Big Bang 2010: LAST CHILD, Chapter 10 ~ part 1
Jeremy watched as Sam rounded the car and flew up the front door steps. Watched him hesitate a moment, shotgun in his right hand. Then watched him disappear inside.
It was all he could do to stay in the car when everything in him told him to run. Told him to get away. Told him he was a fool to have come back here.
Surrounded by the powerful steel armor of Sam’s car, engulfed both in the leather of the seat and of Dean’s coat, Jeremy felt some modicum of safety, so he did just what the guy, Sam, had said. He reached quickly from door to door and punched down the locks. Then, he slouched low into his seat.
He wanted to hide his head in the coat again, to black out the world, believe he was invisible if he could not see them. But being alone, not seeing was worse. So, he hunkered down, jamming himself in the space between the seat and the dashboard, letting the lighter tones of the early morning sky, shining over the dashboard and warming the car, give him at least some measure of comfort.
Then he heard it. Another sound. Slamming doors.
Sam had gone into the house; that had been the first slam. Maybe he was coming out. Maybe with Dean now. Maybe it was over and they could leave now...
Jeremy craned his neck, and his eyes flew wide. It wasn’t Sam. And it certainly wasn’t Dean.
It was Bill.
Like a rock, Jeremy dropped back down and curled into a ball, hoping he hadn’t been spotted. But the car had. “Shit…,” he murmured into the heat of the jacket. His head hid beneath the leather confines.
It was quiet. Too quiet. Only the sound of his rapid breathing filled the space. Nothing was happening. Why was nothing happening? Maybe Bill had taken off. Maybe he’d seen the car and run away. Maybe…
Jeremy risked a peek out of the jacket. Seeing nothing he inched up higher, slowly, getting up just enough to see out the window.
Bill was no longer standing, he was stalking. Toward the car. Toward him. Thunder on his face. Determination and death in his eyes.
Jeremy's mind spun out of control. “Shit!”
There was no way he could run fast enough, get far enough. Not without Bill going after him again, catching him again. Just like before.
But he couldn’t stay here and let the psycho get his hands on him again. And what about Dean? And Sam? And-
“SAAAM!” he shouted, eyes wide with panic, staring anxiously at the house. Willing them to hear his shouts. Praying they’d come running in time to save him.
Bill stopped, gaze locked on the house. Watching him, Jeremy heard it too, the shouts. Other sounds too. Sounds of crashing. The voices screaming. Then, as quickly as it had escalated, it stopped.
Bill, who had stilled midway between the car and the house, started moving again. Toward the car.
Scared, Jeremy ducked back down. In his haste, Jeremy's knee hit the angled part of the dash hard and the glove compartment door bounced open. Tears of frustration, pain and fear streamed down his face and he moaned, reaching a hand down to rub at the spot where he'd struck the bone.
And he froze.
A gun. There was a shiny gun peeking out from the darkness of the glove compartment.
Without even thinking, Jeremy found his hand moving toward the weapon. The gun, blue-black steel, felt heavy and cold against Jeremy’s sore knee-cap.
Once inside, Sam released the door and moved quietly in the direction from which he'd heard the voices.
"You think you’re clever?" a woman's voice hissed.
"N-no... ma’am," a familiar voice groaned more than answered. "I know I am. You're just too stupid to know it."
Sam cursed under his breath as he moved quietly toward the location of the conversation. He was caught between wanting Dean to shut the fuck up and relief that Dean had enough fight in him to still be verbally sparring with the very thing that might end him, permanently.
Praying the aged boards wouldn't give his presence away, Sam gripped the gun tightly and moved forward. Reaching the entrance to the other room he pressed his back to the wall and waited. Edging slowly to the opening, Sam leaned ever so slightly forward to get a look at the room beyond.
"When I'm done with you," she growled, "you'll wish my William had killed you hours ago."
"Ah, sugar," Dean said, voice strained, "don’t dwell in the past. Besides ‘m pretty sure he likes me more'n you."
There was a heaviness in the room. Sam hadn't realized it before. But it was growing, building into something ugly and deadly. Giving the air around him a current. It radiated through the atmosphere like a pulse. Sam knew that feeling; the ghost was preparing to strike.
Sam knew he had to move. In one single movement, Sam rounded the wall, gun brought to bear in the same move. Ready to fire when he had her in sight. Ready to get his brother back. Eager to stop the pain she was obviously inflicting.
Sam froze.
The female specter, glowing and pulsing with energy, stood some five feet away, her back to Sam, concentration focused on her captive. On Dean.
Sam got a good look at his brother, his first since Dean disappeared. Dean was a good three feet off the ground, bleeding against the wall. Trapped, suspended in some supernatural force, his socked feet dangled free. Covered in grime and blood, his face was pinched in obvious pain. Blood streaked down the sides of his face and arms. There was a cloth of some sort wrapped high around one leg.
But that wasn't what sent a knot of worry into Sam's throat.
Dean was pinned, incapable of moving anywhere, standing directly in Sam's line of fire. Even though he gave no indicator the he'd seen him, there was no way Dean couldn't see him. Sam was standing there like a rookie, unable to decide what he should do next.
Because, if he risked pulling the trigger, there was no way Dean wouldn't catch some, if not a large portion of the rock salt. That wouldn't do. Sam would not be responsible for causing his brother more injury. Not if he could help it.
"Mind your tongue," Margret seethed, apparently missing Sam’s presence completely.
"Fuck you, bitch," Dean shot back angrily.
Though, if Dean didn't keep his mouth shut...
Another realization hit Sam; Dean was looking at him. Eyes hard and determined, telling Sam to do the unthinkable.
No. Sam shook his head, arguing silently. No way he was going to shoot. No way he was going to add to Dean's suffering. Not if he could help it.
No, he had to move, had to risk discovery and find a better angle. He shifted again to the left, alternating his watchful gaze between the ghost and the clutter around him to make sure he could move without making a ruckus.
Margret screamed angrily and pressed her outstretched hand forward.
Sam froze.
The wall at Dean's back started to crumble and give. Dean's face contorted, screwed up in pain. "Sam...," Dean gritted out, "take... th’ shot!"
Position given away, there was no more time for options. Margret Brimmer was turning. Gun at his hip, Sam cursed his brother and pulled the trigger like he hadn’t in years. With his eyes screwed shut.
Howling in rage, Margret dissipated into the frigid air of the old house. As her energy faded, Dean dropped with a dry thud.
"Dean!" Sam called as he rushed forward. Broken furniture and pieces of drywall littered his path and he kicked them aside, eager to get to his brother's side. His brother who wasn't moving as he knelt, his hand hovering uncertainly over Dean’s shoulder.
"It's just rock salt you wuss." Dean's voice sounded muffled from where he lay, in a heap, face down on the floor. Rolling to his side he peered through pinched eyes at Sam and grinned. "Thought… you’d never… get here."
Sam breathed a quick huff of relief. "Jesus, Dean," he snapped back, though there was no weight behind it. "This is worth the biggest ‘I-told-you-so' ever. And you forced me to take that shot!”
Dean, conscious but just barely, gave him a weak attempt at a smirk.
"If she'd heard you, and she would've, she'd have gotten you next. Best to just get it over with." Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's arm. "Help me up, dumbass."
"You basically made me shoot you," Sam ground out as he helped his brother to a sitting position. "That makes you the dumbass."
"Yeah," Dean grunted, one arm wrapped around his torso. "Whatever."
"If you'd just given me a... s-second," the thought trailed off as Sam got a closer look at his brother. The t-shirt was soaked through with blood, on the front and back. His wrists were torn and bloody, both fresh and old tendrils of red running down his arms.
"It's okay, Sam. I’m fine."
"What the hell did he-they do to you?" Sam's frantic gaze traveled down his legs and stopped where torn denim began. Fresh blood oozed over new wounds all over Dean’s knees and thighs. "Oh God, I did. Dean I-"
"Sam stop. I'm fine," Dean interrupted. Sam's 'bullshit' face met his eyes. "Well, maybe not fine, but given the last twenty-four hours, believe me, I've had worse, way worse. Those are just... m-mosquito bites. Now, c'mon," he lifted one hand and flapped it about before bumping Sam's arm weakly. “Up. Help me up.”
“Right, but... Dean, your feet.” Sam had noticed the oozing wounds when he'd run up to him. He cast a speculative glance at them now. It'd be hard as hell to put weight on them. “M-maybe I should just… you know...”
“Oh, hell no,” Dean grimaced and latched onto Sam's arm with both hands. “Not on my worst day..." he gasped as he leaned forward, hands flailing until they wrapped around Sam's arms, "are you carrying me.” He leaned forward, teeth grinding.
Dean suddenly latched onto Sam with both hands. And pulled. "Dean wha-”
Then, before Sam realized what he'd intended, Dean moved one hand over the other, in a hand over hand combination; he was climbing him, using Sam like he was a friggin' ladder or something. Clearly he was determined to do this with our without his help.
“Jesus, hang on a second.” Sam grabbed onto Dean's upper arms and helped get him up the rest of the way. Trying to take it slow, only too aware of his brother's grunts of pain.
"C'mon, up-up-up," Dean urged, apparently done with being close-buddies with the floor.
When it was all said and done, the end result left Dean more stooped over and wavering than standing and steady. Leaning slightly, one arm remained clutched around his midsection, while the other pressed to the wall, anchoring himself so Sam wouldn't have to. Not that Sam had expected much more and it was far better than what he'd thought Dean capable of in his current condition. So all in all, this? This was a downright success, at least by Winchester norms.
Dean's harsh breaths filled the room and much as Sam wanted to give him time, he knew that was a luxury they didn't have. Knew Dean knew it too. "Okay?" Sam asked doubtfully, arms outstretched in case he toppled.
Dean looked up and nodded. "Peachy." Though he didn't seem inclined to move yet.
"Really? 'Cause you look like hell." Sam eyed him. “I could still carry you." Dean looked horrified at him. "Your worst day. Dean, man, if this isn't it then...”
“Not worst enough." Dean shook his head adamantly. The movement sent him wobbling a bit. "You even think about carrying me, I’ll kick your ass.”
"Fine, fine," Sam chuckled and steadied his brother again. This time he didn't let go. "You ready to get out of here?"
“No.” Dean shook his head. “The Brimmers’ bodies are under the stairs. Can’t leave ‘til their bones are burned, Sam.”
“What?” Sam blurted out. He looked at the stairs and back to his brother. “Dean you’re in no condition to-”
“I’m not leaving ‘til we do this.”
“How do you even know their bones are in there?” Sam waved in the direction of the stairs.
Dean hesitated.
“Dean!” Sam snapped.
“Billtoldme,” he muttered quickly.
Sam’s brow shot up in disbelief. “Bill? As in the same guy who kidnapped you Bill? The psycho?”
“Yeah.” Dean shot a petulant look at his brother. “That Bill.”
“And you trust him?”
“Hell, no! But I think we can both agree that there is a pretty pissed off spirit in this house, which means her body is in here somewhere. The stairs are as good a place as any to start. Now,” he snapped his fingers, “break out the salt and let’s get moving.”
Sam’s face fell.
Dean was quiet. “You... didn’t bring salt.” It was a statement, not a question. The tone sober and layered in disbelief. Sam's silence was answer enough. “What the hell, Sam?” Dean snapped.
“Excuse me, but I was more concerned about saving your ass. And it wasn’t like this whole thing was screaming angry spirit from the get go, was it Dean?”
Dean took a breath and doubled over a little. The hand on the wall came away long enough to give Sam a 'be with you in a second' finger.
Sam rolled his eyes, knowing he should just grab Dean and get him the hell out of that house. But, Sam knew Dean. Knew that any pain and weakness on Dean's part was eclipsed only by his stubbornness and determination and if he tried to drag Dean out of there now, Sam would find himself on his back, on the floor, with a bloody lip.
It was a near thing though, especially when he noticed how on the hand Dean had pressed to the wall, the fingers were no longer flat, but curled in, the nails digging into the surface, latching on. Noticed too how, when he turned his head and bit his lip, how the pain lines around his eyes deepened; he was riding out a wave of pain.
When it was over, Dean nodded at him. There was no anger in Dean’s eyes over the missing salt or unprepared little brother, only understanding amongst all the residual pain, and the turning of wheels as he searched mentally for another option.
Sam looked down, feeling suddenly twelve years old again.
Dean sighed. "Guess I might've done the same thing in your shoes." He huffed and glanced down at his socked-covered toes. "Man… what I wouldn't give for some shoes."
Dean's comment had been meant as a joke, meant to lighten the load. But Sam didn't feel like laughing just yet.
Sam kept his eyes averted, downcast. "Shoes are replaceable," he said quietly, the rest unspoken. He lifted his gaze and Dean stared back at him. Sam willed his brother to understand just how close they'd come. How terrified he'd been. Dean looked away first. A good sign that he had gotten it just as Sam had meant.
“Alright then,” Dean coughed, breaking the awkward silence. With a grunt he seemed to settle against the wall. “Leave me here and run back to the car and get-”
“What? No,” Sam interrupted, patting down his jacket as he spoke. “Not leaving without you Dean.” His eyes widened and one hand stilled over his left jacket panel. “Wait,” he said as he fished into the pocket. From it, he produced the four extra salt rounds he'd put there earlier. “This should do the trick.”
Dean caught the idea quickly. “Think there’s enough in those?”
Sam shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out. Here, you should keep this in case she comes back,” Sam said, handing the recently fired shotgun into his brother’s hands.
“Stow that crap… I’m coming with!”
Sam had the grace to limit his answer to a pointed look at the way Dean was barely on his feet, supported by the wall as it was. The paint, where it touched his wounds, was tinted red. The section of wall he'd been clutching had holes, five finger-sized holes.
Dean lowered his eyes in defeat, gripping the gun tightly. "'Kay, I'll just- wait." Dean grabbed Sam's arm. "Load both chambers first, 'n case the wicked bitch of the west comes screeching back in."
Sam nodded. "Only fired once," he said shoving a round into the empty chamber and snapping the sawed-off shut. "That gives me three packed shells of salt for the Brimmers' bones."
"Hope that’s e-" Dean hissed, lips pressed in a thin line as Sam wordlessly helped lower him back to the floor, "-nough."
The ride down to the floorboards wasn't even the worst part. Sam tried to be gentle but with Dean tottering, even on his ass, he decided to maneuver him to lean his side against the wall, mindful of his back. There were several unchecked grunts of pain and Sam was sure he heard Dean's teeth grinding audibly with the added torment.
Sam had no idea what kind of mess he'd find later, when they actually had the time to take a breath and regroup. He could only imagine what Dean had been through. He looked like he was in rough shape, and that said a lot about what Dean couldn’t hide.
"Sorry," he offered, making sure Dean was steady before he moved away. It surprised Sam to find Dean's eyes open wide and gazing wildly around the room, his grip on the shotgun steadier than Sam had ever thought it would be.
“Get crackin', Sammy," he said. Already Dean had taken up a supportive position for his more mobile brother. Gun gripped tight and eyes scanning the room.
Sam gingerly placed one foot on the first step. It held but he could hear the aged wood creaking beneath his weight. Instead of walking up them, he lay down to distribute his weight vertically. Pulling out his maglight, Sam used it to tap on the steps one by one. On the fourth step a hollowed sound answered him.
It took very little force to the blow; the wood shattered easily. A moldy smell, layered in years of dirt and dust, filled his nose. Flipping the light over, he turned it on and shone it inside the dark interior. First thing he saw was hair. Old and ratty in the light, barely clinking to a yellowed surface. Skulls, two. Adult.
"Bingo," Sam murmured quietly. “Well, he wasn’t lying,” he said louder for Dean to hear, waving a hand to scatter the dust that floated in front of him. Angling the beam he saw more bones. Old, tattered clothes.
“Told you,” Dean said tiredly. “Now quit fucking around.”
Sam made quick work of breaking the metal caps from the casings in his hand. Careful not to spill any outside the target, he dumped the salt content of each down into the dark space.
"What," a familiar female voice grated from behind them, "leaving so soon?"
Sam froze. The voice had sounded from the direction where he’d left his brother. Dean’s soft "Fuck!" was all the confirmation Sam needed to know that Margret was back.
Sam knew what he should do. Stay put. Salt the bones. Light them on fire. End the hunt.
It was the safest and surest way to assure that Margret was gone once and for all.
It also meant leaving Dean, who was barely conscious, alone. To face the spirit that had been using him as a pinball before Sam got there.
Sam consciously made the biggest mistake of his life. He abandoned the bones unburned and rushed back to Dean’s side.
Dean was up, but clearly not by his own volition. Margret seemed to have a thing about pinning people to walls. Which was fitting, since Dean seemed to have a thing about being the one pinned to walls.
The shotgun, the one that Sam had left in his brother’s hands, was abandoned on the floor, near the wall. Dean hadn’t even managed to squeeze one shot out.
Either Margret was that good… or Dean was feeling that bad.
Sam raced to the gun. His fingers wrapped around the handle, bringing it up, ready to fi-then it was gone. Ripped from Sam's grasp, it crashed against a far wall, drywall and dust fluttering to the ground in its wake.
Margret Brimmer spread her glare between the two of them. "Tsk-tsk-tsk," she said as she lowered her hand. "We were just having fun." She angled her gaze up, to where Dean stood, her intent clear. She took a step forward.
In answer, Sam made his intent clear too. Taking up a protective stance, he stepped between them. A look of surprise settled on her pale, smudged face, like she couldn’t understand how someone could possibly chose to put himself in harm’s way.
It was a futile move, Sam knew; she could just knock him from her path with little effort, but he'd be damned if he just let her have Dean without a fight.
Dingy brown teeth peeked between her thin lips when she sneered up at him. Tall, but not as tall as him, she was scrawny with ratty hair and a garment that she'd no doubt died in.
She cocked her head to the side and gazed up at Sam. "You're pretty tall for a guard dog."
"Sam," Dean warned, though Sam knew it was more. It was move out of her way. It was an order to leave.
"No, Dean," Sam answered, eyes glued to Margret. "I'm not just handing you over to her."
Margret sneered at Sam. "Too bad you're all bark and no bite." She flicked her wrist.
Sam felt a jolt to his chest. Before he could even blink, he was flying backward. The world rushed by, blurred and jumbled. He made a grab for anything to slow his momentum. There was nothing. It finally ended when his back collided with a piece of furniture. All the air in his lungs was expelled on impact and his sight grayed at the pain.
Through the haze of pain, Sam heard her. "Now," Margret hissed. "Where were we?"
"We were right about the part where I kick your ass and you burn, you bitch."
"Cute," Margret mocked. "You still think you can get the better of me?" She blinked forward a bit more. "You think I'm gullible like my sweet William?"
"I think you're a crazy, psycho bitch ghost, that's what I think," Dean said as he rolled to the right and put one hand to the wall to brace himself.
Sam swallowed and balled his fists in frustration. Dean was trying to break free of her power. He could see the determination in the way Dean's jaw was set; could see it in the way his eyes turned dark.
It wouldn't work, no matter how determined his brother was. Dean was physically done.
Sam wasn't, but he had to find another way.
Looking around he quickly spotted where the gun had landed this time around. He was actually closer to it now and, if Sam waited for the exact right moment, he might just make it there without Margret taking notice. Unfortunately, the only available distraction for the angry ghost, right now, was Dean. Sam would have to allow Margret get her hooks in Dean again if he wanted any chance of getting that gun and stopping it before it got out of hand...
Sam leaned to his right, in the direction of the gun. Body tense, waiting for just the right moment to move. No way he'd let Margret have Dean for too long.
"Margret," a male voice called. It was hoarse and weak, but it grew in strength as the man entered the room. He came slowly from the kitchen like his feet were too heavy for him to move. "That. Is. Enough."
Sam's gaze traveled over Margret to the man slowly entering the room. Heavy set, just slightly shorter than Margret, he wore old denim jeans and a plaid long sleeved shirt. Thinning hair covered his head and his image blinked out twice before solidifying.
Another ghost. Sam could bet dollars to donuts that this was Hal, the other half of the two skulls he’d found.
"You!" Margret spun on the intruder. "Do not. Tell me. What to do."
The newcomer moved unnaturally fast. With jerky movements, he came to stop, only a few feet from Margret.
"I'll tell you," his voice grew more thunderous with each word, "whatever the hell I want." A few unnatural, staccato movements later he was standing in front of her. Face angry, his message clear. “This time… this time I do what I should’ve done a long time ago!” the male ghost shouted, before lunging at Margret, both energies clashing and moving through the wall, into the kitchen area.
Sam's brow rose, even as he took his cue and made a grab for the abandoned shotgun. A million questions on his mind, he turned toward his brother. The questions died when he saw Dean attempting to get to his feet. Apparently, the newcomer ghost had distracted Margret enough for her control over his brother to slip.
It was clear though, Dean was out of steam. Facing gravity on his own terms, even without a ghost messing with his balance, was a bit like watching a turtle flipped on its back, only worse.
Sam could see him struggle, could see the pain and the increasing lack of strength.
Without a second thought, Sam was up and moving, racing to his side, ready to get Dean out of harm’s way for once. Wanting to help, but he caught sight of something out of his periphery and ducked. A lamp flew over his head and crashed to the floor behind him. Wide eyed, Sam felt the entire room buzz with high tension energy.
Then things got really bad.
Not just lamps and books, but furniture, pots and pans and photos, they all started flying. Started crashing into walls, slamming against the ceiling. Dust and drywall flew, making visibility harder. Lights that shouldn't have been working started flashing and Sam watched in terror as a chair careened, heading straight towards Dean. Watched in relief as his brother rolled out of the way just as it slammed to the floor where he’d been seconds before.
Between the shrieks and shouts, rushing wind, flying furniture and debris, it was becoming increasingly hard to hear too, let alone to avoid being hit. And just when he thought it couldn't get worse, the winds escalated. Picked up speed and velocity. They created a vacuum, increasing in pressure and intensity, making it hard to move. Like a tornado’s vortex contained in the four walls of the house.
A small piece of wood flew at Sam’s head, but he batted it away like it was nothing but a fly. His sole purpose and drive was focused on getting to Dean.
Shouldering the escalating winds, Sam finally managed to reach him. Kneeling, he took hold of Dean’s arm and started to help him up. "What the hell Dean? Next time I tell you to wait for me, you better friggin' wait for me!" he shouted over the noise.
"Really? You-" he ducked, pulling Sam down with him. A piece of airborne glass shattered against the wall exactly where they’d been standing. “You wanna do this now?” Dean stared at him wide-eyed and more than a little pissed. “Here?"
Sam's lips thinned. "C'mon," he said and heaved Dean to his feet once again.
The sudden reorientation left Dean swaying and Sam quickly pulled his arm over his shoulder to get them both somewhat steady before slowly pushing toward the door.
“No, no, no.” Dean realized where they were going and put the brakes to their sloppy exodus. “You gotta finish it, Sam. Gotta burn their bones once and for all.”
If Sam had had the time, he would’ve counted to ten to calm himself. He hadn’t. So, he didn’t. “Are you serious!? Look at this place, Dean!” he shouted.
The struggle between the two ghosts was gaining speed and strength, their combined energies were ripping and tearing at the already dilapidated old house. The walls were shaking, the ceiling was crumbling. The whole thing was one gust of wind away from falling apart.
“We have to go. Now! Before this whole house comes crashing down on our heads,” Sam finished, not even waiting to see if Dean had finally seen reason or not. Weak as he was, there wasn’t much he could do to weigh in on where they were going.
They were close. Just a few more steps and they’d reach the door…
Just when Sam thought they’d make it, a large bookshelf toppled and their escape was blocked.
“Fuck!” Dean shouted over the roaring winds. “We need to find some other way out,” Sam said, quickly figuring out that there was no way he was moving that ugly, heavy piece of furniture. “Place like this… there has to be a back do--”
Sam stopped and turned when he felt Dean break free of his hold, apparently fully intent on grabbing one end of the two-ton-looking bookshelf and bolstering it up. “Dean, what-”
"We have to... front door." Dean breathed.
“Wait,” Sam moved around and blocked Dean’s way. “Why? We can’t get through the front door. I-”
“There was a kid… I left him on the front porch.” Dean’s eyes looked wild and unfocused.
Sam would’ve grinned if it weren’t for the nagging suspicion that his brother’s grasp of the here and now was slowly slipping away. “You mean Jeremy?”
Dean stared askance and Sam explained. “He’s fine, terrified but fine. I found him half a mile down the road, Dean. Not-" he ducked a passing plate, "not on the front porch. He's how I found the farm in the first place.”
“Where I-” Dean ducked this time; a pot from the kitchen slammed against the wall behind him, “is he now?” Sam grabbed his arm and maneuvered both of them so their backs were to the wall, less in the direct path of the abundant flying objects.
“I left him in the Impala.”
"What?" Dean practically shouted, wide eyes focused completely on Sam. "You mean alone?”
“Yeah? Dean-”
“Where’d you leave the car?”
“Out front but-” and he grabbed Dean’s sleeve when he tried to move around him, “we can’t go through there. What’s this all about?”
“Bill’s still… out there.” Dean’s worried gaze held Sam’s. “I fucking sent that perv out there. If he sees the car... he sees Jeremy.”
Sam got it immediately. “Well, we need to get out of here first.” Sam pointed toward the back of the house. “Kitchen?”
Dean nodded. “Yeah… I think I saw a back door there.”
Sam looked at him askance. Dean started moving towards the kitchen and Sam paled, not at all thrilled at the prospect of walking back toward the one place they’d just seen Margret and that other ghost disappear into.
Knowing that they really didn’t have a choice in this, Sam quickly caught up with Dean’s unstable steps and bent slightly over, both to accommodate Dean’s ailing ribs and to turn themselves into as small a target for debris as possible. Then the brothers turned and hobbled back toward the kitchen. It went better than Sam had expected, with only the occasional near miss of a flying object and the occasional stumble.
They came abreast of another threshold before reaching the kitchen and Sam squinted into the room beyond. Then stumbled to a halt.
“What?” Dean shouted, though he apparently wasn’t curious enough to lift his head and look for himself.
They were half the distance to the back door when Dean realized what had given his brother pause. The two ghosts were fighting in the middle of the air, like two Tasmanian devils, light and electricity flowing from their intertwined energies like a miniature thunder storm had erupted in the kitchen. Appliances crashed; doors and drawers opened and closed in a frenetic, angry cacophony. The shrieking that had died down with distance was almost deafening this close.
They didn't pay it much mind until a loud pop and hiss. Then Sam sniffed the air.
“You smell gas?”
“Huh?” Dean huffed, exhaustion evident. “I don’t smell-”
They both stopped, and shared a look. “Shit!” they said in unison and looked toward the kitchen corner where the oven should be.
There was a scream and seconds later the gas oven smashed through the wall and flew into the small room, crashing to the floor.
“Go, go, go!” Sam shouted but Dean was moving long before he got the words out.
Together they smashed through the small screen just as a loud explosion shook their world. They didn’t have to worry about making it the rest of the way. The force of the explosion threw them clear out of the house.
They hit the ground face first, in a flail of limbs that drove the air from their lungs, and left them both dazed. Recovering first, Sam, quickly scuttled across the ground and threw himself over Dean, who had by this time, managed to curl into a ball, arms flung over his head. With his body shielding Dean from as much of the blown glass, burning wood and drifting flames that rained down all around them, Sam then covered his own head and they rode it out together.
Sam dared to look up just as several other first floor windows near the kitchen blew out. In a wild burst, flames shot out, licking at the outside world. Then just as quickly as they had come alive, the flames died down, burning and crackling steadily, only the occasional jumping fingers of fire visible in the early morning light.
Dean was still in a ball. Unmoving on the ground.
“Dean,” Sam coughed out. In attempt to avoid the heat and a possible secondary explosion, Sam crawled over to him and tapped him on the arm.
Dean lifted his head, stared dazedly at Sam a moment. "Y'okay?"
Sam grinned and shook his head. "I’m fine. C'mon, let’s get you home."
They crawled to stay out of range of the heat and smoke and when Sam figured it was safe, he helped Dean to his feet once again. They had both been breathing hard, but Dean seemed to need a moment to ride out a fit of coughing, so Sam stayed close, taking a moment himself to inspect his brother in the faint light of the rising sun.
They hadn’t inhaled that much smoke. The coughing wasn’t from that, and Sam could see Dean was sweating, profusely. He mentally added fever to his growing list of concerns. On the bright side, most of the blood on his arms and under his shirt appeared dark and stiff, so there was no new bleeding that he could see.
Then Dean lifted his head to nod, indicating he was ready to move. Sam didn’t like the blown look of his pupils.
Without a word, Sam stooped low to get Dean’s arm over his shoulder again and waited for Dean to mirror the movement of his feet, to let him set the pace.
But Dean didn’t seem inclined to move. Head up and wobbling, he looked around, his eyes dark green pools of confusion. "Car…?" he slurred.
A little disoriented himself, Sam realized the source of his confusion; they’d come out the back door. He’d left the Impala around the front of the house. Dean, on his last legs, swayed hard into him; it was clear he was about to crash.
"This way," Sam grunted, and half dragged, half carried Dean around to the side of the house. They gave the rapidly burning house a wide berth as they moved slowly.
Dean's head was hanging low, the arm that had been supporting his midsection swinging and Sam was about ready to see just how conscious he was. With Dean out of it enough, Sam could finally risk carrying him the rest of the way and speed things up a bit. And at the same time, the very thought lacked appeal because, while not as tall as his younger brother, Dean was solid packed muscle and carrying him would be a bi-
All thoughts of back pain and overweight brothers fled Sam’s mind as he took in the scene before him.
Between them and the car, there was a body, laid spread on the ground, the dirt around it a darker shade where blood had drained through the hole in his chest.
Further back, Jeremy sat on the ground, straight as a board, back against the Impala. Save for the tear streaks that had cut deep grooves into the dirt covering his cheeks, he stared straight ahead, face was devoid of emotion. His knees were drawn tight to his chest, arms keeping them close as he rocked, small shoulders trembling. The gun sat in the dirt, not three feet in front of him, probably right where he'd dropped it after shooting his captor.
"Shit," Dean breathed hoarsely.
They moved slowly toward Jeremy, their steps a combination of shuffles and exhausted scoots, only stopping when they got next to the dead body in the dirt.
“Is that-” Sam started. Even though there was only one person left accounted for, Sam needed to be sure.
“Yeah,” Dean sighed quietly. “William, or Billy, or perverted psychotic serial killer son of a bitch. I just called him Perv.”
Sam nodded, a little surprised Dean was able to string so many words out, no matter how hoarse and breathless they were. It hadn’t come without a cost; Dean broke into a fit of coughing. Again.
“God…,” Dean grimaced at the pull on his ribs. “Sucks.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam said quietly and they slowly made the last few feet over to the car. Jeremy didn’t move as they neared, his eyes locked on the lifeless form. “Jeremy?” he asked softly.
“He…,” Jeremy’s breathing hitched, shoulders jumping, hands lost in Dean’s coat sleeves. “He saw me… the car…” Another sniff and another tear rolled down. “He would’ve killed me. Or you guys.”
Sam nodded, felt Dean sagging deeper next to him. “There’s nothing wrong with defending yourself, Jeremy,” he placated, offering what he hoped was a sympathetic look. “It was the only thing you could do.”
It was an awkward moment and, suddenly a little uncertain as to what to do next, Sam shifted around on his feet. Dean, who’d gone lax again, was nearly unconscious in his arms, the medical attention growing more urgent by the minute.
"Sam?" he slurred, voice whisper soft.
Sam turned and looked at his brother. Dean was looking at the barn, his gaze surprisingly clear and focused. The wind was whipping toward the old structure.
"What Dean?"
"Wind's going to carry flames... barn'll be next." His head wobbled and he turned to stare glassy-eyed at his brother. "There's a cow in there."
"A cow." It wasn't a question but Sam was a little confused about where Dean was going with this. Certainly he wasn’t expecting Sam to just drop everything and go rescue a cow… right? "Dean," Sam choked anxiously, "We need to get outta here-"
"Fine..." Dean interrupted and let go of his brother. "Do it m'self," he slurred and stumbled off.
It was an awkward attempt at best, but he didn't get very far. After only a couple of drunken steps, uneven and wobbly, his legs started crumbling and his ass was heading to the ground.
"Dean!" Sam shouted. He reached Dean's side in two steps, catching him before he hit the ground. "All this over a fucking cow?" Getting his shoulder under his brother Sam grunted at the nearly dead weight. "Are you high?"
"Can't let 'er roast Sammy," Dean slurred. His head was teetering but his eyes held fast to Sam's gaze. "Not her fault."
Adamantly shaking his head in denial, Sam stared at his brother, struggling to see what this was all really about, because there was no way Dean would be this adamant over just one stupid cow... There was more here. There had to be.
Looking deep inside his brother’s eyes, Sam couldn’t help but understand the real reason behind Dean’s sudden Hindu-ish love for cows. It wasn't that at all.
Exhausted and on edge over what ever had happened here in the past hours, Dean was desperately searching for an end the row of misery that the Brimmers had brought on this world. Any further life spent on behalf of this monster was one too many. Even if it was just a cow.
“Dammit, Dean," Sam caved. He turned them toward the car where Jeremy stood looking very confused. "Jeremy, get the door," he said with a nod to the back of the car.
The boy moved without question and opened the back passenger door.
Sam was lowering Dean to the seat when his older brother realized where Sam was stuffing him and objected. "Dude, back seat?"
"Shut up," Sam huffed as he set him down on the seat. "Just… wait here," he ordered, then turned to Jeremy. "Keep an eye on him. I'll be right back."
"But-" the boy started to protest.
Sam, however, was already moving with ground-eating strides toward the barn. To save the cow. God, he was never gonna live this one down.
"Be careful!" Dean's voice shouted above the crackling of the house fire. Above the whipping winds.
Sam could not believe this. Wasting time for a stupid cow. All he wanted to do was get Dean and Jeremy into the Impala and get the hell out of there. But no. Instead he was running into some creepy-assed barn to get the I'm-gonna-be-a-cheeseburger-when-I-grow-up out, before it turned to cinders.
A few feet inside the barn, Sam slid to a halt. The light from the single bulb overhead cast eery shadows in the room. The room that was rapidly filling with smoke.
There was... smoke and hay and dirt and an old forge in one corner. Stalls too, but they were empty. Unless it was a dwarf-cow, a fact that Dean had failed to mention so Sam discounted it and was back to looking for a normal sized cow.
A normal sized cow shouldn’t be something one easily missed, especially after an explosion large enough to have startled livestock for two counties, let alone some dumb-ass cow only a few yards away. The thing should be fussing noisily, pawing at its stall, eager to be out and away.
But no cow. Just the crackle of fire behind him, and drifting smoke in front of him.
"Dammit..." Sam murmured and tossed a glance back the way he'd come. Ready to just say 'fuck it' and leave.
But Sam knew better. Coming out of that barn with anything less than a freaked out bovine in tow would be a tough sell to his already obstinate brother. So, Sam sighed, muttered another curse and moved quickly from broken-down stall to broken-down stall. Searching.
The last stall nearest the forge, brought Sam up short. There were hot coals- odd, considering the fire drifting to the roof hadn't made it this far inside yet -glowing in the main fire pit. But what caught his eye was on the floor of the some-what empty stall next to it. Bones.
The odd assortment of bones looked familiar, and Sam squatted to get a closer look. There were hooves instead of feet near the back of the little enclosure, a definitely not-human spine and a skull. Atop the hard shell sat horns, most definitely cow-type horns.
This was Dean's cow.
The bones weren't fresh. Aged with dirt and grime, they sat there. Like whatever cow had once outlined the remains had just stood there and died. Starved to death, probably.
There never had been a cow here, but Dean had seemed so certain. So, what had his brother seen, exactly? Better yet, what was Sam going to tell Dean that Sam had seen?
"Shit, Dean," Sam sighed, carding a hand through his hair.
Dreading that conversation about a non-existent cow, Sam turned where he stood, scanning the rest of the room, hoping to find some other evidence of recent cow-occupation. The bulb overhead long since blinked out and the darkened interior grew eerily quiet. It hit Sam then; this was where Perv had kept his brother for close to twenty-four hours.
Then, when a pole, directly across from the dead cow's stall lined up with Sam's sight, he froze. A shiver of dread lanced his spine.
The ground surrounding the pole was littered with things Sam couldn't quite make out from where he stood. However, Sam didn't need that many details to figure out that that was the place where he’d kept Dean bound.
Despite his lack of desire to see, Sam swallowed the bile in his mouth and moved in for a closer look. He needed to know what had happened here, because knowing Dean, Sam would never get the whole truth out of his brother.
A stake was driven in at the top, remnants of cut zip ties draped over the steel. On the ground, there was a chaos of ripped cloth, medical wrappers and wire. More specifically, barbed wire. But it was the very solid layers of barbed wire around the pole that made Sam angry.
This close, he could tell the tips were coated with dark fluid. Blood. And bits of flesh and other stuff he didn't want to know about.
Distracted by the sight, Sam nearly bumped into something that was standing in his way.
It was a plastic cart, and on top of it were several implements. A half dozen knives of varying sizes. An electric prod seated on a battery charger. Rags covered in dark splotches, metal rods, thick rubber gloves and some medical tape. But it was the syringes and the four, half-empty vials scattered haphazardly on the surface that made Sam's blood run cold.
The clinic. Perv had taken several vials. Dean's cow-visions suddenly made more sense.
Shit.
"Sam!"
Dean's voice broke him out of his thoughts. It was closer than it should have been.
"Dean!" Sam turned toward the door. For the first time, he noticed the barn was full of smoke and it was getting thicker by the moment.
Nothing more than shadows, two figures- one tall and bulky, the other slight and short -filled the door. Dean was leaning against the boy, though Sam was sure he was doing more than his share of the work to spare the kid.
Sam quickly scooped up the vials and after shoving them inside his pocket, rushed over to his brother. "Thought I told you-"
"Barn's on fire," Dean blurted out, his eyes flared with worry. "You okay?"
"I'm fine, man," he said frantically and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Let’s go!"
But Dean didn't move. His eyes were searching the stalls. "Bessie?"
The cow's - er, non-existent, hallucination, ghost cow's - name. Of course. Naturally, Dean would have named her.
Sam thought quick."The blast must've scared her off. See?" he turned and waved at the interior. "Not here. No cow." When bits of burning hay began drifting down from the rafters, Sam shortened Dean's perusal. "Dean, we gotta go, man."
Dean nodded and Sam nearly sagged with relief. "Yeah...," his gaze went up to the burning beams above. "Okay."
"Go--go!" Sam quickly slipped under Dean's shoulder and ushered Jeremy to lead the way. "Get to the car, go!" The kid was off like a shot, Sam helping Dean to hobble faster as they cleared the now rapidly burning barn.
Sam hadn't realized just how much smoke he'd inhaled until they got out and away from the barn. The fresh air left him coughing, bending at the waist, a hand on the Impala to keep him upright.
"Ya' alright," a voice husked out quietly, "Sammy?"
Sam looked up, blinking through his smoke-burned watery gaze. Dean was sitting in the Impala, just as Sam had left him earlier, stifling coughs into one hand, looking for all the world as if he'd not moved an inch. Like he hadn't, seconds ago, rushed to the barn, already wounded and barely on his feet, to save his little brother. Dean's eyes, dull from exhaustion, were full of worry and concern. Always full of worry for Sam. Never for himself.
Sam nodded. "Yeah," he answered breathlessly.
Turning his head, Sam watched as the flames climbed higher on the roof of the barn.
Embers from the house fire had done just as Dean had predicted: drifted across and landed on the roof of the barn. The whipping wind had done the rest. It had fanned the flames, giving the fire life as it fed on the aged timbers.
Jeremy handed him the extra bottle of water from the front seat. Sam downed it gratefully then looked at Dean. He was listing, his head sagging to his chest, but seemed content to stay upright, his side leaning into the seat's back.
Sam set the bottle down and knelt in front of his brother. "You should lie down."
Dean's eyes opened slowly and he waved him off. “Nah, m’ fine,” he muttered in refusal.
"You don’t look fine," Jeremy spoke up, his voice trembling.
Sam took a good look at the kid. Even with Dean's coat on he was shivering. Dean too, in fact. Then when Dean started coughing and clutching at his side, Sam got quickly to his feet and moved to the passenger side door and opened it. The blanket he'd given him earlier sat balled up floorboard, right where he'd obviously deposited it before getting out of the car with one of their guns and...
“Why don’t you climb in,” Sam said, motioning Jeremy in. The boy hesitated but when the wind whipped up and a chill rocked his small body, he climbed in slowly and Sam swung the door closed.
Dean's coughing had died down to the occasional huff, but Sam moved to the trunk and grabbed two more blankets, water bottles and some aspirin. He spent a minute getting both Dean and Jeremy settled, then stood and spared a glance at the still, lifeless body of William Brimmer.
The man who'd been the cause of so much pain and suffering, both emotional and physical. Sam came to a quick conclusion: the wild animals and buzzards could have him, for all he cared. If not, considering the farm was out in the middle of nowhere, it was unlikely that anyone would find the body before Sam had the time to come back and burn it.
Hopping back behind the wheel, within minutes Sam had the car maneuvering back to the winding gravel drive, the barn and slowly-burning house shrinking in the distance.
Jeremy divested himself of Dean's coat and sat wrapped in two blankets, staring quietly out the window. Noticing Sam's gaze flicking constantly to the rear-view mirror, the boy looked back occasionally and checked on Dean.
"He looks awful," Jeremy informed him, voice full of concern, Dean's quiet, stifled coughs offering background noise to Jeremy's worry.
Sam nodded curtly. "Yeah," he sighed, and gripped the wheel tighter. "I know."
"He'll be alright?"
Sam tossed another glance at the mirror and huffed. "Dean's too stubborn not to be." I hope.
Suddenly, Jeremy sat up straighter, his body twisting around to look out the window at the house of terror from which they'd narrowly escaped. “Hal! We forgot Hal!” the kid shouted, coming somewhat out of the daze he’d been in so far. "We gotta go back!"
Sam had to stop for a minute to figure out who Hal was. And then he remembered. Margret's also-dead husband.
Dean beat him to the answer. “Hal’s gone, Jeremy,” he said, voice soft and gravelly from the backseat. “He didn’t make it out of the house. I’m sorry.”
And he actually sounded sorry, Sam noted. He’d seen the other ghost helping them, and Sam figured that, in a way, the man had found in death the redemption that he’d been denied in life. Sam also noted that Dean had left out the part where Hal was already dead to begin with.
Jeremy was silent for a minute, eyes sliding between the burning house and Dean. Then he seemed to relax, his worried gaze settling on Dean. “You should go to a hospital,” he finally said.
A muscle in Sam’s jaw twitched. Yes, Jeremy, he should. But he won’t.
“Sammy?” Dean’s eyes were on him. Knowing. Reminding.
“I know, Dean,” Sam acknowledged begrudgingly, but God how he wanted to do just that.
"What?” Jeremy asked. He looked between the boys when the silence stretched out. “You gotta tell the cops about Bill. About what he did."
“Jeremy,” Sam said haltingly. “I-" He sighed. "The cops, we can’t exactly let them know we were here.”
This time Jeremy looked hard at Sam, and then at Dean in the backseat before turning back to Sam. “Are you wanted?”
“Not really. More like, unwanted. Cops just don’t really get what we do.”
“You chase bad guys like Bill, right?” he asked curiously.
"Not exactly." Sam glanced at the boy, not wanting to tell him too much. It was bad enough what the kid had gone through; being kidnapped. Terrorized. Forced to take a life. Sam could see why Dean hadn’t wanted to add ‘ghosts are real’ to that mess. "We… catch the ones that the police can’t touch..." he said, settling for a half-truth.
"You guys are like the A-Team," Jeremy finished with a weak smile. “Minus the van.”
Sam chuckled. "And the cigars. So, it might be better if you don’t mention us, okay Jeremy?"
Jeremy nodded. "I'm a kid. They'd never believe me anyway."
Sam nodded, but in truth, his mind was already working on the next step: what to do with Jeremy. He looked in his rear-view and saw Dean's head had slumped, chin on his chest, but he maintained his position on his side, not lying down. Dean needed medical care right away.
The car rolled down the road, rumbling by a billboard for the Kwik-e-Trip, Gas, Beer and Wine, Open 24-7, 5 miles ahead. Chet's store. Sam got an idea.
“Um, Jeremy. I need to get Dean back to our motel, get him looked after." He looked over; the kid was staring unflinchingly back. "There’s a convenience store just down the road here. Chet's the owner, and I was kinda hoping I could..."
Jeremy turned to look at Dean in the back, then back to Sam and nodded. "Sure. I’ll tell the cops I escaped from Bill. Found a gun in his barn and shot him when he came back.”
Sam stared at the kid. He must have been more tired than he'd thought. And the kid had actually come up with a convincing story.
They went over some of the other details in the car and soon they’d crafted a story that fit the evidence. Jeremy had got free while Bill had been away. In search of a phone to use to call for help, he’d stumbled into the house and ended up finding a gun rather than a working phone.
When Bill had returned to find him gone, he’d chased Jeremy inside the house. They'd stumbled through the kitchen, somehow tripping the gas line. Then, making it to the barn, Jeremy’d found himself trapped and forced to use the gun he’d discovered in Bill’s stuff. Jeremy was too traumatized to remember where he’d thrown the gun afterward and Sam figured that, after a day or two looking for a weapon that was currently in the Chevy's trunk, the cops would give up.
A glow in the rear window caught Sam’s eyes: tall flames were shooting up into the morning air. The flames on the house were higher, but the barn was gaining in the battle of the infernos. Fanned by the autumn breezes, sparks were drifting over toward the silo. It wouldn’t be long before the entire farm and all its structures, dry and aged, would be reduced to nothing but ashes in the Minnesota landscape.
A half mile from the convenience store, Sam pulled over. “Well…,” he started, but couldn’t bring himself to ask the boy to exit the car.
“It’s alright.” Jeremy pulled the lever on the door. Before he got out, he turned and looked over the backseat. Dean watched him through half-mast eyes. “Thanks. If you hadn’t followed…”
Dean nodded. “Sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner."
"You tried," Jeremy shrugged, eyes full of sincerity. "That counts for a lot to me."
A soft smile tugged at the side of Dean's face. "Take care, kiddo,” he said softly, voice coarse and rough.
Jeremy nodded then turned to Sam and offered a simple, "Thanks."
"Be safe," Sam said and the boy turned and opened the door.
In the warmth of the car, the Winchesters watched him walk away, disappearing behind a bend in the road, though not before he turned and gave a last wave good-bye.
“He’ll be alright,” Sam said with a sigh, though not with any certainty. The word ‘alright’ seemed so relative and in the quiet of the car, the sound of Dean’s rasping breaths reminded him just how far from that word Dean was.
“Um, Sammy?” Dean wheezed a breath. "You know we can't..."
Sam looked over his shoulder at Dean and with renewed concern. He looked horrible. Sounded horrible. He remembered the blood coated barbed wire, the syringes. Sam should be taking him to a hospital, no matter what his brother said.
Dean couldn’t find the strength to actually say the words, but his look was leaden as he stared at Sam. “I know, Dean. No hospital.”
Dean sighed and his eyes slipped shut. Either passed out or just asleep, it was hard to tell the difference anymore.
Chapter 9 x * * * >X< * * * x Part 2, Chapter 10