away up the street to a cab.
Bobby pointed at Sam to follow him so Sam pulled the Impala around the corner and followed the ambulance to a back alley behind the Cryogenic Lab.
Sam’s breathe hitched as a gurney was wheeled down pitted steel ramps. His eyes adjusted to the bright lights from the interior of the ambulance. Nothing remained of the usual supplies, and the interior had been gutted.
“One of my parts dealers has a place around here. I called him while you were out. This was the best he could do. He had a hearse but we all know what kind of evil son’s a bitches you can get tangled up with using one of those.”
Bobby cut away Dean’s clothing and took all of his identification, real and fake. He handed the documents to Sam and deposited the bloody strips of clothing into the back of the ambulance.
Sam reached out to cover his brother from this indignity as they placed Dean in a black bag on the gurney. Bobby zippered up the bag, pausing when he got to Dean’s face.
“I’m going to give you a minute with him Sam, because in there, he’s not your brother. I’m his rich, eccentric uncle and you’re the witness from the hospital that he was released from the coroner, the victim of a hunting dog with rabies.” This would have been laughable if it weren’t in some twisted way, the truth.
Sam bit the inside of his cheek to distract him from the pain in his heart.
Bobby had taken the coins from Dean’s eyes, but they had done their job. Dean’s eyes were closed as if in sleep.
“You’d hate this if you were here,” Sam told the still form, his voice barely above a whisper. “But we have no choice. If I thought Dad was still there ... where you are, the two of you would already be plotting your escape. If I knew you weren’t alone … I hate that you did this for me. But I never thanked you. I don’t even know how. I’m still pissed at you, know that, but I understand why you did it, Dean ... jerk.” Sam let Bobby fold the black velvet material over Dean’s face.
Sam stepped up to the dimly lit back doors of the lab and rang a service bell. He willed his knees not to buckle. A tall man in a white coat propped the doors open with a steel spike that fit into the hole in the white, gleaming, ceramic floor. This was the business entrance, not the customer friendly facade.
“What have we got?” asked the man who introduced himself as Quincy, laughing as he said it. “Night shift humor, get it? It’s my favorite show. My real name’s Marty.” Marty stuck his hand out to Sam who shook it and tried to smile while wanting to run and take Dean as far away as possible.
Sam pushed the gurney, the black bag half bathed in the light from the lab, the other half shrouded in the back alley darkness. And at that moment, Sam took heart at the sight. Maybe only half of Dean’s soul was someplace dark, a small thread of it dangling in the light just beyond his reach.
“Male, twenty-nine, killed on a hunting trip by a hunting dog with rabies.”
Marty retracted his hand immediately from the bag.
“This better be a full-corpse cryo procedure. I’m not decapitating a potential rabies case. They’re as dangerous dead as alive, I read To Kill A Mocking Bird,” Marty said looking aghast. He pushed his square glasses up on his nose.
“Heads up, here comes the mourner,” said Marty, becoming instantly serious
Bobby wiped his eyes. “I called ahead about the special circumstances,” said Bobby, sitting heavily into a chair.
“You’ll need to sign a waiver,” Marty said. “We offer no guarantees that after a period of thirty minutes from the time of death, we’ll be able to reanimate the deceased when a solution is found for his, um, problem.”
Sam could hear Dean in his head as Bobby reached for the pen and contract.So you mean if we’d gotten me here in thirty minutes, you’d be able to guarantee you could fix me? Crap, should’a called Pizza Pizza, thirty minutes or I’m free.
“Okay, sir, if you’d like a few moments alone, I’ll go prepare.” Marty slipped behind a curtain, and the sound of running water allowed Sam to let out a long breath.
Sam placed his hand on his brother’s torso. Dean’s chest cavity reminded Sam of a dead shark, ribs exposed as it hung on hooks while people posed for morbid pictures.
“Dean, I told you I don’t have a plan. But Bobby does. Whatever it takes, we’ll bring you back. Cause this is different. I know you said what’s dead should stay dead, but a part of you is alive ... somewhere. So that’s a technicality and I should know, I took a lot of Pre- Law courses. See? They did come in handy for something ... God, Dean, I don’t know what else to say...” A tear fell and disappeared into Dean’s chest.
Sam quickly swiped his face.
“Okay, I’m ready. Sooner the better,” called Marty. He took Sam aside. “Look, if you want to stick around, it might be good for the old uncle to see him again after I’ve worked my magic. I’m an artist.”
“Oh ... okay.” Sam stammered. “I’m gonna stick around and drive this guy back to the hospital parking lot. Unless my pager goes off,” said Sam, trying to sound indifferent, patting his pocket.
The curtain swished a few times and unpleasant noises made Sam want to punch Marty for whistling while he worked. In two hours, the curtain parted and Marty called Bobby in, whispering in Sam’s ear that he might want to take a peak as well.
Dean lay on a table, fully covered in white plastic except for his face. His many scratches and gouged out pieces of flesh were much less noticeable, his hair had been cleaned and combed. Dean’s skin was grey and toneless, but he looked at peace. He was like the front of this place of fanciful hope, a facade.
“I’ll be putting him in a number three cell,” explained Marty. “One of our best. Has a window. You can call ahead for a viewing.” Marty was pleased with himself. “It’s too bad he was tied up with the police investigation for so long. But he’s actually not the worst I’ve seen. Of course, the others opted for cranial preservation only. Again, as it says in the contract, we make no guarantees but if a solution is found, you can always opt for complete decapitation and new body later. If you’d like to pay in advance for that, we offer a fifteen percent discount on the final payment and who knows what the cost of a replacement body will be in the future.”
“Tell me, Marty, are you on commission?” Sam asked in a perfect channeling of Dean.
Marty informed Bobby he would need to make monthly payments on top of the down payment. Bobby produced a credit card, his own while Sam’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair wondering where Bobby had gotten that much credit.
Sam expected Dean to be laid out straight but Marty told them that due to limited space, he’d be placed into a fetal position, which was also more conducive to keeping tendons and joints intact.
The door to the chamber closed with an awful finality. Bobby gripped Sam’s shoulder as he lurched slightly toward his brother, mouthing his name silently. Sam forced himself to turn away so that Marty wouldn’t see his face. He stared at smaller chambers, shuddering, knowing that eyes stared blankly in darkness waiting for a day that would likely never come.
“You store sperm here, too?” asked Sam, reading a label on a metallic unit. Sam almost expected Dean to make a clever remark about preferring doing things the natural way. These thoughts sustained Sam just a little. He took mental notes of things he would share with Dean once he came back.
“Oh yes, embryos, sperm, stem cells and even bone tissue and blood for the local hospital.” Marty lowered his voice. “I’m not supposed to say, strictly speaking, but we’ve even got a celebrity here. Yep, people have looked everywhere for him, under pitcher’s mounds and buildings but you understand his family paid for him to rest here. So we’re not allowed to te...”
“Secret’s safe with me,” said Sam, clapping Marty on the shoulder and feeling slightly sorry for him. The long hours alone in such a place must cause awful things to happen to a person over time. The chamber Marty had pointed out read Mr. John Smith. Still, Sam had seen stranger things.
“Listen, Marty. I’ll keep your secret if you’ll do something for me. Protect him ... for that old man over there, his uncle. Don’t let anyone ... mess with him. And we’ll, that is, he, the uncle, will be the only one allowed to make an appointment for a visit, you understand? Otherwise, old Jimmy’s news’ll be out all over the country and you’ll have a million Teamsters after your head.”
Marty glanced at the metal containers of heads and blanched. “I’m such a blabber. And I hate night shift. Got stuck on night shift when I told a woman who came in to purchase an erm, specimen that the old doc had donated all the stuff here. Ooo, I shouldn’t have told you that. You won’t tell, will you? During the day, this place has people here. Real people. Well, I mean...” Marty glanced around to indicate the jars and oblong freezers that he meant no offense. “Live people.”
“I think we understand each other then,” Sam said, clapping Marty on the shoulder.
It was hard to leave. But the secretary had started her shift as Bobby and Sam pulled out of the back alley. Sam hopped out and got into the Impala and was alone for the first time. Having Dean’s body, even in the trunk, hadn’t let the finality sink in. But Bobby still hadn’t explained his plans, so Sam forced his hands to grip the wheel, turn the key and pull away.
A few blocks away, Sam pulled up behind the ambulance. Bobby got out, leaving the old vehicle where it was for his acquaintance to pick up later. Bobby offered to drive, but Sam saw the bags under his eyes, and he wasn’t sure he could let go of the wheel just yet; it was a part of Dean.
XXXXX
“Sam, we need to rest. Just for a few days,” Bobby said.
Sam was going to argue, but looking at Bobby, the awful truth hit him. Besides freezing Dean’s body, Bobby hadn’t said anything to indicate that he had any idea how to get Dean’s soul back.
The further Sam drove from the Cryogenic Lab, the more he longed to return.
Eventually, Bobby succumbed to sleep. Sam kept turning to the seat beside him to say something but stopped himself. The urge to turn on the radio was overwhelming. It went along with driving the Impala. Sam sat straighter and tried to concentrate on driving but the yellow lines dividing the road were becoming harder to focus on. Images kept popping into his mind, inanimate objects like mailboxes seemed to turn into people and shapes as he drove along. He imagined black dogs on every corner until he couldn’t take the silence. He nudged Bobby.
“Hey, Bobby, hungry?”
“Wha-?” Bobby sat up, pulling his cap from his eyes back onto his head. Sam stopped looking at the corners; afraid the black dogs would still be there. Real and not imagined.
“Turn left, Sam. You woke me just in time.”
After the turn, a towering pile of half crushed cars came into view, headlights peaking out from the debris, battery wires like veins no longer connected. Sam pulled up to a house very much like Bobby’s. A scrap yard dog was chained to the engine of an old tractor, too fat to bother barking, too friendly to want to.
“Buick, at least bare your teeth, yeh dumb dog,” said a man whose face was hidden under a red baseball cap and straddled by two long sideburns.
The brown and white mutt stood up to greet the guests, his whole body wagging. Sam absently stroked the wiry hair, bits of sand from the fur imbedding under his fingernails.
“Good to see you again, man,” the man clapped Bobby on the back before turning to Sam.
“I’m Clive.” The man held out his hand and Sam shook it and followed Bobby into the house.
The interior of the house was a surprise. The gleaming floors made Sam automatically kick off his shoes at the door. The furniture was large and comfortable looking.
“Look, Bobby, you’re both welcome to stay here for as long as yeh need. I would have lent you the money, you know.” Clive gestured for them to sit and handed them each a beer.
Sam stared at Bobby for an explanation, but it hit him before Bobby spoke. Bobby must have sold everything he owned to buy Dean time in a cryogenic chamber. Sam had no idea what to say. If for some miracle Bobby lived to the age where hunting was beyond his years, he’d have nowhere to go. Hunting didn’t exactly have a pension plan.
“Don’t say anything, Sam. I promised your dad I’d take care of you boys.”
XXXX
Sam pushed food around his plate. It was only Bobby’s look of concern that made him take a bite. He hated to admit the hamburger casserole tasted good. Dean would have loved it. When Sam put the glass of milk to his lips, he drained it in seconds. The coating effect of the milk steadied his stomach. He took a few more bites of casserole, suddenly ravenous.
Sam’s gusto for the food lasted only long enough to nourish him. He declined a piece of store-bought pie that Clive offered. Bobby also declined and they set their dishes into the deep porcelain sink and made their way into the living room. Clive turned on the television for a comfortable background noise. Clive and Bobby were in deep conversation as Sam listened to the evening news telling him that tomorrow would be a beautiful day, cloudless and perfect picnic weather. He looked up at the smiling, blonde weather girl and kicked himself for turning to his left to hear Dean’s rating of the woman. Sam was sure Dean would’ve rated her a nine out of ten.
As tired as he was, Sam went outside to the car to get his laptop. The warm breeze hit his face and brought the guilt of breathing to him fully. A porch swing waved gently but it wasn’t the place for him. Sam let his legs carry him out among the car graveyard’s many rows. He remembered Dean smashing in the Impala with a crow bar when their dad had died and again considered tempting Dean’s soul by doing the same. But it wasn’t his style and when no one came to defend Dean’s baby he’d lose what thread of hope he had left.
Sam turned at the sound of a whining dog, thinking that the old mutt he’d seen earlier must have somehow followed him. But it wasn’t there.
Sam sat in a wrecked Dodge Charger whose passenger side door was hanging open, the seat still fairly well intact. He put his head down on the steering wheel, the scent of spilled oil mixed with mud filling his senses. His eyes opened and a small flower caught a last ray of sunset through the gaping hole in the floor. He watched as the flower folded itself to sleep for the night.
It was almost dark when Sam’s legs started cramping. He hadn’t been aware of time passing, but he knew Bobby would be worried, so he quickened his pace back to the house. He froze mid-stride as a dog whined again. There was something pitiful about the sound but it sent a chill up his spine as he recalled Dean’s wild eyes as they ran from the Hell Hounds that Sam couldn’t see or stop.
Back at the Impala, Sam grabbed his duffel bag, looking around furtively. It wasn’t until he was halfway back to the house that he realized he also carried Dean’s bag. Tears stung his eyes. He swiped them away, sinking to his knees. A chain rattled and Buick was at his side, licking the salt from the back of Sam’s hand.
“Hey, boy,” said Sam.
Buick stared into his eyes, and for a junkyard mutt, had the impeccable manners not to lick Sam’s face. His long ears flopped as the head turned to the side as if understanding Sam’s grief. There was a small yip as Buick demanded to be pet again.
The door of the house banged open and Bobby stopped in his tracks as if in debate as to whether turning around and going back inside or going to Sam would be the better option.
“I, uh, was just coming to see if you needed help bringing anything in,” Bobby said, staring down at the two bottles of beer in his hands.
Sam got to his feet and picked up the bags. Clive was behind Bobby with a stainless steel bowl of casserole for the dog. Buick head butted Sam’s leg affectionately and dove into the food.
Sam stopped what he hoped was a purposeful gait toward Bobby when he heard a dog whimper again somewhere out in the junkyard. Buick momentarily lifted his head and circled his bowl but tucked back into the food quickly, seeming to take his cue from Clive that nothing was amiss. When the whining stopped. Sam looked toward Bobby and Clive who seemed not to have noticed the break in the cricket’s song of the night.
Sam followed Bobby and Clive inside, taking the beer. His eyes lingered on the bags, side by side, knowing that the contents of Deans’ bag wouldn’t be strewn all over the place to annoy him in the morning, that there would be hot water left to take a shower, that there would be bacon left over, no one to tease him about his girly shampoo. No one to save him from what he was to become.
Sam lost himself in his laptop. He stared at the screen until Bobby told him to go to bed. It sounded like an order to Sam, or something in his mind needed it to be. He was tired but needed the permission to stop.
“We’ll figure it out. Even if we can’t get him back. We’ll set him free,” Bobby handed Sam his bag and led him to a bedroom.
Sam nodded mutely and heard Bobby shuffle away. He opened the window, moonlight casting sudden shadows across the hardwood floor. The night air revived him, though he didn’t want it to. He watched as Clive unchained Buick and led him into the house for the night. The front porch light was extinguished.
Sam stood staring at the mountains of cars, his eyes making shapes of twisted metal angels and animals as if he were staring into the clouds. When he was a kid and Dean was a teenager, they would argue about what shapes the clouds held. Sam would swear there were dragons while Dean saw buxom women. Sam shook his head, and as he turned away from the window he thought he saw a black dog running into the woods beyond the wrecking yard.
“Bobby...” Sam clapped his hands over his mouth, hoping that Bobby hadn’t heard him but within seconds, his door was flung open and Bobby rushed in, shot gun in his hands, pointing the weapon into every corner and shoving Sam behind him.
“What’s wrong?”
“N ... nothing, I just thought ... I just don’t know where the washroom is.”
“Bobby’s eyes locked on Sam’s face for a long moment, then his expression went soft and he drew in a breath. Sam waited for Bobby to tell him he should stop lying through his teeth, but he only placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder and silently led him to the washroom, pointing out the linen closet full of fresh towels absently with the barrel of the gun.
Sam turned the shower on. His clothes hit the floor, perspiration scent rising from them. Sam pulled the frosted shower door closed and let the warm water pound into this body. The warmth soothed him. And then the guilt came again. Dean’s body was frozen while his soul burned in hellfire.
The hot water zapped whatever strength remained in Sam’s legs. He sank into the tub, shoulders slumped, head down as he breathed the steam. He felt like the kid from Home Alone. Hey, Buzz, I’m drinking all the soda!, mom, dad, I’m jumping on beds! And then, Dean, I’m driving the Impala on cheap gas! I’m using all the hot water!
Sam’s head snapped up to the sound of scratching on the bathroom door. For one stupid minute he expected Dean to yell at him that he needed to shower too. But then his flesh rose in goose bumps as he shut the water off, his senses catching up to his heartbeat. He flung the door open, steam escaping in sudden puffs making the mirrors drip loudly onto the floor. There was nothing there.
Sam dried off and wrapped a towel around his waist.
Bobby waited to shut the door of the room he was in until Sam came out of the washroom. They said goodnight and Sam looked up the hall. Buick was in the kitchen behind a gate, unable to gain entry to the hall or scratch the bathroom door. There were no scratch marks on the outside of the bathroom door. I just need to sleep, Sam told himself firmly.
Sam put on a pair of pajama bottoms. They were part of a set. Jess used to wear the top when it was cold. Sam never wore the top, knowing he used to be half a couple, one quarter of a family, not knowing what to do with the remaining fractions that made up his utterly broken life. He pulled a blanket over himself, gripping it tightly, wanting to scream into the pillow. Sleep claimed him when he lost the strength to fight himself.
XXXX
The sound of scratching woke Sam the next morning. He flung the door open, standing to the side, but again no one was there, and Buick lay in the door of the kitchen on a dog bed, snoring, his paws twitching in dreams.
There was no use in trying to go back to sleep.
Eating became a requirement. The breakfast of bacon and eggs squirmed in Sam’s stomach. His eyes became itchy after two hours of looking up sold souls, poring over notes he made the night his father escaped from hell, and staring at the pendant he found in the backseat of the Impala after putting Dean in the trunk.
Sam ran his thumb over the raised relief of the dog. In the light of day, the pendant was more intriguing, still warm to the touch and getting warmer. The numbers on the opposite side were etched with symbols, hidden among the fancy designs. Small silver dots that looked as though they weren’t a part of the original design stood out on a smooth ring of copper edging the pendant.
Sam absent-mindedly picked at the raised dots as though he were reading in Braille, his mind’s eye seeing what the pendant wanted to show. the way home … packs of black dogs, a bone to chew … A HUMAN BONE! Sam’s eyes snapped open but he was unable to look up from the coin, hands shaking, almost unable to master the dexterity necessary to keep hold of the small pendant.
“Sam! Sam!”
Sam’s neck snapped painfully back and forth and his eyes focused on Bobby’s anxious face. The pendant fell from his fingers.
Bobby grabbed the hand that had been gripping the pendant and turned it over. Sam’s fingernails had pierced his own skin and an angry blister was forming on his palm. Clive wrapped a cold, wet towel around Sam’s hand while Bobby picked up the pendant.
Sam pressed his head to the cool kitchen table. “Wha-what happened?”
“That’s what you need to tell us,” said Bobby. “Buick was going berserk, ripping at your pant legs and sleeves before he turned tail and took off.”
“Before you jarred me I saw - dogs … a pack of dogs. All black, like the ones from the books, like Hellhounds. They were eating, getting treats and praise ... that much I could hear. And then someone was angry, screaming. Fire lashes ripped the dog’s fur and skin off right to the bone and it grew right back. Someone screamed for the dogs to go. Then there was more anger ... The next thing I knew, there were five sets of eyes looking at me, with ears trained back, teeth bared, tails wagging.” Sam looked down at his tattered cuffs and the minor scrapes on his legs.
“Sam, I’m only gonna ask you this once, son; you didn’t try to make any deals, did you?”
The part of Sam that wished he had made a deal was scared of the vision he’d just had. The part that promised Dean that he would save him would still make a deal despite the horror of the vision, maybe even because of it. But he looked at Bobby and made the older hunter believe with one look that he did not go against his word to his brother.
Sam straightened in his chair with a jolt as Clive kicked aside the splintered wood from the doggy-door and went outside in search of Buick.
Bobby reached for the pendent. “Where have I seen this symbol before?”
Sam reached for his hand. “Careful, it’s hot.”
Bobby paused, his fingers flexing around the pendant. “No, it’s not.”
Sam snatched the pendant back, grimacing in pain, unable to let go. His eyes grew wide yet he seemed unable to hear Bobby yelling at him to drop it.
The pull was irresistible. Sam’s mind moved past the horrors of his earlier vision, pride building in his chest as smoky figures bowed to him as he walked on a path of fire, yet unconsumed by it; women stood, barely clad, ready to do his bidding; a throne of fire and glass-like ice awaited him at the end of the path. A stupid part of him expected slippers and a smoking jacket with a martini to appear before him right about now. But the voice in the back of his mind, the one that had always been Dean’s voice, implored him to run.
The fire started to burn his feet, the throne melted but the liquid that looked like water did not soothe them, the women’s faces melted into hideous beasts, sulfur filling his senses as he turned to run only to find nowhere to go.
“What the hell, that’s mine!” Sam roared as Bobby, panting for breath leapt out of his seat, pendant in hand as the table flew across the room at Sam’s mighty push to get away.
Sam’s pupils shrunk to normal size. “Bobby, I’m sorry,” he panted, looking down at his hands where a second burn was already blistering in a perfect circle imprinted with the dog-like a brand.
“What, ya never heard the term once burned twice shy, ya idjit?” Bobby righted the table, softening a bit when Sam stumbled trying to get back to the chair.
Bobby pocketed the pendant and fetched the first aid kit, his hand gentle on Sam’s shoulder keeping him still. Sam didn’t want to talk about what happened this time. The pendant had seemed normal when he’d first found it. Shame crept into his tired body. He trusted Bobby but at the same time felt utterly alone to fight what he was to become. What if Dean’s voice faded to a memory and he could no longer count on it to keep him from his destiny, to tell him everything would be alright, that he could fight it.
Sam hissed as Bobby poured holy water over the burns turning them an angry red and impregnating the blisters, which burst open and smoked faintly. The open skin crawled with pain as if a knife were probing around the delicate bones that lay underneath. Sam wrenched his hand but Bobby held it firm until the sizzling stopped.
A sob escaped Sam’s throat, deep and shocked. Bobby set a glass of whisky on the table as he soaked a gauze pad in holy water and wrapped the hand. The fingernail marks and burns were puckered like Sam had spent too much time in the water.
Sam pushed the glass away. He deserved the pain.
“Drink it, son.” Bobby’s tone, purposeful like John’s brooked no argument and Sam was too tired to fight. Sam didn’t feel the burn of the amber liquid but it only took a minute before it hit his head.
Bobby poured himself a significantly larger portion of whisky and settled back at the table where Sam sat with his head propped in his good hand breathing in shaky gasps of pain.
“Well, I don’t think you should touch this medallion again. Where did you get it?” Bobby asked.
“It was in the backseat of the Impala. I found it when ... when we moved Dean.”
“And Dean never mentioned this before?”
Sam’s brain was fuzzy and he was glad of the interruption as the door banged open, and Clive carried Buick in and placed him on his dog bed. Clive knelt next to the large dog, which was whimpering and refusing to stay put.
“He doesn’t look hurt other than his nose from breaking through the dog door,” Clive remarked, hanging onto Buick’s collar. Buick strained so hard, the collar broke. The dog bolted from the room, overturning the couch trying to hide under it.
Sam forgot about his own pain and helped Bobby and Clive set the couch upright and hold Buick so his nose could be cleaned. When Buick fell asleep, Clive and Bobby hammered a piece of wood over the hole in the door until Clive could go to the store to get new hinges to make a new dog door.
“Never saw nothing like that,” Clive commented between raps of the hammer.
XXXX
Bobby retreated to a recliner in the living room, dusty tomes on his lap and all around him. The pendant rested on his knee and Sam tried to stop himself from feeling protective of it.
Sam tried to distract himself but his hand hurt too much to type. He decided to walk among the dead cars again. It reminded him of Dean, who could resurrect even the most hopeless of the old junkers if he put his mind to it.
A dog whimpered, a lone melancholy whine. Sam whipped around to reprimand Buick for being out when he was as Clive told him, under house arrest until he stopped acting like he was rabid. Buick wasn’t there. Gulping, Sam told himself that Hellhounds only hunted those who had made a deal for their soul. But, then again these were the same noises he heard when he’d held the pendant. When it came to what they hunted, there were no rules. Women in White were only supposed to kill the unfaithful, and hadn’t the one he’d dealt with tried to kill him when he refused her advances?
At first, Sam quickened his pace toward the house. But anger grew in him as the haunting whine followed him. He spun on his heels, a swirl of wind causing a dust devil. Sam kicked the dust in frustration causing it to fly into his face. He clawed at his eyes, tearing up and stooping over in pain. As he straightened, opaque, reddish eye disappeared from his view before he could tell if he’d really seen them or if they were blobs of lights from rubbing dust into his tired retinas.
“I think I’m losing my mind,” Sam said quietly. Sam had seen people who’d lost loved ones talk to the sky before, but he wasn’t sure where to look. He was only sure that Dean couldn’t hear him.
“Dean, I don’t know what to do. I’m scared.”