FIC: Occultis Lacrima 1/3
TITLE: Occultus Lacrima
ARTIST: Shimera
AUTHOR: Electric Light Shadowboxer
RATING: R for language and possible disturbing imagery.
WORD COUNT: 13,662
SUMMARY: Things haven’t been easy for the brothers Winchester. Now something is wrong with Dean. Sam may be able to save him, and the world, but it just might cost him his life.
WARNINGS: Bad language and disturbing imagery.
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The chill dove straight into his bones, the flimsy jacket doing little to cut down on the wind that worked its icy fingers under Sam’s clothing. He was tempted to go back inside the motel room and grab another hoodie, but he couldn’t stomach the tense, desperate atmosphere that seemed to be leaking from Dean, painting the walls.
Ever since the debacle in Carthage, Dean had been moodier than normal. Everything that Sam had tried to get him to open up, to talk, has been met with stony silence. Not even Dean’s patented ‘no chick flick moments’ had made an appearance. His easy swaggering gait and full on machismo had been waning in the aftermath of his time in hell. Now, with the consecutive blows they’d taken, it seemed that it’d been all used up, like Dean had been all used up.
The thought terrified Sam. Without Dean, he didn’t stand a chance against Lucifer. He had to find some way to break Dean out of his funk or they’d need to go back to Bobby’s. Being out here, in the open, with Dean walking wounded right now was just too damn risky.
Sam glanced up as the neon flickered in the motel sign advertising hourly rates before shifting his ass on the cold concrete of the picnic bench. Sitting here on the south side of the little one story, no-tell motel they’d held up in for the night did little to cut the wind that was blowing across the plains. A walk to get his blood pumping would be better suited to the chilly night, but he didn’t want to go off and leave Dean. Besides, the wind is cleansing, even if he can’t feel his face right now.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and Sam dug into the tight denim to pull out his cell. Bobby. With a feeling of relief he flipped open the phone and placed it to his ear. “Hey, Bobby. What’s up?”
* * *
Inside the motel room Dean lay on the bedspread, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He’d long ago stopped seeing the water stain spread like graffiti over the old plaster. Even the stale scent of cigarette smoke and old sex didn’t register anymore. All that he could hear, all that he could think about was the high pitched whine that all but covered the whispers underneath.
It had started almost a week ago, two weeks after Carthage. It had been faint at first and just the whine. But as the whine grew louder, more insistent, the whispers had started up. At first he couldn’t understand what they were saying. Ehtloofllehsseyyasti. Reven evigrofseyssseysssseyyasti. Most of the time it just came out as a sibilant whisper. Worst of all, it sounded an awful lot like something he’d rather forget.
Sam couldn’t hear it and Cas hadn’t been able to hear it. He was sure. They’d never said anything and one of them would’ve noticed something like that. At first he’d thought maybe he was being haunted. Maybe Jo or hell, Ellen, blamed his sorry ass and had found a way to latch onto him. It’d serve him right. But when he’d taken the EMF into the bathroom one night it had given him no indication that he was haunted.
Now he was beginning to think he was just going crazy. He knew he’d aroused Sam’s suspicions the other night. His eyebrows had climbed his ginormous face when he’d looked over Dean’s shoulders and saw he was looking at a webpage dedicated to hallucinations.
“Dude, what are you looking at?” And then his big emo face had pulled down into a frown, his eyes going all wet and kicked-puppy-big with worry. “Dean, are you hallucinating?”
Yeah, he wasn’t about to have that conversation with his little brother. So he’d slammed the computer shut, made some lame ass excuse and crawled into bed, shutting out the light and leaving Sam to get to bed in the dark. But the damn noise wouldn’t let him sleep.
He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples as the sound became louder, reaching a crescendo before trickling back down to its usual hum.
Most of the time the noise stayed in the background, irritating, but manageable. Every once in a while though it would get so loud that it would drown everything else out. Like, when Sam had saved him from walking in front of that semi today. He’d simply been deaf to anything but cacophony in his ears, almost blinded by the vicious timbre. And then Sam’s repeated questions, the looks, he didn’t know how long he could keep this up. If he got hurt that was one thing, but he couldn’t afford to let this risk Sam’s life.
He stood off the bed and fought the nausea in his gut. Rooting around in his duffle, he managed to locate a pint of Jim Beam. It was the only way he’d found so far to give him a little relief from the driving pain of the whine. It wasn’t a cure all, but it was the best he had.
He’d managed to get half of it down before the door opened. He choked, whiskey going down the wrong pipe and burning in his chest. He rolled his eyes to watch Sam come in, bringing some of the cold chill in with him.
Dean turned and wiped the spilled whiskey off his chin with the back of his hand. With his back still turned, he capped the bottle and shoved it back into his bag.
Sam eyed the way Dean shoved the bottle back in with his clothes, eyebrows reaching for his hairline, but didn’t comment. He figured right now a little whiskey was the least of their problems. “I got a call from Bobby.”
Dean felt the frown pull at his face as he turned toward his brother. “Yeah? What’d he say? He got any new information?” He turned back away from Sam and sat down on the bed, pulling his shoes off.
“He wanted to know if you’d busted your phone again.”
Dean let his boot drop to the floor and scowled, digging for his phone in his pants pocket. “What?”
Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his wrangler’s and sat down at the small table, watching from the corner of his eye as Dean frowned down at his phone. “Said he’d been trying to call you, left you a couple messages.”
“Damn it!”
Sam watched as Dean stood up and paced the small room. His reactions were way off. He shouldn’t be this ticked off over missing a call. Not even a call from Bobby. Sam’s mouth went dry as he thought again about the way Dean had been acting, his inattention and the webpage he’d caught him looking at. His fear that the stress had finally been too much for Dean took firmer root and he had to take a deep breath.
Sam stood and approached his brother, hands out in what he hoped was a calming gesture. “Hey, Dean, man, it’s okay. He just wanted to see if we’d found anything new. He was worried that he hadn’t heard back from you. That’s all.”
Dean shook his head and grabbed the bottle out of his duffle, not caring what Sam was going to say. Since when did he have to worry about what his younger brother thought? He shoved the pint into his jacket pocket and his billfold into the back pocket of his jeans before pulling his boots back on and heading toward the door.
Sam blocked the way out, face pulling into what he knew Dean would describe as his bitchface. “Dean, wait. Where are you going?”
Dean stopped just short of running Sam over. “For a drive. Don’t wait up.” He pushed Sam out of the way, using the element of surprise to get his brother out of the way.
Sam stumbled, his surprise making him take more steps than the force required, just like the move was supposed to do. “Dean, wait, you shouldn’t be drinking and driving. Dean!” Sam watched as Dean slammed the door behind him. Sam huffed and ran a hand through his hair. With a resigned slump he booted up the computer and tried to find a signal to piggyback off of. What he hadn’t told Dean was the fact that Bobby had been almost as worried as he was.
Sam understood that Bobby felt protective of both of them, but he had a special connection with Dean. Sam was okay with that. Dean needed it more than he did. Sam had had Dean, but John hadn’t been much of a caretaker. Bobby had filled that roll nicely though, and Sam didn’t begrudge him it one bit.
The older hunter had been calling with a job for them, but after hearing about Dean he had wanted to pass it along to someone else. But Sam was kind of hoping a regular salt and burn would help. Throwing himself into the work was what Dean normally did when he was too stressed and not dealing well. It wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but it was sure a lot healthier than that bottle in the back of his brother’s jeans. Besides, even the Winchester version of normal would be a balm right now.
Sam finally found a signal and searched for information on Blackwater Virginia. He pulled up the town newspaper and searched the archives. Five dead, all had ritualistic overtones. The thing that made this a supernatural case was that all five had been frozen on the inside.
Sam hacked the coroner’s reports and shook his head as he read. The corpses reminded him of the time Dean had tried to cook Thanksgiving dinner for them one year. He still had no idea where Dean had gotten the money to buy the turkey.
Sam sat back, letting his mind wander back. He’d been nine at the time, which meant that Dean had been all of thirteen. Their had been gone on another hunt and Sam remembered he’d been asking Dean a lot of questions about Thanksgiving. Next thing he knew, Dean had brought home a great big turkey and some other foodstuffs. Dean had been so proud when he’d pulled the bird out of the small oven and plunked down on the small kitchenette table. It had looked so good and brown. But when Dean had tried to cut into it, it had been a block of ice on the outside.
Sam let out a small chuckle. Dean had been pissed, probably a little hurt as well, but Dean always dealt better with anger. After Sam had finished laughing his ass off, he’d done his best to reassure Dean that it was okay. His brother had been sullen, banging the kitchen cabinets shut, but he’d eventually thawed enough to salvage the day. They’d ended up eating peanut butter sandwiches, macaroni and cheese, and cranberry jelly. It was still his favorite memory of Thanksgiving.
He jumped slightly at the sound of laughter from the room next door, the sudden intrusion into his thoughts jarring him back to reality. Sam put all four feet of the chair back on the floor. So what could freeze someone’s insides, but leave the outside untouched? Sam searched the net a little more before giving up and shutting the computer down. Someone really needed to compile a hunters’ database. It’d be a hell of a lot easier than trying to glean information from here and there.
Standing, he reached above his head and stretched until his back popped before he started through Dean’s duffle, looking for their Dad’s journal. He didn’t remember anything in it that sounded like what they were looking for, but then he was hardly as familiar with it as Dean was.
Next door there was more laughter and then the squeak of bedsprings. Sam paused in his rummaging and shook his head; face pinching as he heard the headboard start knocking against the wall. This was what happened when he let Dean choose the motel; he ended up listening to a bedspring serenade through the thin walls.
His fingers brushed something smooth and cool and Sam felt his eyebrows pull down low over his eyes. He grasped the glass and pulled out an empty pint of whiskey. With a frown firmly cemented on he set the empty by his foot and started to dig around again.
He never did find their father’s journal. However, he did find three more empty pints. Sam sat on his heels, hand over his mouth, and studied the empty bottles. Dean drank that wasn’t a secret. So why was he hiding the bottles like it was? In Sam’s experience, and unfortunately he had plenty, you only hid things like this when it felt wrong. If it was nothing, then Dean wouldn’t have to hide it.
The picture of Dean guiltily stuffing the half empty bottle down under his clothes as Sam had come back in flashed before his eyes. Fuck. He thought they’d gotten past the whole, Dean traumatized and self-medicating shtick, at least to some degree. Only Sam was pretty sure it wasn’t Hell that was bothering Dean this time. Not unless it was the thought of Hell on earth. Were the flashback back? Was that why he’d been looking at that page on hallucinations?
He turned from the duffle and a glint of metal on the nightstand caught his eye. Sam stood, worry pooling cold and insistent into his belly. What the hell? Dean never left without his Desert Eagle. It was as much a part of Dean as his own hands. The fear that had taken root started to sprout limbs.
* * *
Dean took another shot of tequila from the bottle in front of him and wondered if the redhead on the pole was a real redhead. He watched as she slid her back down the pole, arms stretched above her head, legs spread wide in front of his face. And what do you know; as above so below. Dean felt his eyebrows climb toward his hairline and gave his most charming smile. He liked redheads. The dancer turned on her knees and did a move that should’ve been physically impossible. Hell, he loved redheads.
The liquor and the pounding music was doing its job. He couldn’t really hear the high pitched whine anymore. His ears just felt a little tender. He kicked back another shot and grimaced. He’d managed to lose track of time. He bet Sammy was back at the hotel worrying a rut in the rug. He gave the redhead an apologetic smile and dug at the phone in his pocket, blinking down at the display. He rubbed at his eyes, but the numbers refused to make sense. He threw a twenty down and stood, bracing on the slightly sticky bar until the world stilled around him.
He blinked again and started toward the door, hoping the chill wouldn’t sober him too much. Once outside, the cold wind reminded him that he needed to pee. He stumbled into the shadows on the right side of the building and let his stream go against the north wall. When he came back around one of the girls was hanging around outside. She came forward, smiling and putting her hand in his jacket lapel.
“Hey, baby, buy me a drink?”
Dean stared down the generous gape in her too tight blouse and licked his bottom lip, letting his smile crawl slowly across his face. “Little cold to be standing around out here.”
She giggled up at him. “Why don’t you take me to your car and warm me up?”
Dean blinked and tried to steady his smile. Something about her felt off, and it wasn’t the obvious fact that her services required a fee. Something inside his was squirming at the wrongness radiating off of the woman in his arms and he wanted to get her hands off of him as quickly as possible. “No offense, darling, but I don’t pay for it.”
She lowered her lashes, staring up at him through the thick coats of mascara, and Dean had the momentary flash of being caught between her lashes, like a fly in a Venus fly trap.
“Tell you what.” She smiled and ran her hand across the supple leather of his jacket. “You buy me a round and we’ll call it even. A little taste . . . for a little taste?”
When she smiled her face flashed bluish gray, a putrid black mold trailing down from her empty left eye socket, teeth growing into her bottom lip. Dean stepped back and reached for his pistol at the small of his back. When his hand came up empty he swallowed and tried to pry her hands from his coat. Where the hell was his Desert Eagle?
He blinked and her face was back to normal, makeup a little overdone, but not otherworldly. He had no idea what the hell he was dealing with here. “Cristo.”
She smiled and stepped in closer, rubbing herself against his crotch. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.”
Dean grasped onto her wrists, digging his thumbs in to make her let go of his jacket. “Sorry, I gotta get back to the little wife.” He tried twisting her arm, but it was like her fingers were stuck to his coat. He could feel her skin sticking to his hands where they grasped her wrists.
Despite his hands trying to pull her off of him, she managed to snake her arms underneath his jacket and around his waist. She was going to bleed right into him, infect him, he could feel it! He looked around, but the place was otherwise deserted. He had no idea where everyone else had gone, but right now he’d count it a blessing.
He stopped trying to keep her from him and instead let his arms trail up her arms, fighting the grimace as he felt her skin slough off under his fingers. “Okay, sugar, okay.” Before she had a chance to insinuate herself any closer he reached back and slammed his fist into her face.
She let go and hissed, but before she could launch an offensive he followed with the heel of his palm and shoved her nose up into her head.
There was a satisfying crunch, and what should have been the warm rush of blood coating his hand poured out cold and black. What should have been a warm coppery smell was the smell of bloat and decay. He held his hand out and turned his face away from it. It was worse than any body he’d ever had to dig up. “Oh that’s just nasty!”
Dean watched as she went down. She wasn’t breathing, but that didn’t mean anything. He looked around again but they were still alone. It was a miracle with all the noise the hellbitch had been making. He still had no idea what she was. He kicked at her prone form with his boot, but she remained motionless. Fire. Most things could be destroyed by fire. But he couldn’t do it here.
Gritting his teeth he grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder. Dean made his way over to the Impala. He had some rope in the back. He’d tie her up and haul her ass back to the motel, grab Sammy, burn the bitch, and get the hell out of dodge.
* * *
Sam looked up from his laptop as the door to the motel burst open and Dean came barging in, winded and a little wide eyed. “Dean, what . . .”
“Grab your shit, Sammy. We gotta get the hell outta here and fast.”
Sam stood from the table, closing down the laptop and grabbing his duffle, instincts kicking in. “What the hell happened, Dean? Where’ve you been?”
Dean looked around the room, making sure he had all his weapons this time. “I ran into a problem at the joint down the road. It’s in the trunk, not sure if it’s dead or just playing. We gotta get rid of it, Sam. Come on, don’t fuck around. I’m not sure I wasn’t seen.”
Sam stopped with one arm of his coat dangling off his shoulder. “What? Dean, wait, what the hell happened? What’s in the trunk?”
“I told you, the fucking stripper attacked me. She’s a ghoul or something. Shit, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. She’s damn rank so hurry your huge ass up. The longer she stays in the trunk the more trouble I’m going to have getting the smell out of my baby.”
Sam finished sliding his coat on. “You were attacked by a stripper?”
Dean paused and looked up into Sam’s smiling face. “It’s not funny, Sam.” He grabbed an errant sock and stuffed it into his bag before heading to the door.
Sam paused in closing the hotel room door and watched as Dean tossed his bag in the backseat. Something about this whole thing was off. Hell, Dean had been off for weeks now, but this, this wasn’t Dean. Dean didn’t get flustered like this. Not about the supernatural equivalent of a pest problem. The utter feeling of wrongness had the skin crawling up his neck and across the back of head.
He followed Dean, keeping an eye out for anything or anyone else that might be lurking about. “Give me the keys, Dean.”
“No.” He looked over in time to see Sam pull his stubborn little bitchface. If it wasn’t so damn irritating, the petulant moue on his ginormous face would be downright hilarious.
“Like hell, Dean. Not only are you too drunk to be driving, but you’re jumpy as hell. Now give me the keys.”
“I’m fine. Quit being a girl and get in the damn car, Sam. We don’t have time for this bullshit.”
Sam pursed his lips and held his stance. “No way, Dean. You think I haven’t noticed how on edge you’ve been lately? Dude, you’re wound so tight I’m surprised you’re not popping loose at the seams. Give me the keys and let’s get the hell out of here.”
He could see Dean was about to refuse again so he swallowed and lowered his voice. “Please, Dean. I’m worried about you. Just let me do this one thing.”
Dean grimaced, lip curling, but after a moment he tossed the keys to his brother before rounding to the passenger’s side. “Fine. Get your ass moving.”
Sam slid in behind the wheel, shoulders tense, pain climbing up his neck into the back of his head. He twisted the key in the ignition and let the sound soothe him. The deep roar of the impala’s engine vibrated through his body, calming him like a lullaby. “What’s the plan?”
“There was an old cemetery on the edge of town, pretty secluded. We’ll salt and burn her there.” He wrinkled his nose and coughed before rolling down the window. “Damn hellbitch is already stinking up the car!”
Sam sniffed and felt his brow draw low over his eyes. “I don’t smell anything.”
“How the hell can you not smell that, Sam? It’s worse than the charnel house that ghoul had built up in Illinois.”
Sam sniffed again and threw a worried glance over at Dean before turning his eyes back to the blacktop. “Seriously, I don’t smell anything. You sure it’s not just your own breath?”
Dean glared at his brother. “Just hurry the fuck up.” He twisted the volume control up and AC/DC blasted through the speakers, ending all conversation.
* * *
The wind blew straight down the valley where the cemetery was located, the hills creating a funnel for the icy fury. Sam rubbed his hands together as he rounded the back of the car. “Let’s get done with this so we can get a move on. Bobby’s got us a job in Blackwater Virginia.”
Dean unlocked the trunk and put his arm over his nose and mouth before lifting the lid.
There was a beat of silence and then Dean turned in a circle, looking for the missing body.
Sam looked from the trunk to his brother. “Dean . . .”
“Son of a bitch!” Dean whirled back around to Sam, rubbing at the back of his head.
Sam opened the door to the impala and dug around in his duffle until he pulled out the EMF meter. He came back and switched it on, scanning the back of the trunk. “Dean, there’s no EMF. She wasn’t a ghost or there’d still be a trace.”
“Well then she got out of the trunk while we were dicking around in the room!” Dean scrunched up his face, gagging a little. “I notice she left her damn crotch rot of a stench behind though.”
Sam leant forward and sniffed the interior of the trunk. All he could smell was gunpowder and lighter fluid. He stood up and rubbed at his forehead as his stomach twisted itself into a tighter knot. “Dean, the trunk was locked. How could she have gotten out?” He ran his hand around the interior. “Look, no damage.”
Dean worked his jaw, trying not to grit his teeth in response to the look Sam was giving him. “What are you trying say, Sam?”
Sam licked his lips and held up his hands, placating and watching as the muscle jumped in Dean’s jaw. “Nothing, Dean. It’s just, you’ve been under a lot of stress and you were drinking.”
Dean stepped forward. “Yeah, and?”
Sam looked away, fighting to push his irritation down. He couldn’t show outright concern for Dean. To show care for Dean you had to be sneaky, a magician. Hell, by now he was freaking Houdini. “Nothing. We need to get started for Blackwater.”
Dean watched him a moment more, raking the defensive posture of his brother’s shoulders. “Have you checked the local papers for anything that sounds like it needs our attention here? We need to find this thing.”
“I checked.” He lied. “There’s nothing, Dean. But there’s something in Blackwater that’s killing people bloody. We need to get a move on.”
Dean ran a hand over his mouth before nodding and slamming the trunk closed. “Fine.”
Part 2