fic: the sharpness of the outline (6/9)
Title: The Sharpness of the Outline
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: R - for strong language and content
Pairing: none (gen) Dean, Sam, John
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
SPOILERS: through 3X07
Summary: There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic. - Anaïs Nin
A/N: This story serves as my Sweet Charity fic for a_starfish Thanks to pdragon76 for the kind of beta that constantly begs me to do better. Those interested can read Their Appointed Rounds which serves as a companion to this fic, though it's not necessary to do so. Special tip of the hat to smilla02 for the wonderful icons.
A sensible man will remember that the eyes may be confused in two ways - by a change from light to darkness or from darkness to light; and he will recognize that the same thing happens to the soul. - Plato
The buck’s head was down, rack tilted forward, but there was far too much bump and blur for Dean to do more math. Didn’t matter; he’d figured out the equation: giant pointy death. That was the sum.
Neither he nor Sam took a shot, though both aimed - and that made no sense. They were hunters. Raised that way. Killed shit all the time. But neither one of them had ever been hunting-hunting.
“You gonna shoot?” Sam asked at his shoulder, as tense and tight and flummoxed as Dean felt.
He’d killed a squirrel once, sent a ball bearing straight through its skull with a sling shot he’d made himself. Hadn’t meant to. It was just one of those stupid, impulsive things a kid does when he doesn’t believe in what he can do. And Sam’d shot a blackbird, but that had been to save Dean’s life.
Geysers of rainwater erupted with each pound of the buck’s hooves. It’d closed a third of the distance between them and wasn’t slowing down.
“Dean?” Sam hissed.
Dean was pretty sure you curled up in a ball for bears. Made yourself look big for mountain lions. He was almost positive it was sharks you punched in the nose, maybe alligators.
White breath huffed from the buck’s black nostrils like steam from a kettle.
“Dean?”
One hundred and fifty yards.
“Dean!”
One hundred yards.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, and thumbed back both hammers.
Seventy-five yards.
“Dude! Shoot it!”
He hip-checked Sam - didn’t think it through, just did it. At the same time, he locked his right arm, pulled back his left shoulder a skosh, and filled the air with a shout:
“Right here, motherfucker!”
Then it was BLAM! BLAM! and both barrels and a spray of red clouded off the buck’s back like a swarm of gnats. When Dean didn’t hear the expected echo of Sam’s gun being fired, he realized the hip-check had knocked his brother off balance.
“Sammy!” Dean’s eyes rocketed between the buck and his brother and back. The animal meant to run them through the middle - thread the needle - and his brother was down and vulnerable.
Dean had attended more than a dozen rodeos during his seven months in Arizona. He knew when a clown couldn’t distract a bull with the normal tactics, desperation usually worked. He grimaced, pulled back, and threw the sawed-off at the fast encroaching buck. The gun clattered against its rack - steel and wood on bone - hung up in the points for a second, then dropped. The bull kept charging.
Sam was up on one knee when Dean shouted for him to stay down. The two seconds it took was long enough for the buck to reach them. Dean’s feet stepped back instinctively, though his heart meant him to lunge. Sam had swung out an arm in an effort to stand, and the buck’s rack caught it between elbow and wrist.
Dean watched in horror as his brother yelled and spun, flew into the air like an origami Sammy, all paper-light and folded, sharp corners and bends. He landed, crumpled, with a wet thud before Dean had a chance to move.
Ten feet past them, the buck sloshed to a stop with a spray of fallen rain and new-made mud. Dean heard it snort, watched - frozen - as it stomped its hooves and shook its white-trimmed tail, then turn and set up for another charge.
He rapidly assessed his triangulation of choice: unloaded sawed-off; unconscious brother; crazy giant deer. Option three took the lead when, in a blink, the buck’s eyes flashed from onyx to ruby red.
Son of a bitch.
He fumbled the flask of holy water from his jacket pocket. Kept his focus on the buck, its head dipping down-up-down like a bobble-headed dog on a back dash. He unscrewed the lid of the flask.
Demon deer. Un-fucking-believable.
Instead of charging, the buck reared up on its hind legs, cream-colored belly and breast exposed. Dean drew back his arm and delivered a lashing of holy water across mud-splattered fur.
The white-tail shrieked, shuddered and snorted, and made a horrible honking noise. It snapped back down on all fours through a mist of hiss and bubble, shook its hindquarters violently from side-to-side, then dropped its rack again. Sparring mode.
Dean heard Sam groan, saw him roll and try to sit in his periphery. “Stay still, Sam!” he ordered.
The fog of breath from the buck’s nostrils was a swirl of white and black; temperature variance and escaping demon curling and coiling like fighting snakes.
When a subtle slosh of the flask told him there probably wasn’t enough holy water to charm the demon back to hell, Dean did the only thing he could think of: dropped the flask, turned his palms skyward, and let the Latin fall from his lips.
“Exorcizo te, creatura aquæ, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu Christi, Filii ejus Domini nostri…”
The buck shook like a mutt after a bath, made an angry braying sound in the back of its throat. Its hind legs spread, and its front legs came forward, head lowering till its black nose skimmed the ground.
“Et in virtute Spiritus Sancti: ut fias aqua exorcizata ad effugandam omnem potestatem inimici, et ipsum inimicum eradicare et explantare valeas cum angelis suis apostaticis per virtutem ejusdem Domini nostri Jesu Christ: qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos et sæculum per ignem.”
Raindrops spit and sizzled as they hit patches of dug earth across the field, sent up hot-spring flares of vapor from the buck’s hide.
“Deus, qui ad salutem humani generis maxima quæque sacramenta in aquarum substantia condidisti: adesto propitius invocationibus nostris, et elemento huic, multimodis purificationibus præparato, virtutem tuæ benedictionis infunde.”
A half-foot of mist whispered above the mud and grass, spilling like milk between Dean, the deer, and Sam. The buck reared its head, sent up a cry against the clapping thunder, and spasmed and shook while the demon contrail excised itself from within.
The black smoke mixed with the fast-moving clouds as Dean watched and blinked through the rain. The buck tipped sideways, tongue lolling like a giant Pink Pearl eraser over its jaw. Its belly caved in, rack crumbled and disintegrated, and then the whole carcass melted into the grass like the Wicked Witch of the West.
“Holy shit!” Sam said, and Dean nearly hopped out of his skin. Sam was up and next to him, arm cradled against his chest, eyes pinned to the deer puddle ten feet away.
* * *
Wickenburg, Arizona - 2001
Dean made a couple of phone calls while Leon - or Larry or Lonnie, he hadn’t really been listening - got the Impala hooked up for the tow. There was three hundred and seventeen left on the Missoula card, and two hundred and change on the Nugent Visa. Lonnie - or Leon or whatever, Dean figured he was the kind of guy who might go just by ‘L’ - told him it’d be seventy dollars to get the Impala to his garage. Cash. Which left Dean just shy of five hundred, including the thirty in his wallet, to get a room, grab some food, and rent a car so he could make the poltergeist gig.
It wasn’t that he was feeling like he owed his dad; Dean had left him five voice mails in the past two hours and they hadn’t been returned. Fuck you, too, Dad… But fifteen hundred dollars was fifteen hundred dollars, and if his dad wasn’t going to call him back? Dean could live pretty high off that tidy sum for a good long while. They’d been raised to be thrifty. Besides, he had no idea what the damage to the Impala was going to be.
“Man, she is a beaut,” L said, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He shot a laser beam of tobacco juice to the side on his approach. Pocketed the rag and adjusted his ball cap.
“You got a guess about damage?” Dean asked, sliding his cell into his jacket. L’s coveralls puffed open as he scratched his head, revealing an Amboy Dukes t-shirt, and Dean figured the Nugent card wasn’t going to fool the mechanic.
Fuck me.
L shook his head and clucked his tongue, spit again. “Hard to say till I get ‘er back to the shop and up on the lift. You’re right about the cracked boot, but until it comes off, I ain’t guessin’ about the axle,” he finished with a shrug.
“Shit,” Dean chuffed, and ran a hand through his hair.
“You just passin’ through?”
“Huh?” Dean asked.
L pointed to the Impala. “Illinois plates. You tryin’ to get somewhere?”
“Wickenburg, actually. Supposed to meet a guy--” Dean checked his watch, “shit. An hour ago. You mind if I make a quick call?” he asked, motioning down the road a bit.
“Knock yourself out. I still gotta get the brake lights set up,” L said, and ambled toward the truck.
Dean fished out his cell, found the note his dad had passed him in the bar last night, and called Phil Slocum. After three tries - and no voice mail - it became pretty clear that his dad probably met Slocum at an ‘Assholes Who Don’t Answer Their Phones Club’ meeting. Just for the hell of it, he tried his dad’s number again, didn’t leave a message when the voice mail cut in.
L gave him a thumbs-up as Dean walked back toward the tow truck. “Ready to go,” he said. “You get a holda your guy?”
“No answer,” Dean replied with a head shake and a frown.
L gave Dean a half squint, cocked his head and curled up one corner of his mouth. “You ain’t cursed or nothin’, are ya?” he asked with a light chuckle. When Dean didn’t answer, L spit another line of chaw juice into the dust at the side of the road. “No offense, brother, just…” L waved a hand at the Impala, “…the car, the meetin’, and, uh, your face looks like you got the raw end of a coupla bad deals.”
Dean gave him a long stare. Shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno, man. Anything’s possible at this point.”
* * *
Bellingham, Washington - 2007
Jimmy called ahead and asked Cheryl to meet them at the cabin, told her to bring over her med-kit. He got an earful, if his pinched face and placating words were any indication. Dean hovered over Sam like a doomed zeppelin, trying to keep the rain off him. Trying to offer some kind of physical stability while the boat hopped and skipped across the bay, back toward Bellingham.
“Dude, seriously. I’m fine. It’s not that bad,” Sam said for the fifteenth time.
But it was bad. It was terrible. Dean couldn’t get Arlee - and the shove his dad has given him - out of his head. He blinked phantom haze from his left eye. “You coulda broken your wrist again, Sam. Last time you went two days before we got it taken care of and--”
“Dude. It’s not broken. I’m positive. Look,” Sam said, and waggled his fingers at Dean, right elbow cupped in his left palm.
“I didn’t mean to push you like that,” Dean said, and Sam pulled a frown.
“Dean, man. Relax. Shit, you probably saved me from getting…gored in the nads or something,” Sam joked.
Dean didn’t crack a smile. Kept his jaw tightly clamped.
“Besides. You consecrating the fucking rain? Totally cool. Makes up for the whole When Animals Attack thing.”
“It’s not funny, Sam.”
“Come on, it’s hilarious. Anyway, I was the one who didn’t take a shot, and I was the one flappin’ my arms like a seal. It’s not your fault, man. Get over it.”
When they reached the dock at Bellingham, Dean scrambled off the boat with the tie-line. Got them secured at the stern, then hopped back in to help Sam climb out. Jimmy shut everything down and tied off the stem. Started working on the cover while Dean hustled Sam back to the Impala, herded him like a Kelpie does a sheep.
“Dean, I’m fine!” Sam said, exasperated.
“Yeah, we’ll let Cheryl be the judge of that,” said Dean.
He yanked open the passenger-side door and waited, closed it when Sam was folded inside. He jogged around to the trunk, dug out an insta-ice pack from the first-aid kit, and handed it to Sam as he slid in behind the wheel.
“Start icin’ it now, in case we have to cast it,” he said, brushing the rain out of his hair with a swipe of his hand.
“I told you, it’s not broken.”
“And I told you, we’ll let a medical professional decide that.” Dean jammed the key into the ignition, flipped on the heat and the wipers.
“I thought Cheryl was an ex-nurse,” Sam said.
“For fuck’s sake, Sam! Can’t I just--!” He gripped the steering wheel with both hands. Bit off the rest of what he meant to say.
“It’s not your fault.”
Dean blew out a breath, threw the Impala in reverse and backed out of the parking space. He tooled down toward the dock to wait for Jimmy.
“Dean, man. Talk to me.”
“I brought us in there blind, okay?” he barked. “My fault. I shoulda known--”
“Known what? There’d be a giant possessed deer that would attack us?” Sam laughed, then grimaced as his arm jostled.
“It’s not a joke, Sam.”
He wanted Sam to drop it. In the worst fucking way, he wanted his brother to shut the hell up and not push him and not be hurt. And Dean wanted it to not be his fault.
“It’s a dangerous gig,” Sam said with a cock of his head. “You’ve said it yourself a hundred times.”
Jimmy popped through the rear passenger door and flopped onto the seat, oblivious.
“All right. Boats wrapped up. Thanks for the curbside service,” he said, scrubbing rain from his beard. He flopped over the back of the bench seat, arms slicing through the chasm of tension between the boys. “So, Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Giant demon white-tail? Seriously?”
Dean gunned the engine. If it wasn’t for the wet asphalt, he’d have laid an inch of rubber on the way out of the marina.
* * *
Wickenburg, Arizona - 2001
He was staring, bleary-eyed, at the NO CREDIT - DON’T ASK sign behind the bar and trying to figure out how much more he could drink on the eleven dollars and fifty-three cents in his pocket.
He’d finally gotten a hold of Phil Slocum that morning, who’d told Dean curtly his services were no longer required.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Sorry, but when you didn’t show, I called John. He referred me to someone else.’
‘Someone-- Who?’
‘Look. I really don’t have time for this. Maybe you should ask your dad.’
And that had been that. Followed by a call from Lonnie, reading Dean the list of problems with the Impala.
‘We’re talkin’ new boots, new front axle, might have to do a little frame work, too, ‘cause you sure did a doosy on--’
‘What’s damage, Lonnie?’
‘Sorry, Dean, but it’s gonna be a ball kicker. I’ma hafta get some parts from Phoenix…and factorin’ in labor and time…’
‘You can’t let me do the work, man? Come on. I’m in a jam here.’
‘Like I said, I’m real sorry. But I got the state watchin’ me for a half dozen subtle emissions tests. I can’t have an unlicensed mechanic workin’ in the shop.’
‘Lonnie, man. I’m beggin’ you, here.’
‘I’m givin’ you labor for almost nothin’, Dean. That’s the best I can do.’
And that had been that. Followed by the motel clerk letting him know his credit card had been refused for the additional day Dean had asked to book. He couldn’t even sack out in the Impala; couldn’t pay to get it out of Lonnie’s garage.
“You want another?”
“Lemme ask you sunthin’,” Dean slurred, propping his elbows on the bar. “You gotta dad?”
The bartender pulled a pout. “‘Scuse me?”
Dean pointed a wavering finger at the bartender. “They’re sneaky. Sneaky bastards.”
“You ain’t drivin’, are you, brother?”
Dean leaned back with a drunken smirk. “Now, how’m I gonna drive when I don’t have a car? I got no car, I got no place t’ sleep, got no brother, got no Dad.” Dean spread his palms across the bar like a major league ump calling safe. “I got nothin’.”
“You okay, man? Need me to call somebody?”
Dean pointed at the bartender. “I do have a phone. I got that. But he never answers. What kinda guy doesn’t answer ‘is phone, man?”
The bartender sniffed and glanced around. “Lemme getcha a coffee, brother,” he said, and ducked through the kitchen door by the register.
“John fuckin’ Winchester, that’s who,” Dean called after him. He got half-numb fingers around the shot glass in front of him and drained the remaining whiskey.
“You say John Winchester?” a man asked, low, from the end of the bar.
Dean’s glance made a liquid swivel. He squinted down the ten feet to a blurry lump in a camo jacket. “What’s it t’you?”
The guy pushed up from his stool.
Dean sized him as near half a foot shy of his own height, but a fucking mountain across the chest, arms like cannons, nasty scar across his jaw that tangled up behind his ear. He was sporting a black eye that looked fresh as blueberry pie.
“He’s an old frienda mine.”
“‘S‘at so?” Dean asked, pushing away from the bar and turning to face the stocky man. He slipped down from the stool, steadied himself when his knees didn’t lock right.
“I got a problem with him answerin’ his phone, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe you can get a message to him for me.”
“Whussat?”
The man stepped forward, planted his feet shoulder-width apart.
“Tell ‘im the next time he’s got a quick an’ easy poltergeist, he can fuckin’ handle it himself.”
Sonuva--
Andy Tuttle's fist was the size of a ham, and Dean's chin was Sunday dinner waiting for the entrée. The slap of flesh-on-flesh echoed in his ears all the way to the floor.
* * *
Bellingham, Washington - 2007
“Well, it’s not broken,” Cheryl pronounced after a brief examination.
“I told you,” said Sam.
“You sure?” Dean asked from over Cheryl’s shoulder.
She shrugged. “As sure as I can be without an x-ray. I mean, definitely deep tissue bruising, maybe a hairline fracture, but nothing ice and rest and a splint shouldn’t take care of. It coulda been a lot worse.”
“I just don’t get it, though,” Jimmy said from the futon. “I mean, there’s deer on Lummi, but not deer that size. And not possessed.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t have to worry about that one anymore,” Dean said distractedly.
“Why would it show up now? For you guys? Why do you think it never bothered me and Jimmy?” Cheryl asked, gently wrapping an ice pack against Sam’s forearm with an Ace bandage.
Sam aimed a guilty look in his direction, and Dean did his best to shoot it down. Don’t even think it. “I dunno,” he said, and wiped a hand down his face. The vision out of his left eye was still a little dark. His chest felt tight and weighted.
“I mean, we were diggin’ up the actual bones,” said Jimmy with a shake of his head. “If that deer was some kinda watchdog or somethin’--”
“I dunno, Jimmy!” Dean barked, and instantly regretted it. He needed air. Needed to think and figure things out. “Sorry. I just--” He waved an absent hand at the three sets of eyes that fell on him; hurt, worry, confusion. “I’m gonna grab some air.” He backed up a step when Sam nodded a quiet “Okay,” then headed out the front door.
It’d stopped raining, but the earth was slick and dark and damp. Dean stepped deftly across the tarp, careful to avoid another slip and slide. He planted his boots in a patch of mud, churched his fingers across the back of his neck and sucked in a deep breath.
He didn’t want to think about the whys and hows of the buck showing up. But he needed to think about it - fuck - because if they were going to be killing Bambi and Thumper every time they went to the site, they were going to have to do some serious planning. Maybe forge a couple of hunting licenses.
He blew out the breath he’d pulled in, watched it ghost white as it left his mouth, dangling and dancing before him like a taunt. He glanced down at a log by his boot, played a quick connect-the-dots to a dozen more scattered across the yard. He hadn’t cleaned up the mess he’d made earlier.
Do what you say you’re gonna do, Winchester.
He unclasped his hands, leaned down and scooped up the chunk of cedar. Twisted at the hip and chucked it onto the tarp behind him.
Why had the buck appeared to them and not to Jimmy and Cheryl?
He picked his way around the swampy yard, grabbing up the logs he’d upset that morning, restacking them beside the tarp.
What does the symbol mean?
There was a large, thick stump set off from the makeshift porch as a chopping block, long-handled axe buried in its ringed surface. Dean wrenched the handle, weedled the head free of the stump’s grasp.
What’s the fuckin’ connection between Callham and Lummi and Maltby?
He balanced the axe in one hand, leaned down and snagged a log with the other. He set the fat cylinder of cedar on its end on the stump, took three steps back, and brought the axe handle to rest across his thighs.
What’d you know about Sam, Dad? When? For how long?
His right hand gripped the neck of the axe, index finger snug under the cold metal head. His left hand curled around the opposite end, tight above the handle’s toe and heel.
What’d you find out in Arizona, you bastard?
Dean took half a step back with his right foot, bent his knees as he let the axe head dip. His backswing rose like clock hands behind him, and he pivoted his hips. Let his right hand slide down the handle to kiss the left. The arc was round and smooth as the sun, a straight strike to the center of the log. Dean exhaled with the fall, let the weight of the axe do its work. The log popped and split, severed cedar twins spilling off to either side.
Why didn’t you tell me?
He leaned forward, set another log on the block. Jerked his shoulders and swung again. Had to rock the axe head loose from the stump.
Why didn’t you trust me?
He positioned another cedar pin, rent it in two with a snickersnack of the axe.
If I’m supposed to keep him safe-- If I’m supposed to save him--
The chopping became a mantra: bend, balance, breathe, swing. The muscles in his back tingled and pricked. The smell of wet cedar tickled his nose. He placed another log on the block.
He had five months. Five months before the deal came due, and no idea how to make everything right.
You’re gonna fix this. You’re gonna figure this out.
He tilted his head, brought his shoulder forward to swipe a sheen of sweat from his brow. The air was cold and thick in his lungs, made his throat ache and burn like the muscles in his arms.
You’re not leavin’ him. Not like this.
The axe came down, did his bidding once more.
You’re not him.
Bend, balance, breathe, swing.
You’re not Dad.
* * *
Wickenburg, Arizona - 2001
“You got one helluva punch, there, Andy,” Dean said around the ice pack at his jaw.
The big man shrugged, pointed his chin at Dean.
“You’re drunk. Makes it easier.”
“Tha’s the truth right there, brother. That is th’ truth,” Dean said, and saluted with the beer in his hand. Brought it to his lips and took a deep swallow.
“Sorry,” Andy said without much sentiment. “But your dad can really piss a guy off.”
“Dude, get outta my head,” said Dean, and copped another swig.
“Anyway…” Andy rubbed at the back of his neck. “Look, I heard you talkin’ before, and despite the pitiful display of competency you just presented, I’m lookin’ for a partner for a gig in Tempe. Possible double haunting.”
Dean twisted on the barstool, gave Andy his good eye. The man shrugged again, brought his own beer to his lips and took a pull.
“I figure any kid of John Winchester’s probably knows what the hell he’s doin’. Your dad might be a class-A dick, but he knows his shit. I’m guessin’ you got a pretty good skill set.”
Dean barked a laugh, then held a breath as his jaw flared and sent a bright shaft of pain up behind his left eye. “You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”
Andy’s shoulders made a familiar hop toward his ears.
“Suit yourself, man, but I’m talkin’ a cool grand, split seventy-thirty.”
“Seventy-thirty?”
“Sixty-forty, then. I gotta make mine for gas and supplies.”
Dean squinted at him, hard. He could do it: work a few gigs and earn enough to pay off Lonnie; keep food in his belly and roof over his head. “Throw in a motel room, and we might have a deal.”
“I’m stayin’ with a buddy’s got an extra couch. Smells like dog piss, but it’s better than nothin’.”
Dean pursed his lips. Pinched the inside corner of his mouth between his teeth.
“We do this gig, and four hundred bucks’ll get you a room in a decent motel for a couple weeks.” Andy set his beer on the bar, dragged a hand down his face. “Look. All the mines and ghost towns around here? There’s good work to be found. You can go faster and cover more ground when you’re workin’ double. Ain’t always big money, but it’s pretty damn steady.”
The tip of Dean’s tongue slid along his lower lip. He dropped the ice pack on the bar and brought up his hand to knuckle the cool flesh of his jaw. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Okay.”
* * *
Bellingham, Washington - 2007
A glimmer of steam rose from the dampness staining his t-shirt; a path of sweat-soaked cotton that blazed north from his waist and converged across both shoulders. He didn’t realize how dark it had gotten, hadn’t noticed his teeth chattering and clacking until he back-stumbled over the edge of the mountain of cedar he’d chopped. He let gravity take the axe head to the ground next to his boot, handle slipping through his throbbing fist like hot sand. Jimmy had enough cut fuel to last him through December. He brought up his forearm, squeegeed the crook of his elbow down his face.
You’re never gonna take him out. You gotta find a way to save him.
It stung to regret the deal, allow himself to reconsider that kiss at the crossroads. What good was his sacrifice if all it bought Sam was a second go at the Boy King throne? If what Dean had seen at Maltby was real, if the vision was some kind of prophecy-- Maybe he should have let Sam rest. Maybe that had been the only way to save him.
He buried the head of the axe in the chopping block, blade-edge carving a deep radius through the wood’s ringed years.
Five months.
His hands skimmed over his scalp, palms brushing spruce chips and strings of cedar from sweat-matted hair. He needed to make his sacrifice mean something, not leave it a burden for Sam to sort out.
Don’t make it what Dad did to you, goddamnit. Don’t you lay that on him.
His hands curled into fists; pounded against the outsides of his thighs when the hot flush of tears rushed his tight-clamped lids.
I’m tryin’, Sammy. I’m tryin’.
He heard the cabin door swing open behind him. Ran his arm under his nose and cleared a slick of snot and salt water.
The footfalls across the tarp were too delicate to be Jimmy’s or Sam’s. “Hey.”
Dean cleared his throat and shot a starched smile over his shoulder. “Hey, Cheryl.”
She was bundled in a rough wool sweater big enough to be Jimmy’s, her crossed arms pinning Dean’s leather jacket to her chest. She picked her way around the scatter of split logs that spilled across the yard from all sides of the chopping block.
“I thought you might be cold.”
He was. Frozen, almost. He reached out, goose-pimpled, to take the coat from Cheryl’s hand. “Thanks.”
He slipped his arms through the sleeves, shrugged the jacket over the round of his shoulders; almost ten years a hand-me-down, and it could still be a time machine. He snapped the collar against a sudden kick of breeze. It killed him how the leather still smelled like his dad, sometimes.
“You got a lot of work done,” Cheryl said with honest appreciation, arms once more locked in a tight self-hug. “Jimmy oughtta actually pay you.”
Dean coughed a polite laugh, brought up the stage lights. “Jimmy oughtta be kissin’ my ass.” His hands punched the inside corners of his jacket pockets. “Hell, you oughtta be kissin’ my ass. I just saved you some tedious nag time.”
“You’re probably right,” Cheryl said, settling beside him in the purple evening light. “But, you know, in my defense: freaked-out Winchester with an axe is not something you wanna barge in on.”
Dean threw back his head, gratefulness flooding the shores of his laughter. “Oh, shit. No. Definitely a point for your side.”
A hawk called from high over the woods, and for a few seconds they followed the movement of ink silhouette across night sky.
“You know, Sam’s okay. He really is.”
Dean nodded. “I know. Thank you.”
“I’m worried about you, though,” she said, and Dean stole a glance at her profile.
He shook his head. “I’m good.”
Cheryl blew out a breath. Stomped at the frosted grass with a foot, and hugged herself tighter.
“Jimmy and Sam are in there doing research, grumbling about dinner. I was gonna go grab a couple pizzas and some beer. You wanna come with?”
Dean shot a look over his shoulder at the cabin. “They havin’ any luck?”
“Sam got a phone call from a friend of yours…Bobby?”
Dean turned to face her. “Bobby called?”
“Sam says he’s gonna email some possible leads on the symbol.”
Saliva flooded over his tongue and along his gums; a tangy mix of hope, anxiety, and panic - as if Cheryl had sliced a lemon. He passed his hand over his mouth, then motioned toward the cabin. “You mind if I--?”
She waved him off. “It’s pizza and beer. I think I can handle it,” she said with a thrust of her chin and a wink.
He jostled his wallet from his back jeans pocket, fished out two twenties and offered them to Cheryl. She rolled her eyes and chuckled softly, declining the chip-in with a gentle push against his hand.
“I’ve got it, Dean. Really. It’s the least Jimmy and I can do.”
She jingled a set of keys from her sweater pocket, and Dean knew she had something more to say. When Dad and Jimmy’d disappeared for a day right after Maltby, and Dean was too weak to do anything more than worry about it, Cheryl’d taken care of him. Not just the medical crap, but talking to him. Listening to him. It was therapy he’d needed, and she’d found a way for him to accept it without shame.
He reached out and grasped her upper arm, fingers wrapping easily around the compact bone and muscle there. He gave a gentle squeeze, then released. “I’m good. I mean, I will be. I’m workin’ it out. Obviously,” he said, tagging the confession with obligatory self-deprecation and a wave at the fruits of his wood chopping labor.
Cheryl nodded. Dropped her gaze to the ground. “Look, Dean,” she ventured, then brought up her eyes to catch his. “I’m not gonna pretend I know you. We’ve only met once before, and I gotta say - at least you’re consistent. ‘Cause it seems like you’re in the middle of another hurricane. And maybe that’s just coincidence, or maybe it actually tells me a hell of a lot about you. Either way, it just seems like there’s somethin’ else goin’ on and--”
Dean didn’t blink.
“I don’t know what it is, I just-- I know this is costing you, and--” Her face pinched tightly and she shook her head. When she stilled and spoke, her eyes pinned on the air over Dean’s right shoulder, he could hear the struggle for control in her voice. “You didn’t see him after. What it was like. I mean, it had only been a week when you guys got here…Tabby’d only been gone a week and Jimmy hadn’t-- It hadn’t sunk in. It nearly killed him.”
Her eyes found his again. “All the questions and the guilt and the sorrow at losing her, losing her mom, feeling like he couldn’t keep anyone safe…”
Dean nodded, lower jaw sliding forward. He swallowed hard.
Cheryl let go of the reins a brief second - loosed a sob as twisted and gnarled as roots - then blew out a breath. Regained her course. “Thank you. Thank you for loving Sam and your dad enough to do this for Jimmy.”
“Cheryl--”
“No, no. Please,” she said. “I’m not-- Because I know this is costing you, Dean. On top of whatever other bills you have due right now. I just-- Thank you for seeing that Jimmy’s worth the sacrifice you’re making.”
It was a strangely selfish selflessness; needing someone to love a person as much as you loved them, but Dean got it, loud and clear as a motherfucking bell. He figured that’s why he cared so much about Jimmy; Jimmy’d loved and admired John Winchester to a fault, too. He sniffed deeply and pulled his jacket tighter around him. “He’s a good man,” Dean said.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Yeah.” Her hand rose, fluttered briefly near Dean’s cheek, then dropped. “Takes one to know one,” she said on a turn, and headed for Jimmy’s truck.
* * *
Surprise, Arizona - 2001
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you. I told you it was a stupid plan and you just couldn’t hear it, could you?”
“You know, I’m gettin’ a little sick of your mouth,” Andy said, taking a step closer to Dean.
“Then maybe you should do somethin’ about it,” Dean taunted, nostrils flaring like a bull’s.
“Maybe I should.”
“Take your best shot.”
He’d experienced faster and harder dead-end flights against a wall, but mostly under ghost power. Every time Dean forgot how much Andy’s size belied his strength, the man found a way to remind him.
His fingers clamped around Andy’s wrists, thumbs grinding the archipelago of bones beneath the pad of the palm. Dean clenched his jaw when the man skull-thunked him against the wall, and concentrated on dragging a foot up Andy’s shin.
“You’re just like your old man, you know that? You always think your way’s the right way.”
“‘Cause it usually is,” Dean ground out, pushing against the weight with which Andy had him pinned.
It had been almost three months, and Dean had reached his limit, last straw being their current gig. The pastor of a small Episcopalian parish had been implicated in half a dozen sex crimes over the past three weeks, and was desperate enough to split the church coffers between a bail bondsman and a couple of hunters. Andy’d guessed it was a doppelganger, Dean had argued shape-shifter.
“That woman coulda died tonight because of you. Because you’re too goddamned lazy to do the research and respect the job!” Dean yelled, smashing his heel into Andy’s kneecap.
Andy stumbled back, caught himself against the dresser. “You little son of a--” he growled, then launched himself toward Dean’s middle.
The two hit the wall at a good pace, pocked the sheetrock with their shape. Andy pushed off Dean’s chest, stumbled back, and stepped to the top of the punching key. Dean threw a right that connected square with Andy’s ear. A second pound, and Andy hopped back.
Dean saw crimson on Andy’s palm when it came away from his ear, felt a trickle of blood winding through the short hairs on the back of his own head. He blinked until his vision settled - in his right eye, at least - then staggered a few steps toward his duffle; he was done.
Andy wasn’t.
He lunged at Dean, knocked him off unsteady feet and onto one of the twin beds. They bounced from the sprung mattress like a Siamese trampoline act, and Dean’s elbow clipped the nightstand. He yelled out, tried to twist around the flare of pain in his arm, and Andy landed a pile-driver slug to Dean’s nose.
There was a POP! - then a Michael Bay flick opened inside Dean’s skull: no exposition, but plenty of explosions. He tasted blood on his lips and at the back of his throat, knew his nose was busted, and was smart enough to stop his hand from actually touching to confirm because - FUCKMEOHFUCKOWOWOW.
Dean sucked back a swell of blood from his nostrils and swallowed it down with what was already in his throat as he watched Andy struggle onto the opposite bed.
They’d been drinking too much. Dean had been drinking a lot since he’d hooked up with Andy. Neither one of them was a pleasant drunk, and that didn’t help matters at all. It was the second time this week they’d come to blows, and Dean was starting to feel worse for the wear. His dad may never have taken a punch for him, but he’d never raised his hand against him, either. Dean and Sam had fought to red-knuckles on a number of occasions - difference was, he gave a shit about his brother and his dad. Andy could go to hell.
“Where d’you think you’re goin’?” Andy asked him, pinky prodding tenderly around the cup of his ear.
Dean tamped a hand towel against his upper lip. Snorted back more blood, and kept jamming things into his duffle.
“Hey!” Andy shouted, and Dean shouted back.
“I’m done, you stupid fuck! Enough’s enough.” He yanked closed the zipper on his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and winced when it dropped against his back. “Just gimme my cut and we’ll call this over.”
Andy stared at him, gape-mouthed, then let out a laugh.
“You got some fuckin’ nerve.”
“I got nerve?” Dean asked, eyebrows practically at his hairline. “I’m the one who killed that shape-shifting motherfucker. The whole fee should be mine.”
Andy gave him a crooked smile. “Possession’s nine-tenths of the law,” he said, showcasing the wallet-chain draping his hip.
Dean snarled, and his whole face throbbed. He wanted out - away from Andy, away from Arizona. He wanted the Impala back, and his dad, and some fucking direction. His hand slipped to the leather sheath on his hip. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of the silver knife he’d used to save their lives, to kill the shape-shifter.
“Gimme my cut, Andy, and I’ll walk away.”
Andy’s eyes ticked drunkenly from Dean’s face, to the knife, and back. He blew out a skeptical breath.
“You’re not gonna do anything.”
The knife was out of the sheath and in the air before Andy had a chance to blink. The curved tip nosed up, and Dean recaptured the hilt as the knife dropped. Lamp light flashed off each gig in the blade.
“You give me what you owe me or, I swear to God, I’ll slice you like a loaf of bread and make it look like a coyote attack.”
Dean didn’t feel like his delivery was all that convincing - maybe it was more about the stream of blood he spit, punctuating the threat - but Andy pinched up his mouth, started breathing like a marathoner. He yanked on his wallet leash, tugged apart the leather billfold, and counted out two-hundred and fifty dollars for Dean. He folded it over twice and chucked the wad of cash across the room.
“I ever run into you again, it’s open season.”
Dean’s free hand snatched the money from the air, the other hopped the tip of the knife off his temple in mock salute. No worries at all. He was never going to see Andy Tuttle again; this was it, he was toast.
Dean was done with hunting for good.
click for 7
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: R - for strong language and content
Pairing: none (gen) Dean, Sam, John
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
SPOILERS: through 3X07
Summary: There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic. - Anaïs Nin
A/N: This story serves as my Sweet Charity fic for a_starfish Thanks to pdragon76 for the kind of beta that constantly begs me to do better. Those interested can read Their Appointed Rounds which serves as a companion to this fic, though it's not necessary to do so. Special tip of the hat to smilla02 for the wonderful icons.
A sensible man will remember that the eyes may be confused in two ways - by a change from light to darkness or from darkness to light; and he will recognize that the same thing happens to the soul. - Plato
The buck’s head was down, rack tilted forward, but there was far too much bump and blur for Dean to do more math. Didn’t matter; he’d figured out the equation: giant pointy death. That was the sum.
Neither he nor Sam took a shot, though both aimed - and that made no sense. They were hunters. Raised that way. Killed shit all the time. But neither one of them had ever been hunting-hunting.
“You gonna shoot?” Sam asked at his shoulder, as tense and tight and flummoxed as Dean felt.
He’d killed a squirrel once, sent a ball bearing straight through its skull with a sling shot he’d made himself. Hadn’t meant to. It was just one of those stupid, impulsive things a kid does when he doesn’t believe in what he can do. And Sam’d shot a blackbird, but that had been to save Dean’s life.
Geysers of rainwater erupted with each pound of the buck’s hooves. It’d closed a third of the distance between them and wasn’t slowing down.
“Dean?” Sam hissed.
Dean was pretty sure you curled up in a ball for bears. Made yourself look big for mountain lions. He was almost positive it was sharks you punched in the nose, maybe alligators.
White breath huffed from the buck’s black nostrils like steam from a kettle.
“Dean?”
One hundred and fifty yards.
“Dean!”
One hundred yards.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, and thumbed back both hammers.
Seventy-five yards.
“Dude! Shoot it!”
He hip-checked Sam - didn’t think it through, just did it. At the same time, he locked his right arm, pulled back his left shoulder a skosh, and filled the air with a shout:
“Right here, motherfucker!”
Then it was BLAM! BLAM! and both barrels and a spray of red clouded off the buck’s back like a swarm of gnats. When Dean didn’t hear the expected echo of Sam’s gun being fired, he realized the hip-check had knocked his brother off balance.
“Sammy!” Dean’s eyes rocketed between the buck and his brother and back. The animal meant to run them through the middle - thread the needle - and his brother was down and vulnerable.
Dean had attended more than a dozen rodeos during his seven months in Arizona. He knew when a clown couldn’t distract a bull with the normal tactics, desperation usually worked. He grimaced, pulled back, and threw the sawed-off at the fast encroaching buck. The gun clattered against its rack - steel and wood on bone - hung up in the points for a second, then dropped. The bull kept charging.
Sam was up on one knee when Dean shouted for him to stay down. The two seconds it took was long enough for the buck to reach them. Dean’s feet stepped back instinctively, though his heart meant him to lunge. Sam had swung out an arm in an effort to stand, and the buck’s rack caught it between elbow and wrist.
Dean watched in horror as his brother yelled and spun, flew into the air like an origami Sammy, all paper-light and folded, sharp corners and bends. He landed, crumpled, with a wet thud before Dean had a chance to move.
Ten feet past them, the buck sloshed to a stop with a spray of fallen rain and new-made mud. Dean heard it snort, watched - frozen - as it stomped its hooves and shook its white-trimmed tail, then turn and set up for another charge.
He rapidly assessed his triangulation of choice: unloaded sawed-off; unconscious brother; crazy giant deer. Option three took the lead when, in a blink, the buck’s eyes flashed from onyx to ruby red.
Son of a bitch.
He fumbled the flask of holy water from his jacket pocket. Kept his focus on the buck, its head dipping down-up-down like a bobble-headed dog on a back dash. He unscrewed the lid of the flask.
Demon deer. Un-fucking-believable.
Instead of charging, the buck reared up on its hind legs, cream-colored belly and breast exposed. Dean drew back his arm and delivered a lashing of holy water across mud-splattered fur.
The white-tail shrieked, shuddered and snorted, and made a horrible honking noise. It snapped back down on all fours through a mist of hiss and bubble, shook its hindquarters violently from side-to-side, then dropped its rack again. Sparring mode.
Dean heard Sam groan, saw him roll and try to sit in his periphery. “Stay still, Sam!” he ordered.
The fog of breath from the buck’s nostrils was a swirl of white and black; temperature variance and escaping demon curling and coiling like fighting snakes.
When a subtle slosh of the flask told him there probably wasn’t enough holy water to charm the demon back to hell, Dean did the only thing he could think of: dropped the flask, turned his palms skyward, and let the Latin fall from his lips.
“Exorcizo te, creatura aquæ, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu Christi, Filii ejus Domini nostri…”
The buck shook like a mutt after a bath, made an angry braying sound in the back of its throat. Its hind legs spread, and its front legs came forward, head lowering till its black nose skimmed the ground.
“Et in virtute Spiritus Sancti: ut fias aqua exorcizata ad effugandam omnem potestatem inimici, et ipsum inimicum eradicare et explantare valeas cum angelis suis apostaticis per virtutem ejusdem Domini nostri Jesu Christ: qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos et sæculum per ignem.”
Raindrops spit and sizzled as they hit patches of dug earth across the field, sent up hot-spring flares of vapor from the buck’s hide.
“Deus, qui ad salutem humani generis maxima quæque sacramenta in aquarum substantia condidisti: adesto propitius invocationibus nostris, et elemento huic, multimodis purificationibus præparato, virtutem tuæ benedictionis infunde.”
A half-foot of mist whispered above the mud and grass, spilling like milk between Dean, the deer, and Sam. The buck reared its head, sent up a cry against the clapping thunder, and spasmed and shook while the demon contrail excised itself from within.
The black smoke mixed with the fast-moving clouds as Dean watched and blinked through the rain. The buck tipped sideways, tongue lolling like a giant Pink Pearl eraser over its jaw. Its belly caved in, rack crumbled and disintegrated, and then the whole carcass melted into the grass like the Wicked Witch of the West.
“Holy shit!” Sam said, and Dean nearly hopped out of his skin. Sam was up and next to him, arm cradled against his chest, eyes pinned to the deer puddle ten feet away.
* * *
Wickenburg, Arizona - 2001
Dean made a couple of phone calls while Leon - or Larry or Lonnie, he hadn’t really been listening - got the Impala hooked up for the tow. There was three hundred and seventeen left on the Missoula card, and two hundred and change on the Nugent Visa. Lonnie - or Leon or whatever, Dean figured he was the kind of guy who might go just by ‘L’ - told him it’d be seventy dollars to get the Impala to his garage. Cash. Which left Dean just shy of five hundred, including the thirty in his wallet, to get a room, grab some food, and rent a car so he could make the poltergeist gig.
It wasn’t that he was feeling like he owed his dad; Dean had left him five voice mails in the past two hours and they hadn’t been returned. Fuck you, too, Dad… But fifteen hundred dollars was fifteen hundred dollars, and if his dad wasn’t going to call him back? Dean could live pretty high off that tidy sum for a good long while. They’d been raised to be thrifty. Besides, he had no idea what the damage to the Impala was going to be.
“Man, she is a beaut,” L said, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He shot a laser beam of tobacco juice to the side on his approach. Pocketed the rag and adjusted his ball cap.
“You got a guess about damage?” Dean asked, sliding his cell into his jacket. L’s coveralls puffed open as he scratched his head, revealing an Amboy Dukes t-shirt, and Dean figured the Nugent card wasn’t going to fool the mechanic.
Fuck me.
L shook his head and clucked his tongue, spit again. “Hard to say till I get ‘er back to the shop and up on the lift. You’re right about the cracked boot, but until it comes off, I ain’t guessin’ about the axle,” he finished with a shrug.
“Shit,” Dean chuffed, and ran a hand through his hair.
“You just passin’ through?”
“Huh?” Dean asked.
L pointed to the Impala. “Illinois plates. You tryin’ to get somewhere?”
“Wickenburg, actually. Supposed to meet a guy--” Dean checked his watch, “shit. An hour ago. You mind if I make a quick call?” he asked, motioning down the road a bit.
“Knock yourself out. I still gotta get the brake lights set up,” L said, and ambled toward the truck.
Dean fished out his cell, found the note his dad had passed him in the bar last night, and called Phil Slocum. After three tries - and no voice mail - it became pretty clear that his dad probably met Slocum at an ‘Assholes Who Don’t Answer Their Phones Club’ meeting. Just for the hell of it, he tried his dad’s number again, didn’t leave a message when the voice mail cut in.
L gave him a thumbs-up as Dean walked back toward the tow truck. “Ready to go,” he said. “You get a holda your guy?”
“No answer,” Dean replied with a head shake and a frown.
L gave Dean a half squint, cocked his head and curled up one corner of his mouth. “You ain’t cursed or nothin’, are ya?” he asked with a light chuckle. When Dean didn’t answer, L spit another line of chaw juice into the dust at the side of the road. “No offense, brother, just…” L waved a hand at the Impala, “…the car, the meetin’, and, uh, your face looks like you got the raw end of a coupla bad deals.”
Dean gave him a long stare. Shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno, man. Anything’s possible at this point.”
* * *
Bellingham, Washington - 2007
Jimmy called ahead and asked Cheryl to meet them at the cabin, told her to bring over her med-kit. He got an earful, if his pinched face and placating words were any indication. Dean hovered over Sam like a doomed zeppelin, trying to keep the rain off him. Trying to offer some kind of physical stability while the boat hopped and skipped across the bay, back toward Bellingham.
“Dude, seriously. I’m fine. It’s not that bad,” Sam said for the fifteenth time.
But it was bad. It was terrible. Dean couldn’t get Arlee - and the shove his dad has given him - out of his head. He blinked phantom haze from his left eye. “You coulda broken your wrist again, Sam. Last time you went two days before we got it taken care of and--”
“Dude. It’s not broken. I’m positive. Look,” Sam said, and waggled his fingers at Dean, right elbow cupped in his left palm.
“I didn’t mean to push you like that,” Dean said, and Sam pulled a frown.
“Dean, man. Relax. Shit, you probably saved me from getting…gored in the nads or something,” Sam joked.
Dean didn’t crack a smile. Kept his jaw tightly clamped.
“Besides. You consecrating the fucking rain? Totally cool. Makes up for the whole When Animals Attack thing.”
“It’s not funny, Sam.”
“Come on, it’s hilarious. Anyway, I was the one who didn’t take a shot, and I was the one flappin’ my arms like a seal. It’s not your fault, man. Get over it.”
When they reached the dock at Bellingham, Dean scrambled off the boat with the tie-line. Got them secured at the stern, then hopped back in to help Sam climb out. Jimmy shut everything down and tied off the stem. Started working on the cover while Dean hustled Sam back to the Impala, herded him like a Kelpie does a sheep.
“Dean, I’m fine!” Sam said, exasperated.
“Yeah, we’ll let Cheryl be the judge of that,” said Dean.
He yanked open the passenger-side door and waited, closed it when Sam was folded inside. He jogged around to the trunk, dug out an insta-ice pack from the first-aid kit, and handed it to Sam as he slid in behind the wheel.
“Start icin’ it now, in case we have to cast it,” he said, brushing the rain out of his hair with a swipe of his hand.
“I told you, it’s not broken.”
“And I told you, we’ll let a medical professional decide that.” Dean jammed the key into the ignition, flipped on the heat and the wipers.
“I thought Cheryl was an ex-nurse,” Sam said.
“For fuck’s sake, Sam! Can’t I just--!” He gripped the steering wheel with both hands. Bit off the rest of what he meant to say.
“It’s not your fault.”
Dean blew out a breath, threw the Impala in reverse and backed out of the parking space. He tooled down toward the dock to wait for Jimmy.
“Dean, man. Talk to me.”
“I brought us in there blind, okay?” he barked. “My fault. I shoulda known--”
“Known what? There’d be a giant possessed deer that would attack us?” Sam laughed, then grimaced as his arm jostled.
“It’s not a joke, Sam.”
He wanted Sam to drop it. In the worst fucking way, he wanted his brother to shut the hell up and not push him and not be hurt. And Dean wanted it to not be his fault.
“It’s a dangerous gig,” Sam said with a cock of his head. “You’ve said it yourself a hundred times.”
Jimmy popped through the rear passenger door and flopped onto the seat, oblivious.
“All right. Boats wrapped up. Thanks for the curbside service,” he said, scrubbing rain from his beard. He flopped over the back of the bench seat, arms slicing through the chasm of tension between the boys. “So, Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Giant demon white-tail? Seriously?”
Dean gunned the engine. If it wasn’t for the wet asphalt, he’d have laid an inch of rubber on the way out of the marina.
* * *
Wickenburg, Arizona - 2001
He was staring, bleary-eyed, at the NO CREDIT - DON’T ASK sign behind the bar and trying to figure out how much more he could drink on the eleven dollars and fifty-three cents in his pocket.
He’d finally gotten a hold of Phil Slocum that morning, who’d told Dean curtly his services were no longer required.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Sorry, but when you didn’t show, I called John. He referred me to someone else.’
‘Someone-- Who?’
‘Look. I really don’t have time for this. Maybe you should ask your dad.’
And that had been that. Followed by a call from Lonnie, reading Dean the list of problems with the Impala.
‘We’re talkin’ new boots, new front axle, might have to do a little frame work, too, ‘cause you sure did a doosy on--’
‘What’s damage, Lonnie?’
‘Sorry, Dean, but it’s gonna be a ball kicker. I’ma hafta get some parts from Phoenix…and factorin’ in labor and time…’
‘You can’t let me do the work, man? Come on. I’m in a jam here.’
‘Like I said, I’m real sorry. But I got the state watchin’ me for a half dozen subtle emissions tests. I can’t have an unlicensed mechanic workin’ in the shop.’
‘Lonnie, man. I’m beggin’ you, here.’
‘I’m givin’ you labor for almost nothin’, Dean. That’s the best I can do.’
And that had been that. Followed by the motel clerk letting him know his credit card had been refused for the additional day Dean had asked to book. He couldn’t even sack out in the Impala; couldn’t pay to get it out of Lonnie’s garage.
“You want another?”
“Lemme ask you sunthin’,” Dean slurred, propping his elbows on the bar. “You gotta dad?”
The bartender pulled a pout. “‘Scuse me?”
Dean pointed a wavering finger at the bartender. “They’re sneaky. Sneaky bastards.”
“You ain’t drivin’, are you, brother?”
Dean leaned back with a drunken smirk. “Now, how’m I gonna drive when I don’t have a car? I got no car, I got no place t’ sleep, got no brother, got no Dad.” Dean spread his palms across the bar like a major league ump calling safe. “I got nothin’.”
“You okay, man? Need me to call somebody?”
Dean pointed at the bartender. “I do have a phone. I got that. But he never answers. What kinda guy doesn’t answer ‘is phone, man?”
The bartender sniffed and glanced around. “Lemme getcha a coffee, brother,” he said, and ducked through the kitchen door by the register.
“John fuckin’ Winchester, that’s who,” Dean called after him. He got half-numb fingers around the shot glass in front of him and drained the remaining whiskey.
“You say John Winchester?” a man asked, low, from the end of the bar.
Dean’s glance made a liquid swivel. He squinted down the ten feet to a blurry lump in a camo jacket. “What’s it t’you?”
The guy pushed up from his stool.
Dean sized him as near half a foot shy of his own height, but a fucking mountain across the chest, arms like cannons, nasty scar across his jaw that tangled up behind his ear. He was sporting a black eye that looked fresh as blueberry pie.
“He’s an old frienda mine.”
“‘S‘at so?” Dean asked, pushing away from the bar and turning to face the stocky man. He slipped down from the stool, steadied himself when his knees didn’t lock right.
“I got a problem with him answerin’ his phone, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe you can get a message to him for me.”
“Whussat?”
The man stepped forward, planted his feet shoulder-width apart.
“Tell ‘im the next time he’s got a quick an’ easy poltergeist, he can fuckin’ handle it himself.”
Sonuva--
Andy Tuttle's fist was the size of a ham, and Dean's chin was Sunday dinner waiting for the entrée. The slap of flesh-on-flesh echoed in his ears all the way to the floor.
* * *
Bellingham, Washington - 2007
“Well, it’s not broken,” Cheryl pronounced after a brief examination.
“I told you,” said Sam.
“You sure?” Dean asked from over Cheryl’s shoulder.
She shrugged. “As sure as I can be without an x-ray. I mean, definitely deep tissue bruising, maybe a hairline fracture, but nothing ice and rest and a splint shouldn’t take care of. It coulda been a lot worse.”
“I just don’t get it, though,” Jimmy said from the futon. “I mean, there’s deer on Lummi, but not deer that size. And not possessed.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t have to worry about that one anymore,” Dean said distractedly.
“Why would it show up now? For you guys? Why do you think it never bothered me and Jimmy?” Cheryl asked, gently wrapping an ice pack against Sam’s forearm with an Ace bandage.
Sam aimed a guilty look in his direction, and Dean did his best to shoot it down. Don’t even think it. “I dunno,” he said, and wiped a hand down his face. The vision out of his left eye was still a little dark. His chest felt tight and weighted.
“I mean, we were diggin’ up the actual bones,” said Jimmy with a shake of his head. “If that deer was some kinda watchdog or somethin’--”
“I dunno, Jimmy!” Dean barked, and instantly regretted it. He needed air. Needed to think and figure things out. “Sorry. I just--” He waved an absent hand at the three sets of eyes that fell on him; hurt, worry, confusion. “I’m gonna grab some air.” He backed up a step when Sam nodded a quiet “Okay,” then headed out the front door.
It’d stopped raining, but the earth was slick and dark and damp. Dean stepped deftly across the tarp, careful to avoid another slip and slide. He planted his boots in a patch of mud, churched his fingers across the back of his neck and sucked in a deep breath.
He didn’t want to think about the whys and hows of the buck showing up. But he needed to think about it - fuck - because if they were going to be killing Bambi and Thumper every time they went to the site, they were going to have to do some serious planning. Maybe forge a couple of hunting licenses.
He blew out the breath he’d pulled in, watched it ghost white as it left his mouth, dangling and dancing before him like a taunt. He glanced down at a log by his boot, played a quick connect-the-dots to a dozen more scattered across the yard. He hadn’t cleaned up the mess he’d made earlier.
Do what you say you’re gonna do, Winchester.
He unclasped his hands, leaned down and scooped up the chunk of cedar. Twisted at the hip and chucked it onto the tarp behind him.
Why had the buck appeared to them and not to Jimmy and Cheryl?
He picked his way around the swampy yard, grabbing up the logs he’d upset that morning, restacking them beside the tarp.
What does the symbol mean?
There was a large, thick stump set off from the makeshift porch as a chopping block, long-handled axe buried in its ringed surface. Dean wrenched the handle, weedled the head free of the stump’s grasp.
What’s the fuckin’ connection between Callham and Lummi and Maltby?
He balanced the axe in one hand, leaned down and snagged a log with the other. He set the fat cylinder of cedar on its end on the stump, took three steps back, and brought the axe handle to rest across his thighs.
What’d you know about Sam, Dad? When? For how long?
His right hand gripped the neck of the axe, index finger snug under the cold metal head. His left hand curled around the opposite end, tight above the handle’s toe and heel.
What’d you find out in Arizona, you bastard?
Dean took half a step back with his right foot, bent his knees as he let the axe head dip. His backswing rose like clock hands behind him, and he pivoted his hips. Let his right hand slide down the handle to kiss the left. The arc was round and smooth as the sun, a straight strike to the center of the log. Dean exhaled with the fall, let the weight of the axe do its work. The log popped and split, severed cedar twins spilling off to either side.
Why didn’t you tell me?
He leaned forward, set another log on the block. Jerked his shoulders and swung again. Had to rock the axe head loose from the stump.
Why didn’t you trust me?
He positioned another cedar pin, rent it in two with a snickersnack of the axe.
If I’m supposed to keep him safe-- If I’m supposed to save him--
The chopping became a mantra: bend, balance, breathe, swing. The muscles in his back tingled and pricked. The smell of wet cedar tickled his nose. He placed another log on the block.
He had five months. Five months before the deal came due, and no idea how to make everything right.
You’re gonna fix this. You’re gonna figure this out.
He tilted his head, brought his shoulder forward to swipe a sheen of sweat from his brow. The air was cold and thick in his lungs, made his throat ache and burn like the muscles in his arms.
You’re not leavin’ him. Not like this.
The axe came down, did his bidding once more.
You’re not him.
Bend, balance, breathe, swing.
You’re not Dad.
* * *
Wickenburg, Arizona - 2001
“You got one helluva punch, there, Andy,” Dean said around the ice pack at his jaw.
The big man shrugged, pointed his chin at Dean.
“You’re drunk. Makes it easier.”
“Tha’s the truth right there, brother. That is th’ truth,” Dean said, and saluted with the beer in his hand. Brought it to his lips and took a deep swallow.
“Sorry,” Andy said without much sentiment. “But your dad can really piss a guy off.”
“Dude, get outta my head,” said Dean, and copped another swig.
“Anyway…” Andy rubbed at the back of his neck. “Look, I heard you talkin’ before, and despite the pitiful display of competency you just presented, I’m lookin’ for a partner for a gig in Tempe. Possible double haunting.”
Dean twisted on the barstool, gave Andy his good eye. The man shrugged again, brought his own beer to his lips and took a pull.
“I figure any kid of John Winchester’s probably knows what the hell he’s doin’. Your dad might be a class-A dick, but he knows his shit. I’m guessin’ you got a pretty good skill set.”
Dean barked a laugh, then held a breath as his jaw flared and sent a bright shaft of pain up behind his left eye. “You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”
Andy’s shoulders made a familiar hop toward his ears.
“Suit yourself, man, but I’m talkin’ a cool grand, split seventy-thirty.”
“Seventy-thirty?”
“Sixty-forty, then. I gotta make mine for gas and supplies.”
Dean squinted at him, hard. He could do it: work a few gigs and earn enough to pay off Lonnie; keep food in his belly and roof over his head. “Throw in a motel room, and we might have a deal.”
“I’m stayin’ with a buddy’s got an extra couch. Smells like dog piss, but it’s better than nothin’.”
Dean pursed his lips. Pinched the inside corner of his mouth between his teeth.
“We do this gig, and four hundred bucks’ll get you a room in a decent motel for a couple weeks.” Andy set his beer on the bar, dragged a hand down his face. “Look. All the mines and ghost towns around here? There’s good work to be found. You can go faster and cover more ground when you’re workin’ double. Ain’t always big money, but it’s pretty damn steady.”
The tip of Dean’s tongue slid along his lower lip. He dropped the ice pack on the bar and brought up his hand to knuckle the cool flesh of his jaw. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Okay.”
* * *
Bellingham, Washington - 2007
A glimmer of steam rose from the dampness staining his t-shirt; a path of sweat-soaked cotton that blazed north from his waist and converged across both shoulders. He didn’t realize how dark it had gotten, hadn’t noticed his teeth chattering and clacking until he back-stumbled over the edge of the mountain of cedar he’d chopped. He let gravity take the axe head to the ground next to his boot, handle slipping through his throbbing fist like hot sand. Jimmy had enough cut fuel to last him through December. He brought up his forearm, squeegeed the crook of his elbow down his face.
You’re never gonna take him out. You gotta find a way to save him.
It stung to regret the deal, allow himself to reconsider that kiss at the crossroads. What good was his sacrifice if all it bought Sam was a second go at the Boy King throne? If what Dean had seen at Maltby was real, if the vision was some kind of prophecy-- Maybe he should have let Sam rest. Maybe that had been the only way to save him.
He buried the head of the axe in the chopping block, blade-edge carving a deep radius through the wood’s ringed years.
Five months.
His hands skimmed over his scalp, palms brushing spruce chips and strings of cedar from sweat-matted hair. He needed to make his sacrifice mean something, not leave it a burden for Sam to sort out.
Don’t make it what Dad did to you, goddamnit. Don’t you lay that on him.
His hands curled into fists; pounded against the outsides of his thighs when the hot flush of tears rushed his tight-clamped lids.
I’m tryin’, Sammy. I’m tryin’.
He heard the cabin door swing open behind him. Ran his arm under his nose and cleared a slick of snot and salt water.
The footfalls across the tarp were too delicate to be Jimmy’s or Sam’s. “Hey.”
Dean cleared his throat and shot a starched smile over his shoulder. “Hey, Cheryl.”
She was bundled in a rough wool sweater big enough to be Jimmy’s, her crossed arms pinning Dean’s leather jacket to her chest. She picked her way around the scatter of split logs that spilled across the yard from all sides of the chopping block.
“I thought you might be cold.”
He was. Frozen, almost. He reached out, goose-pimpled, to take the coat from Cheryl’s hand. “Thanks.”
He slipped his arms through the sleeves, shrugged the jacket over the round of his shoulders; almost ten years a hand-me-down, and it could still be a time machine. He snapped the collar against a sudden kick of breeze. It killed him how the leather still smelled like his dad, sometimes.
“You got a lot of work done,” Cheryl said with honest appreciation, arms once more locked in a tight self-hug. “Jimmy oughtta actually pay you.”
Dean coughed a polite laugh, brought up the stage lights. “Jimmy oughtta be kissin’ my ass.” His hands punched the inside corners of his jacket pockets. “Hell, you oughtta be kissin’ my ass. I just saved you some tedious nag time.”
“You’re probably right,” Cheryl said, settling beside him in the purple evening light. “But, you know, in my defense: freaked-out Winchester with an axe is not something you wanna barge in on.”
Dean threw back his head, gratefulness flooding the shores of his laughter. “Oh, shit. No. Definitely a point for your side.”
A hawk called from high over the woods, and for a few seconds they followed the movement of ink silhouette across night sky.
“You know, Sam’s okay. He really is.”
Dean nodded. “I know. Thank you.”
“I’m worried about you, though,” she said, and Dean stole a glance at her profile.
He shook his head. “I’m good.”
Cheryl blew out a breath. Stomped at the frosted grass with a foot, and hugged herself tighter.
“Jimmy and Sam are in there doing research, grumbling about dinner. I was gonna go grab a couple pizzas and some beer. You wanna come with?”
Dean shot a look over his shoulder at the cabin. “They havin’ any luck?”
“Sam got a phone call from a friend of yours…Bobby?”
Dean turned to face her. “Bobby called?”
“Sam says he’s gonna email some possible leads on the symbol.”
Saliva flooded over his tongue and along his gums; a tangy mix of hope, anxiety, and panic - as if Cheryl had sliced a lemon. He passed his hand over his mouth, then motioned toward the cabin. “You mind if I--?”
She waved him off. “It’s pizza and beer. I think I can handle it,” she said with a thrust of her chin and a wink.
He jostled his wallet from his back jeans pocket, fished out two twenties and offered them to Cheryl. She rolled her eyes and chuckled softly, declining the chip-in with a gentle push against his hand.
“I’ve got it, Dean. Really. It’s the least Jimmy and I can do.”
She jingled a set of keys from her sweater pocket, and Dean knew she had something more to say. When Dad and Jimmy’d disappeared for a day right after Maltby, and Dean was too weak to do anything more than worry about it, Cheryl’d taken care of him. Not just the medical crap, but talking to him. Listening to him. It was therapy he’d needed, and she’d found a way for him to accept it without shame.
He reached out and grasped her upper arm, fingers wrapping easily around the compact bone and muscle there. He gave a gentle squeeze, then released. “I’m good. I mean, I will be. I’m workin’ it out. Obviously,” he said, tagging the confession with obligatory self-deprecation and a wave at the fruits of his wood chopping labor.
Cheryl nodded. Dropped her gaze to the ground. “Look, Dean,” she ventured, then brought up her eyes to catch his. “I’m not gonna pretend I know you. We’ve only met once before, and I gotta say - at least you’re consistent. ‘Cause it seems like you’re in the middle of another hurricane. And maybe that’s just coincidence, or maybe it actually tells me a hell of a lot about you. Either way, it just seems like there’s somethin’ else goin’ on and--”
Dean didn’t blink.
“I don’t know what it is, I just-- I know this is costing you, and--” Her face pinched tightly and she shook her head. When she stilled and spoke, her eyes pinned on the air over Dean’s right shoulder, he could hear the struggle for control in her voice. “You didn’t see him after. What it was like. I mean, it had only been a week when you guys got here…Tabby’d only been gone a week and Jimmy hadn’t-- It hadn’t sunk in. It nearly killed him.”
Her eyes found his again. “All the questions and the guilt and the sorrow at losing her, losing her mom, feeling like he couldn’t keep anyone safe…”
Dean nodded, lower jaw sliding forward. He swallowed hard.
Cheryl let go of the reins a brief second - loosed a sob as twisted and gnarled as roots - then blew out a breath. Regained her course. “Thank you. Thank you for loving Sam and your dad enough to do this for Jimmy.”
“Cheryl--”
“No, no. Please,” she said. “I’m not-- Because I know this is costing you, Dean. On top of whatever other bills you have due right now. I just-- Thank you for seeing that Jimmy’s worth the sacrifice you’re making.”
It was a strangely selfish selflessness; needing someone to love a person as much as you loved them, but Dean got it, loud and clear as a motherfucking bell. He figured that’s why he cared so much about Jimmy; Jimmy’d loved and admired John Winchester to a fault, too. He sniffed deeply and pulled his jacket tighter around him. “He’s a good man,” Dean said.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Yeah.” Her hand rose, fluttered briefly near Dean’s cheek, then dropped. “Takes one to know one,” she said on a turn, and headed for Jimmy’s truck.
* * *
Surprise, Arizona - 2001
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you. I told you it was a stupid plan and you just couldn’t hear it, could you?”
“You know, I’m gettin’ a little sick of your mouth,” Andy said, taking a step closer to Dean.
“Then maybe you should do somethin’ about it,” Dean taunted, nostrils flaring like a bull’s.
“Maybe I should.”
“Take your best shot.”
He’d experienced faster and harder dead-end flights against a wall, but mostly under ghost power. Every time Dean forgot how much Andy’s size belied his strength, the man found a way to remind him.
His fingers clamped around Andy’s wrists, thumbs grinding the archipelago of bones beneath the pad of the palm. Dean clenched his jaw when the man skull-thunked him against the wall, and concentrated on dragging a foot up Andy’s shin.
“You’re just like your old man, you know that? You always think your way’s the right way.”
“‘Cause it usually is,” Dean ground out, pushing against the weight with which Andy had him pinned.
It had been almost three months, and Dean had reached his limit, last straw being their current gig. The pastor of a small Episcopalian parish had been implicated in half a dozen sex crimes over the past three weeks, and was desperate enough to split the church coffers between a bail bondsman and a couple of hunters. Andy’d guessed it was a doppelganger, Dean had argued shape-shifter.
“That woman coulda died tonight because of you. Because you’re too goddamned lazy to do the research and respect the job!” Dean yelled, smashing his heel into Andy’s kneecap.
Andy stumbled back, caught himself against the dresser. “You little son of a--” he growled, then launched himself toward Dean’s middle.
The two hit the wall at a good pace, pocked the sheetrock with their shape. Andy pushed off Dean’s chest, stumbled back, and stepped to the top of the punching key. Dean threw a right that connected square with Andy’s ear. A second pound, and Andy hopped back.
Dean saw crimson on Andy’s palm when it came away from his ear, felt a trickle of blood winding through the short hairs on the back of his own head. He blinked until his vision settled - in his right eye, at least - then staggered a few steps toward his duffle; he was done.
Andy wasn’t.
He lunged at Dean, knocked him off unsteady feet and onto one of the twin beds. They bounced from the sprung mattress like a Siamese trampoline act, and Dean’s elbow clipped the nightstand. He yelled out, tried to twist around the flare of pain in his arm, and Andy landed a pile-driver slug to Dean’s nose.
There was a POP! - then a Michael Bay flick opened inside Dean’s skull: no exposition, but plenty of explosions. He tasted blood on his lips and at the back of his throat, knew his nose was busted, and was smart enough to stop his hand from actually touching to confirm because - FUCKMEOHFUCKOWOWOW.
Dean sucked back a swell of blood from his nostrils and swallowed it down with what was already in his throat as he watched Andy struggle onto the opposite bed.
They’d been drinking too much. Dean had been drinking a lot since he’d hooked up with Andy. Neither one of them was a pleasant drunk, and that didn’t help matters at all. It was the second time this week they’d come to blows, and Dean was starting to feel worse for the wear. His dad may never have taken a punch for him, but he’d never raised his hand against him, either. Dean and Sam had fought to red-knuckles on a number of occasions - difference was, he gave a shit about his brother and his dad. Andy could go to hell.
“Where d’you think you’re goin’?” Andy asked him, pinky prodding tenderly around the cup of his ear.
Dean tamped a hand towel against his upper lip. Snorted back more blood, and kept jamming things into his duffle.
“Hey!” Andy shouted, and Dean shouted back.
“I’m done, you stupid fuck! Enough’s enough.” He yanked closed the zipper on his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and winced when it dropped against his back. “Just gimme my cut and we’ll call this over.”
Andy stared at him, gape-mouthed, then let out a laugh.
“You got some fuckin’ nerve.”
“I got nerve?” Dean asked, eyebrows practically at his hairline. “I’m the one who killed that shape-shifting motherfucker. The whole fee should be mine.”
Andy gave him a crooked smile. “Possession’s nine-tenths of the law,” he said, showcasing the wallet-chain draping his hip.
Dean snarled, and his whole face throbbed. He wanted out - away from Andy, away from Arizona. He wanted the Impala back, and his dad, and some fucking direction. His hand slipped to the leather sheath on his hip. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of the silver knife he’d used to save their lives, to kill the shape-shifter.
“Gimme my cut, Andy, and I’ll walk away.”
Andy’s eyes ticked drunkenly from Dean’s face, to the knife, and back. He blew out a skeptical breath.
“You’re not gonna do anything.”
The knife was out of the sheath and in the air before Andy had a chance to blink. The curved tip nosed up, and Dean recaptured the hilt as the knife dropped. Lamp light flashed off each gig in the blade.
“You give me what you owe me or, I swear to God, I’ll slice you like a loaf of bread and make it look like a coyote attack.”
Dean didn’t feel like his delivery was all that convincing - maybe it was more about the stream of blood he spit, punctuating the threat - but Andy pinched up his mouth, started breathing like a marathoner. He yanked on his wallet leash, tugged apart the leather billfold, and counted out two-hundred and fifty dollars for Dean. He folded it over twice and chucked the wad of cash across the room.
“I ever run into you again, it’s open season.”
Dean’s free hand snatched the money from the air, the other hopped the tip of the knife off his temple in mock salute. No worries at all. He was never going to see Andy Tuttle again; this was it, he was toast.
Dean was done with hunting for good.
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