Lessons 7/10
There will be ten chapters all up. It's racing towards its end!
I got reprimanded on a forum for not putting stronger warnings about the language and violence, so I WARN all readers: my WIPs will most likely contain excessive language, violence and blood. I'm into Dean whumpage, what can I say? ;-D
Title: Lessons 7/10
Rating: R for language and violence
Cateory: Gen
Timeline: After 'Provenance' but before 'Dead Man's Blood'
Disclaimer: I lay claim to nothing.
Summary: Murders at a college campus lead the brothers on a ghost hunt where Dean seems likely to become the next victim.
Lessons: CHAPTER 7
The Rolling Stones were still playing in the background. Loud enough to drown out his brother’s scream. He guessed that was the point. The spear had torn through Dean’s shoulder, clear through, like his skin was nothing but cloth. It had even made that tearing sound. But cloth didn’t bleed, and Sam was pretty sure cloth didn’t feel pain.
Sam wanted to yell and shout and swear, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop staring at his brother’s face. It was glistening with sweat and his jaw was twitching as Dean gritted his teeth against the pain.
“Dean?” he asked, fear stealing away his anger. Dean didn’t answer, just shut his eyes tightly and continued to shiver. Sam couldn’t help feeling that he was making it worse by staring: Dean hated people knowing he was in pain, hated when he couldn’t hide it. Sam bit his lip and looked away.
A glimmer caught his eye. Turning his head, Sam saw Damien’s pocketknife discarded on the ground, almost within reach. Sam quickly reverted his gaze, glancing up at Damien to make sure he too hadn’t noticed the knife.
But Damien wasn’t paying him any attention. He was staring at Dean, and he had the fucking gall to smile. Not grin or gloat, but smile. Like he’d just solved a puzzle, not shoved a spear, of all things, through Dean’s shoulder.
Sam slowly started shuffling backwards, towards the knife. His movements were awkward, a slow crawl across the dirt without full use of his legs or arms, all the while trying to keep his breathing steady and his plan from hitting Damien’s radar.
“Told you to stop moving,” Damien said, eyeing the spear.
“You crazy son of a bitch,” Dean gasped. He was shaking, every shudder setting off a fresh gasp, but Dean couldn’t seem to stop. Or maybe his body wasn’t his to command anymore: it had been penetrated with a fucking spear, for Christ’s sake. The spear was thin, jutting out of him at a perfect, straight angle. Blood was darkening his shirt, slowly spreading as his tremors widened the wound.
“I’m going to kill you.” Dean’s voice was shaking so badly the words barely resembled a threat.
“I doubt it,” Damien said, and he casually kicked Dean’s knee. Nothing hard, nothing that would cause damage. Just enough to make Dean flinch and bend on impact.
Dean cried out as the movement jostled the spear.
Sam froze in his effort to retrieve the knife, anger flushing his cheeks. He bit the inside of his lip until it bled, forcing himself to keep quiet. Dean was blinking back tears of pain, looking annoyed that they were there to begin with. Sam stretched out his arms and felt his hand curl around the knife’s cold hilt. He gripped it tightly and brought it forward, carving through the ropes with more speed and strength than he knew he possessed.
Dean forced himself to stand as still as possible and locked eyes with Damien. He was fighting off nausea and red was sparking in front of his vision, but he refused to break eye contact. “Karma’s a real bitch; just a head’s up.” His voice was low and strained.
Damien picked up the knife and lighter from where he’d dropped them. “Karma’s an abstract concept that denotes nothing. Like good, or evil.”
Fucking pretentious asshole. “I’m a real bitch. Just a heads up.”
“You should be grateful.” Damien flicked on the lighter and starting heating the knife. “Do you know how much tattoo removal usually costs? I got some ex-girlfriends who can tell you.”
“Really? I was under the impression they were all possessed or dead. Don’t tell me you’re into necrophilia, too.”
Damien chuckled and continued to heat the knife.
Dean forced himself passed the cloud of pain, and passed the panic that had intruded while his body stood vulnerable. He forced himself passed it all and racked his mind, trying to think of a way out. He glanced at Sam, preparing himself for Sam’s worried face, but was startled to find him in the process of cutting through his ropes.
Dean quickly swung his vision forward, not wanting to alert Damien of Sam’s escape attempt. He gasped as the movement jostled the spear.
Damien looked up at the sound. Switching the lighter to the hand holding the knife, Damien walked across the room and scooped up a half-empty bottle of vodka. He then pried Dean’s fingers away from the spear and pushed the bottle firmly into his hand. Dean gripped the bottle, staring at it.
“Drink,” Damien said. “It’ll hurt like hell if you don’t.” He flicked back on the lighter and continued to twist the knife in the flames, smiling a little.
The orange light danced off the bottle’s surface and maybe it was the blood loss and beating, but Dean found himself mesmerized by the dancing flames’ reflection. He blinked and realized Damien was still talking.
“I’m not a monster.” He was using a conversational tone that made Dean want to rip this spear from his shoulder and jab it into Damien’s eye. “I didn’t let him take away my mortality so that I can kill and torture people. I don’t paint my nails black and wear eyeliner for that reason either. I did it because I believe in his cause. What we do helps everyone. It’s more important than you can imagine. My life has a meaning now greater than it ever did when I was just one of you. Just a mortal fucking away my life.” He stepped closer and Dean cringed at the heat from the flames.
“They don’t suffer, the ones we kill,” Damien said quietly. “I’d give you that mercy, but he wants you alive. And he’d be furious if he knew Susie had branded you for death so soon, after so little observation. Plus…” Damien moved to Dean’s side and tore off the arm of his shirt, revealing the tattoo beneath. “Susie saw you killing me, and that pisses me off.”
Sweat rolled down Dean’s back. He gripped the bottle and, acting more on instinct than anything, swung it as hard as he could, right at Damien’s head. Damien’s arm whipped up and blocked the blow. He yanked the bottle from Dean’s grip and tossed it aside. “Fine, don’t drink it.”
“Saving it for later. Got an occasion in mind.” Dean managed to keep his voice strong. He was proud of himself.
Damien just smiled and pressed the hot knife against the tattoo’s edge.
Dean heard himself grunt and felt his teeth clench as his skin sizzled, the smell assaulting his senses and turning his stomach. Before he was able to pass out, a blur from the corner of his eye - Sam! - came plowing into Damien, knocking him to the ground.
In the absence of the heat from the knife, a cold - sharp and sudden - hit Dean and his shivering increased. But he ignored it. “Sam,” he called, watching with growing urgency as Damien flung Sam across the room. Sam was only deterred for a second, long enough to clear the stars from his eyes, before running back towards Damien like a freakin’ freight train. They collided and fell to the ground in a mess of fists.
“Sam!” Dean called louder. “Get him out of this room!”
Damien pushed Sam off him and grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt, and together they propelled themselves into a wall, breaking through the old wood and tumbling into the room beyond. Dean cringed at the sound of Sam’s body slamming to the floor beyond. That wasn’t what he meant!
“Dammit,” he muttered. Sam couldn’t hold out against Damien. Jesus, they were beyond his sight but he could still hear flesh smacking flesh. Hand shaking with what he reasoned was pain alone, Dean gripped the spear, but he gasped as the pressure sent sharp rivulets through him. “Shit!” He took a deep breath and clenched his teeth.
He reached up and wrapped his fingers around the spear. He tightened his grip and shut his eyes. One, two, THREE. He yanked the spear clear through his shoulder. This time there was no music to drown out his scream.
Sam’s head snapped towards the sound of his brother’s scream. Bad move. Damien slammed his fist into Sam’s face. The next thing he knew, Sam was sprawled on the floor, blinking back a haze of fog and staring up at Damien’s angry face. He seemed farther away than he should have and his lips were moving, but a buzzing had replaced Sam’s hearing. He blinked slowly, watching Damien’s hair hang down like black buzzards diving for their prey. He blinked and saw Damien’s fist in the air, blinked again and saw it closer, blinked again and it had consumed his vision.
A sound like a gunshot penetrated the buzzing and Sam opened his eyes to find blood dripping onto his shirt. But it wasn’t his. The blood was running from a widening hole in Damien’s shirt.
Sam scrambled back, watching as Damien’s fingers reached for his chest, stopping just short of the wound as he stared at it in shock. Damien looked over his shoulder and Sam followed his gaze. Dean stood with the gun still held upright in his hands.
“Dean,” Sam gasped, noting the blood that ran from Dean’s shoulder, creating a soaking red circle that continued to widen.
“Move,” Dean said, still holding the gun.
Sam frowned: his head was ringing and he was shocked by the turn of events.
Dean nodded at Damien’s tilting body.
“Whoa.” Sam jumped up and stumbled backwards, grabbing the wall to steady himself. Damien looked up at him before his eyes rolled into his head and he slumped forward, hitting the ground with a small thump. For a second, they could hear the distant chatter of students as they quietly stared at Damien’s body. “Is he…”
Before Sam finished the sentence, Damien’s let put a muffled groan and he slowly pushed himself onto his back. His chest was glistening with blood and sweat rolled down his dirty face. He was staring up at Dean; he still looked shocked.
Dean took a few steps closer. “Those symbols make you a god, but away from them you bleed pretty just like the rest of us.”
“P-please,” Damien gasped.
Dean lifted the gun and aimed at Damien’s head. “Karma’s a bitch.” He pulled the trigger.
Sam flinched as the shot rang out and blood splattered the ground. Then he watched, mesmerized, as Damien’s body began to age rapidly, like a badly done special effect, until it withered into dust and bone. Quiet again descended as they stared at Damien’s remains. Then Dean’s legs gave out.
“Dean!” Sam rushed to his brother’s side and caught him before he fell to the ground. “Hey, hey,” Sam soothed, shifting Dean’s weight so that he could lean him carefully against the wall. “A little too much excitement, huh?” He took a closer look at the wound in Dean’s shoulder and cringed. The flesh was torn and blood now soaked almost half Dean’s shirt - who knew what damage Dean had done to himself, tearing the spear out like that.
“I’m good for a few more rounds,” Dean said as Sam removed his own outer shirt and pressed it tightly against the wound to staunch the bleeding. Dean flinched and clenched his jaw, but didn’t say anything.
“With a Chihuahua maybe,” Sam muttered, moving to tie the shirt like a makeshift bandage. He had to hold back a gasp, though, when he saw the burn that now replaced that spearhead tattoo. A spot of flesh like angry pink froth. Sam ran a hand over his face, breathing out slowly as anger and nausea battled in his stomach. He almost felt like he was betraying Dean, coming out of this with only a few bruises.
“Give me some credit,” Dean said, Sam guessed to fill the quiet that had again settled as Sam tore some more cloth and wrapped it around the burn. “Put me in a ring with Paris, her Chihuahua and that anorexic friend and watch me go.”
Sam smiled briefly, growing more worried with every shudder that racked Dean’s body.
“NO!” A scream tore into the room, high-pitched and frantic. Sam whipped around with a start. Susie stood in the doorway, staring in horror at Damien’s remains.
“Oh, great,” Dean muttered, forcing himself higher up the wall.
“No!” she yelled again, stumbling into the room and falling to her knees beside Damien. “Oh god…” she choked, cautiously placing a hand on what remained of Damien’s shoulder. “Damien…oh god…please come back…I’m sorry, baby…I’m so sorry…”
“Cue the violins,” Dean said, having managed to get himself standing, pushing away Sam’s help.
Susie’s red-rimmed eyes snapped towards his. She glanced down at the gun still in his hands. “You!” She stood up and curled her hands into fists. “You killed him! You fucking bastard! He didn’t deserve to die this way!”
Sam stood warily between them.
“Right, he was an upstanding citizen,” Dean snapped. “A bit bonkers and sadistic, but just upstanding.”
Susie screamed and catapulted herself at Dean.
“Whoa!” Sam jumped in her way and caught her in his arms as she flailed and fought, angry tears running down her face.
“I’m going to kill you!” she kept screaming at Dean.
“Let her at me, Sam,” Dean said, despite wavering on his feet. “She’s not Paris Hilton or a damn Chihuahua, but I’ll take what I can get.”
“Not helping, Dean,” Sam grunted as he pushed Susie away.
Susie scrunched up her face and screamed again. A blue energy rose from her body and formed into a translucent copy of herself. Her astral projection sprang forward and Sam felt its energy collide into him and he fell backwards.
Dean brought up his gun and aimed as the energy surged forward.
“No!” Sam shouted, jumping up and pushing Dean’s arm aside. The shot rang out, a small clump of plaster raining from the ceiling where the bullet struck.
The sound seemed to shock Susie from her distress and her astral projected self snapped back into her. She opened her eyes and stopped screaming, looking up at the hole in the ceiling. She pressed her fists to her eyes as more tears appeared.
Sam looked at Dean in shock. “She’s human, Dean. She’s still being controlled by whoever Damien was talking about.” Dean looked at him but didn’t say anything, just carefully leaned against the wall. Sam softened. “Give me the gun, Dean,” he said, gently prying open Dean’s fingers. Or trying to. They were curled around it so tightly that his fingers had turned white. “Dean, let go.”
Dean sluggishly looked down at his hand, almost like he hadn’t been aware he was clutching it. His fingers loosened. Not much, but enough. Sam took the gun from him and tucked it into his waistband, pulling his shirt over it.
“You son of a bitch,” Susie choked, looking back at Dean. “Damien wasn’t a bad guy!” She strode into the room with the symbols, clambering through the hole that Sam and Damien had made during their fight.
Sam and Dean cautiously watched as Susie grabbed a key from her pocket and dropped to her knees, opening a door hidden in the floor. Her head disappeared into it for a second and when she reappeared she was holding some boxes. She strode back to Sam and Dean and dumped the boxes at their feet, grabbing a fistful of paper from them and waving it in their faces. “He agreed to give up mortality to continue the project!” She chucked the papers at them and they each caught a few pages. The pages consisted of rows and rows of neat notes under the headings:
Hypothesis, subject, test, behavioral reactions, psychological reactions, conclusion.
“It’s a social experiment, you fools!” Susie continued. “He and Damien do tests, and recruit others like me to help. We choose people and we change their lives somehow, give them something traumatic to deal with: stage some suicides and see how it effects the classmates, see if the rumor mill starts churning or if the quest for grades are affected; we kill family members and watch how long it takes to recover, if personalities change; we gave Sam that fucking dream and tested you with those fucking numbers to watch how he’d react, see how long before he’d tell you and then see how you’d react.” Susie grabbed her hair in distress and walked back over to Damien, looking down at his remains in disbelief.
Sam had grown cold and he could feel Dean tense beside him.
“Fucking experiments?” Dean whispered. “We’re fucking experiments? You killed those people to test out a…a thesis? We’re lab rats to you?”
“Don’t you get it!” Susie screamed, eyes wide and voice cracking. “No one has ever been able to conduct research into the human psyche like we can! Fucking ethics gets in the way, fucking researchers die before any real break through! But imagine if you could live forever, imagine if you could conduct a centuries’ long experiment to solve the mystery of whether our characters and values are innate, or whether they can change at the drop of a suicide or at the death of a family member.” She strode up to them and grabbed the boxes back, violently chucking them across the room. Thousands of sheets came fluttering out, almost blanketing the room white. “Damien was helping your sorry asses!”
Sam blinked hard, trying to absorb this information.
“We were fucking experiments?” Dean repeated, yelling this time. Ignoring his shoulder, he strode forward, pushing away Sam’s attempts to steady him, and grabbed Susie by her arm. “Everything that’s happened, all those deaths over the years, everything, it was all part of this Dr Evil nonsense?”
“Not nonsense,” Susie growled. “So a few people die in the end. It’s worth it! They’d be proud to know they’re helping us understand ourselves better! You should be proud that he chose you to be a part of this too!”
Sam stepped up beside Dean, watching the exchange and ready to jump in if need be. Dean’s eyes were glazed over, and Sam couldn’t tell whether from pain or anger. He was too shocked himself to form a reaction other than bewilderment. But the more he thought about it, a chill began to creep up his spine. Damien had been a researcher who sold his soul for a chance to study human behavior forever. To kill people and analyze the reactions. He was a sociopath turned academic.
“You turn a human into a fly yet?” Dean finally said, letting go of Susie in disgust.
“I hate you,” she hissed, backing up and kneeling beside Damien again.
“Gee, really? You want to follow up that riveting response by slamming a door and listening to some loud Linkin Park?”
“Come on, Dean,” Sam said, gently taking a hold of Dean’s good arm and pulling him towards the exit. Dean didn’t refuse the help.
“Wait,” Dean said. He nodded at a bottle of alcohol lying in the other room. “Grab that for me, would ya.”
Sam frowned but quickly retrieved it, not wanting to argue with Dean when he looked this pale.
Once outside, Dean stumbled. Sam instantly tightened his hold and lifted some of Dean’s weight off his own feet. “I’m getting you to the hospital and you better not complain -”
“No,” Dean said, finally pushing Sam away.
Sam frowned. “You don’t listen to anything I say, do you?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? Dean, you could give Carrie a run for her money!”
“Sam,” Dean growled, clutching his arm protectively and trying to hide a grimace. “We need to find this other player before he gets wind of what we did to his bum chum in there.”
“Okay, yeah, I get that, but the hunt can wait till after you stop bleeding to death. I mean, you know, after we stop you bleeding to death. Not after you finish bleeding…dammit, you know what I mean!”
Dean rolled his eyes.
How the hell did Dean manage to make it look like Sam was being overprotective while with a hole in his goddamn shoulder?
“You patch it up,” Dean said, glancing at Sam.
“What?” Sam said, the dizziness in his head increasing.
“Sam, we do this ER shit all the time. I’ll wait in that building over there.” He pointed to one of the abandoned lots. “Go grab the First Aid kit. And my jacket. And don’t get any blood on my car. It’ll stain the leather.”
Sam looked down at himself and realized with a start that he was covered with blood - both Dean’s and Damien’s. He looked back up at Dean and raised his eyebrows, trying not to feel annoyed. “Don’t stain the leather? We’re getting you a shrink when this is over.”
“And we’re getting you a haircut.”
Sam smirked, but still hesitated. He didn’t want to leave Dean alone, even if to grab the First Aid kit. “You know,” he said, “in the state you’re in, I could just carry you over my shoulder to the hospital and you couldn’t do anything about it.”
Dean glared at him. “Yeah? Want to know what I’d do about it after my shoulder gets better?”
Sam sighed. “I’m going, I’m going.” He turned and hurried for the car, crossing his arms over his chest to hide the blood, but hesitated again and looked back over at Dean. He watched as Dean slowly made his way to the building, stumbling a few times. Sam’s arms and legs twitched, wanting to help him.
“Damn your stubborn ass.”
Dean grabbed hold of the rotting door frame and pulled himself in, panting with exertion. He used the last of his strength to push the door shut and then slid down the wall, not able to move any further into the room. He grimaced and looked down at his shoulder. The cloth Sam had wrapped around it was starting to darken. He just sighed and leaned his head against the wall. He felt dizzy and nauseous and hot and cold all at the same time.
This hunt sucked.
The building’s windows were boarded up so that only a few thin lines of light peeked through, and they barely penetrated the dust and mold that had built up over the years. It was strangely comforting. To sit here in the dark, listening to his own breath and knowing no one else could hear how ragged it sounded. Dean rolled his eyes. He didn’t even want to know what the shrinks would say about that.
Dean’s head snapped up at the sound of the door opening, but his body didn’t respond nearly as fast. It just sat there. Sam squeezed through the door and then shoved the thing closed again, frowning as it groaned and creaked in protest, a few splinters snaking up the frame.
“Trust you to choose the most dangerous building,” Sam said, kneeling next to Dean and shooting him concerned glances as he put down the First Aid kit and jacket.
“Trust you to choose the most dangerous college,” Dean said, face flushing under Sam’s scrutiny.
“Danger seems to follow us around, if you hadn’t noticed.” Sam slowly peeled off the cloth covering the wound in Dean’s shoulder. Dean dug his fingers into his palms, refusing to make a sound. “Dean…this looks bad.”
“We’re Winchesters: we heal extraordinarily fast… if you haven’t noticed.” He tried to keep his voice steady for Sam’s sake. “Just get out the fucking lighter and cauterize the damn thing.”
Sam looked uncertain. He sighed and took out some gauze, alcohol swabs and a lighter. He tore Dean’s shirt around the wound and cleared away the blood as best he could. “I can’t see anything,” he muttered, standing up and yanking one of the planks from the window.
The morning light hit Dean’s face and he cringed at the intrusion, black dots blurring his vision.
“Here,” Sam said, passing Dean the bottle of vodka he’d made Sam retrieve and a few of the pages he still had from those boxes.
Dean unscrewed the lid and took a large swallow of the alcohol, before putting it aside and picking up the papers. “The booze I get, what am I ‘spose to do with these?”
“A distraction,” Sam said, flicking on the lighter.
“Hate to break it to you, Sammy, but reading about my role as a lab rat in some psycho’s experiment isn’t really very distrac- OW!” He scrunched the papers in his hand, shutting his eyes as his vision blurred. This was the second time in as many hours that he’d been forced to smell his own skin sizzling. “Right,” he finally said, breathing hard and trying to keep from screaming or, you know, throwing up. “That was the distraction.”
“Sorry,” Sam said, quickly removing the lighter to start on the hole in the back of Dean’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he said again as Dean flinched and involuntarily pulled away.
“If you don’t stop saying sorry, I’m going to have to start apologizing.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to hit you over the head with this bottle!”
“Right, sor-” Sam caught himself. “Right.”
The glare slid from Dean’s face and he blinked rapidly to clear his vision.
“Okay, all done,” Sam said, sounding relieved.
Dean didn’t dare look at his shoulder, couldn’t stomach the damage. He felt it. He smelled it. Eyelids growing heavy, black creeping across his vision, Dean forced his head to turn and look at Sam instead. “Where’s my lollipop?”
Sam smirked. “We’re out of lollipops, but here,” he grabbed a pack of aspirin from the kit, “take a few of these.”
Dean reached out with his good arm and took the packet, popping out five and tossing them into his mouth, grabbing the open bottle of vodka.
“Not with - !”
Dean swallowed the pills and put the bottle aside.
“That,” Sam finished with a sigh. He pushed away the First Aid kit and leaned against the wall beside Dean. “You’re going to give me premature gray hair, I swear.”
Dean smirked slightly and closed his eyes, giving in to his exhaustion for a second. “Hey, at least then I can call you an old fuddy duddy. Suits you.”
“Thanks.” Sam’s laugh sounded strained.
Dean forced his eyes open and leaned forward, grabbing the papers and smoothing them out on the floor in front of him, the movement forcing back his exhaustion. He glanced at Sam, who had a nasty bruise forming on the side of his face and a few smaller yellow ones dotted here and there. “Have to tell ya, buddy, not really seeing the appeal of this whole college thing.”
“My experience was slightly different.” Sam glanced at the papers and froze. He reached out and pointed to a number sequence at the top of the page. “967540-32810-0000,” he read out loud, the blood draining from his face. “Dean,” he said, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Rearrange those numbers.”
Dean frowned. “I’m suffering blood loss here and you want me to do math? This is to get me back for that time when you were three and I told you one plus one equaled five, right?”
Sam ignored him and picked up the pages, looking torn between excitement and shock. “Rearranged they turn into 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 0 0 0 0 0 0.”
“The countdown?”
Sam shook his head. “Not a countdown. Damien said that the dream about killing you was a red herring. Meant to trick us from the real trail. So… so maybe those numbers weren’t actually counting down anything. Maybe they meant something different, completely different, and Susie just led us to believe it was a countdown. Maybe we’ve been chasing red herrings this whole time…”
Dean blinked a few times, wondering if his eyelids usually felt this heavy. “Huh?”
Sam rummaged through his bag. “We’re a part of their twisted little social experiment, right? They’ve been watching us for a while, taking photographs of us. They knew we were brothers and, after Susie was drawn to me that day on the lawn, they knew we dealt in the supernatural. That means that the dream and the numbers and pretending to be a ghost…all of that was geared towards watching how we’d react. They were messing with our minds, so those numbers might mean anything and they were just waiting to see how long it would take us to work it out.” Sam paused from his search and frowned. “You know, before Susie and Damien took it upon themselves to make you leave.”
He finally pulled a class schedule from the bag. “It’s…it’s the extended course code for Contemporary Cultural Studies.”
“The class we were sitting in?”
Sam nodded.
Dean used the wall to pull himself up, keeping his injured arm close and steady.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked in alarm, hurrying to stand beside Dean.
“This other dude, whoever the fuck he is, has to be from that class too. I’m going to find him.”
Sam looked incredulous. “After you’ve just had a spear shoved through your shoulder and a tattoo burnt off? You’re going go find this other guy? No plan, just go and hope he doesn’t kill you.”
“Yep. You going to pass me my jacket or stay here all day asking stupid questions?”
Sam stared at Dean for a second before shaking his head and scooping up Dean’s jacket. For a second, Dean thought Sam was going to throw it at him, but instead he walked behind Dean and held it open for him.
“I can put on my own jacket. Can tie my own shoes and brush my teeth, too.”
“Humor me.”
Dean sighed and carefully slid his arms into it, biting his lip to avoid crying out with the movement. He then pulled up the zipper to hide the blood.
Sam was quickly shoving the kit and papers into his bag.
“Dude, you want to attract the sharks? Hide that mess,” Dean nodded at Sam’s shirt. Sam looked down at himself and quickly pulled his shirt off, turning it inside out to hide the blood stains.
“Better?”
“You’re a bona fide Houdini.”
Sam rolled his eyes, smiling a little.
Dean groaned when he saw the smile. If he had to deal with Sam’s concern and then his relief whenever Dean made a joke, he was going to kill himself. Or Sam. He hadn’t decided which.
The sun was making Dean’s head swim and dots were dancing in front of his vision. Sunshine was overrated.
“This isn’t one of your smarter ideas,” Sam said. “In fact, barging into the faculty office and demanding the names and histories of everyone in that class isn’t an idea at all.”
Dean shot him an annoyed look before returning his gaze to the grass: he didn’t completely trust his legs to guide him on their own. “I’m not twiddling my thumbs waiting for this man of mystery to literally sweep me off my feet. We’ve been jumping through their fucking hoops this whole time. Time to get proactive.”
“We could rally,” Sam muttered.
“You’re funny, really, just hilarious.”
“Dean, whoever we’re dealing with here is calculating. He’s not just an angry spirit. He knows what he’s doing and he knows we’re trying to stop him. He has the upper hand.”
“So, this is what happens when the Geeks try to take over the world.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Dean looked at Sam and cringed. “Sorry. My mind went to an image of Doctor Evil stroking his cat and then to Revenge of the Geeks, and they kinda got merged. You know, like, this is evil, college style.”
Sam continued to stare at him with raised eyebrows. He slowed down and reached for Dean’s arm, stopping him. “Dean, are you sure you’re okay?”
No, he wasn’t. His head felt fuzzy and light and he was having trouble concentrating. “I’m fine. Keep going. What were you saying? Something about calculus and rashes.”
“Calculating,” Sam stressed, looking more concerned. “I said they’re calculating. Rashes, what?”
Sam’s voice started to slur and he began tilting. Funny, Dean thought, the world tilted with him.
The next thing he knew, Dean was in Sam’s arms. Embarrased, he pushed Sam away. “Personal space, dude.”
“Dean, you are not alright. Stop being a dick. Let me take you to the hospital.”
“A what?”
“Dean!”
“Sam,” Dean growled in response, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. “I’ve just about had it with this overprotective shit. I’m fine and I’ll be finer once we’re done with this school.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ve about had it with your Rambo complex. When you collapse and die, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Dean scowled. “If I collapse and die, I’m haunting your ass.”
Sam visibly sighed, but to his credit he only swept his gaze over Dean’s bandages and bruises once before pretending to buy Dean’s assurances.
Dean turned and rounded the street that would lead them to the faculty building. He stopped short at the sight that met him. “What the fuck happened?”
Sam stepped up beside him and smirked. “Lunch hour.”
The quad was filled with students. Teeming with them. A huge crowd carrying books and bags and food, expertly maneuvering around each other to avoid the collisions Dean was sure were inevitable, but that just didn’t seem to happen. He warily eyed the congestion of bodies in the centre of this loud clump. “And we can’t be off fighting swamp monsters, why?” Dean sighed and strode resolutely into the mob, Sam following closer that Dean would’ve liked.
“…I bought the green one…”
“…what do you feel like?...”
“…that class is breaking my balls…”
“…should I ask her...”
“…he’s such a bastard…”
“…it’s a public area, we can post whatever we want…”
“…end the war on Iraq! Sign the petition!...”
“…it was so much fun…”
“…maybe we should streak…”
By the time Dean and Sam got to the faculty office, Dean’s arm was throbbing something shocking from the amount of times he’d been bumped into, he’d broken out in a sweat from the exertion of staying upright on his own two feet, and he was just plain pissed off.
He slammed his good arm down on the counter separating him from the office hand, then slumped forward to lean his weight on it.
The older woman jumped and stared up at him in surprise. She stood up and backed away a few steps. “Can I help you boys?” She was eyeing them with suspicion, discreetly trying to step behind her chair.
“Uh, yeah, actually,” Sam said, shooting a glance at Dean before continuing. “We were wondering if-”
“We need to see the names and files of everyone in Contemporary Cultural Studies,” Dean interrupted. “Now would be good.”
An annoyed look started to overpower the woman’s surprise. She pursed her lips and glared at Dean from beyond her glasses. “I can’t just give you that information. You’ll need to talk to the faculty advisor and bring your grievances to him.”
Dean sighed loudly. “Look, lady-”
“That’s fine,” Sam cut in. “Where can we find him?”
She gave Dean another angry look before turning to address Sam. “He’s in his office. I’ll see if he has time to see you…gentlemen.” She disappeared into the advisor’s office.
“Dean-”
“I know,” Dean snapped, rubbing his forehead and shutting his eyes as another wave of dizziness hit him. “It wouldn’t kill me to be polite once in a while, yadda, yadda, yadda.”
“I was going to ask if you wanted some more aspirin.”
Dean opened his eyes and peered up at Sam. “Oh.”
The door to the faculty advisor’s office opened and the woman reappeared. She walked back behind the counter and started to pile a few folders into a large storage box, coldly refusing to look Dean in the eye again. Boy, could he piss people off or what. “He’ll see you in a few minutes. Take a seat, please,” she finally said, lifting the box.
“I’m good right here,” Dean said, forcing a quick smile.
The woman huffed but Sam hurried around the counter, quickly lifting the box from her arms before she had a chance to start lecturing Dean. “Let me help with those,” he said, glancing at Dean and shaking his head with a small smile.
Dean rolled his eyes. Always with the politeness. It was going to be the death of that boy. Or at least do his back in one day.
“Thank you, dear,” the woman said, smiling in surprise. “At least there are a few young people left who know how to treat others with respect.”
“Where do you want these?”
“Just in that storage room, over there.”
Sam nodded and lifted the box easily, disappearing into the room. Dean turned away and leaned his back against the counter, catching his reflection in a nearby window. The reflection’s odd angle made his face look transparent, his eyes lost somewhere beyond the glass so that only the black of his bruises followed when he turned his head. Jesus, he looked like death.
He looked away, unsettled by the distorted image. A book on a nearby stand caught his attention. Dean frowned and walked over to it, picking it up off its stand. On the front was a picture of a large church bell with its echoes represented in little black semi-circles. A crowd of people stood beneath the bell. The image felt familiar…
…This is too important for you two to screw up The voice was in his head! A loud boom that reverberated through his body and for a second Dean thought he was standing beneath a large church bell as it chimed, the echoes hitting harder than the initial tolls…
Dean slowly moved back across the room and lowered himself into one of the plastic chairs, hands still clutching the book. “The Echo Effect.” He traced his finger over the author’s name. Martin Linberg. Wasn’t that…
Dean looked up when the Faculty Advisor’s door opened and Professor Linberg emerged with a hearty grin.
Dean frowned. “You teach that Cultural Studies lecture.”
“That’s right,” he smiled.
“You teach, write, and advise?” Dean asked. “Geez, you must be downing those multis.”
The Professor chuckled, opening his door and stepping back. “Oh my,” he said when Dean stood up. “What happened to you, young man? Are you okay?”
“Followed a snake into his lair,” Dean muttered, glancing at the storage room door. He could still hear Sam fiddling around.
The professor frowned, looking baffled. “Uh, okay. Come in, come in. Tell me what’s on your mind. What’s this about class lists?”
Dean followed him in, watching the floor to make sure his feet were cooperating. He still didn’t trust his body after almost collapsing out on the lawn. “Yeah, see, um…my brother’s better at the whole explaining thing.”
“Yep,” Linberg said, sitting at his desk.
“He’s off earning a seat in heaven, he’ll be here soon.” Dean pulled out a chair opposite Linberg and sat down. Satisfied that he couldn’t stumble now that he was sitting, Dean looked up.
A wall of spears met his gaze.
Dean froze, staring at them. They looked like a display. Some were old, some new. Each had a little title above it. Dean let his gaze travel down to the book in his hands, then back up at the Professor. The guy was watching Dean with a glint in his eyes that Dean hadn’t noticed earlier. “Oh.”
“Oh?” The Professor smiled. “Oh, what, young man?”
“Um…” Dean looked around, noticing how the office gleamed with almost unnatural cleanliness. Unnatural being the key word. “Othello. Yeah…I have to go read that. For a class. Right now.”
Linberg frowned. “Well, if you must.”
“Yeah…” Dean stood up and backed towards the door. “I was just going to rent it, but…reading is important.”
The door slammed shut before Dean reached it. “Ah crap,” he sighed. He turned to face the professor, cursing Sam for taking his gun from him. “So, you’re the mastermind, huh? Kinda clichéd, don’t you think. One step above ‘the butler did it.’”
The professor smiled and stood up, watching Dean closely. “You never suspected me.”
Dean saluted him. “Good point. I mean, you’d know, wouldn’t you? You and your little minions have been playing stalker since we arrived in this town. What’s up with that?”
The professor clasped his hands behind his back and casually walked around his desk, approaching Dean.
Dean edged to the side, looking for a make-do weapon. Before he’d found one, he was flung against the wall by an invisible force, the impact sending a spark of pain through his shoulder. “Son of a bitch!”
The professor sat on the edge of the desk, frowning in disproval. “Now, really, must we use such language? We’re civilized men.”
Dean glared at him for a second, growing more angry with every failed attempt to move from this frickin’ wall. “Fuck you.”
“Fine. Use deplorable language. Someone obviously so uneducated has no other verbal weapon.”
“Go to hell, bitch.”
Dean stumbled forward as the energy binding him to the wall suddenly disappeared. Not wasting a second, he grabbed an envelope opener from the desk and plunged into the professor’s chest.
“Honestly, Dean,” the professor said, looking down at the knife protruding from his chest. “I’m the ‘mastermind’ as you called it; I’m a bit more powerful than my assistants.”
He pulled out the knife and Dean flinched, waiting for the thing to end up in his chest. Instead, the professor placed it back on the desk and waved his hand lazily. Dean flew through the air and collided into one of the bookshelves. He slid to the floor, shielding his head from the barrage of books that fell with him. When the thumps settled, Dean opened his eyes and forced himself up, ignoring his protesting body. “There something you want from me, or you just need a new punching bag?”
Again, Dean was flung against a wall by that invisible force. “Jesus, almighty,” he growled. “You bad guys never play fair, you know that? Just tell me one thing, alright, why a fucking spearhead tattoo? Why that symbol? A dagger not classy enough for you?”
The professor smiled and glanced over at his spearhead display. “A spear is a symbol of power and destiny. The Ancient Greek Mythology associated the spear with Zeus’ lightening bolts. In the gospel of John, the Spear of Destiny pierced Jesus’ side during the crucifixion. The spear represents human will, and even Jesus himself couldn’t fight that.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s a pointy stick.”
The professor stood and scooped up his book, The Echo Effect, from the floor. He sat back on the edge of the desk, crossing his leg over one knee and staring at the book’s cover. “I’m not the villain in the tale.”
“Yeah, that seems to be all I’m hearing lately,” Dean muttered.
“Maybe because it’s the truth.” He looked up at Dean and set the book aside. “The human condition is fascinating. I dedicated my life, and my afterlife, to studying you people. You understand nothing about yourselves; it’s almost pathetic. I’m helping you. I’m uncovering, subject by subject, whether or not you’re shaped by circumstance or if you’re born into a personality that never sheds. Whether values change after trauma and what people are willing to give up for that which they consider most important. My work will eventually help the human race understand itself better.”
“Gee, that’s real Mother Theresa of you,” Dean spat. “Oh wait, you murder people, you ass! That there’s gonna disqualify you from the Noble prize.”
The professor leaned back and crossed his arms. “Death is a part of life. It’s a part of my research. There is no reason to become emotional about it. Everyone dies eventually.”
“Everyone but you, right?”
The professor looked away for second. “One day I’d liked to have retired. Damien was going to take my place and continue the project.”
“Oh, the one I put a bullet through? Twice, actually.” Dean smiled coldly. “I was second time lucky.”
Anger flashed through the professor’s eyes. “Yes, him. He was a good man. I handpicked him to be my apprentice almost a century ago. His death was unfortunate.” The professor stood and stepped closer to Dean. “Now I have a ‘beef’ with you, as people put it.”
Dean smiled slowly. “Am I seeing an emotional reaction? Couldn’t avoid becoming like the people you studied, huh?”
They stared at each other for a second, Dean smiling and the professor glaring. Suddenly, he reached for the lapels of Dean’s shirt and flung him onto the desk. Dean’s back arched on impact. The professor leaned close, using one arm to hold Dean down; the other coming down on Dean’s shoulder wound. Dean cried out, trying to move away.
“I want you to pay close attention,” the professor snarled, pressing harder.
Dean clenched his jaw against the pain sparking from his shoulder.
“This was never about you,” the professor said. “We chose you and your brother as subjects simply because Susie foresaw your death and we didn’t want to waste an opportunity to study how that knowledge would affect a family.” He leaned closer and Dean could feel the professor’s cold breath on his face. “That all changed when you killed my apprentice. Mine! He had more talent and worth than you’ll ever know! So I want you to listen carefully. Everything, and I mean everything, that happens now is on your shoulders.”
He let go and Dean slumped down against the desk until he was sitting on the floor, hand wrapped around his arm to protect his throbbing shoulder. A buzzing had entered his head and was beginning to drown out any other noise.
“Dean.”
Dean reluctantly looked up. The professor puts his fingers to his lips. “Listen.”
Dean strained his ears, trying to hear past the buzzing. In the distant, an ambulance’s siren wailed. Dean’s heartbeat increased. A scream. Another scream. All from outside. His gaze locked with the professor’s. “No,” he whispered, dread coiling through him and numbing him to any pain other than that growing in his chest.
The office door opened on its own and the professor stood back, giving Dean room to leave. “On your shoulders,” he repeated.
Dean pulled himself up with shaking hands and stumbled out of the office. The room beyond was empty. So was the hall. “Sam!” he called. Dean’s breath froze in his lungs when no one answered other than the office hand.
Dean was shaking so badly he could barely move, or maybe it was the dread. But he found he couldn’t breathe, or think or do anything other than watch the exit sign loom closer. That’s when he realized he was moving, that his legs were propelling him towards the door even though he felt nothing other than this pain clawing at his chest. He watched as his hand reached out and opened the door. He watched as the large crowd outside drew closer. They all faced away from Dean, staring at the pavement.
Numbly, Dean moved forward.
***
Go to Chap 8
I got reprimanded on a forum for not putting stronger warnings about the language and violence, so I WARN all readers: my WIPs will most likely contain excessive language, violence and blood. I'm into Dean whumpage, what can I say? ;-D
Title: Lessons 7/10
Rating: R for language and violence
Cateory: Gen
Timeline: After 'Provenance' but before 'Dead Man's Blood'
Disclaimer: I lay claim to nothing.
Summary: Murders at a college campus lead the brothers on a ghost hunt where Dean seems likely to become the next victim.
Lessons: CHAPTER 7
The Rolling Stones were still playing in the background. Loud enough to drown out his brother’s scream. He guessed that was the point. The spear had torn through Dean’s shoulder, clear through, like his skin was nothing but cloth. It had even made that tearing sound. But cloth didn’t bleed, and Sam was pretty sure cloth didn’t feel pain.
Sam wanted to yell and shout and swear, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop staring at his brother’s face. It was glistening with sweat and his jaw was twitching as Dean gritted his teeth against the pain.
“Dean?” he asked, fear stealing away his anger. Dean didn’t answer, just shut his eyes tightly and continued to shiver. Sam couldn’t help feeling that he was making it worse by staring: Dean hated people knowing he was in pain, hated when he couldn’t hide it. Sam bit his lip and looked away.
A glimmer caught his eye. Turning his head, Sam saw Damien’s pocketknife discarded on the ground, almost within reach. Sam quickly reverted his gaze, glancing up at Damien to make sure he too hadn’t noticed the knife.
But Damien wasn’t paying him any attention. He was staring at Dean, and he had the fucking gall to smile. Not grin or gloat, but smile. Like he’d just solved a puzzle, not shoved a spear, of all things, through Dean’s shoulder.
Sam slowly started shuffling backwards, towards the knife. His movements were awkward, a slow crawl across the dirt without full use of his legs or arms, all the while trying to keep his breathing steady and his plan from hitting Damien’s radar.
“Told you to stop moving,” Damien said, eyeing the spear.
“You crazy son of a bitch,” Dean gasped. He was shaking, every shudder setting off a fresh gasp, but Dean couldn’t seem to stop. Or maybe his body wasn’t his to command anymore: it had been penetrated with a fucking spear, for Christ’s sake. The spear was thin, jutting out of him at a perfect, straight angle. Blood was darkening his shirt, slowly spreading as his tremors widened the wound.
“I’m going to kill you.” Dean’s voice was shaking so badly the words barely resembled a threat.
“I doubt it,” Damien said, and he casually kicked Dean’s knee. Nothing hard, nothing that would cause damage. Just enough to make Dean flinch and bend on impact.
Dean cried out as the movement jostled the spear.
Sam froze in his effort to retrieve the knife, anger flushing his cheeks. He bit the inside of his lip until it bled, forcing himself to keep quiet. Dean was blinking back tears of pain, looking annoyed that they were there to begin with. Sam stretched out his arms and felt his hand curl around the knife’s cold hilt. He gripped it tightly and brought it forward, carving through the ropes with more speed and strength than he knew he possessed.
Dean forced himself to stand as still as possible and locked eyes with Damien. He was fighting off nausea and red was sparking in front of his vision, but he refused to break eye contact. “Karma’s a real bitch; just a head’s up.” His voice was low and strained.
Damien picked up the knife and lighter from where he’d dropped them. “Karma’s an abstract concept that denotes nothing. Like good, or evil.”
Fucking pretentious asshole. “I’m a real bitch. Just a heads up.”
“You should be grateful.” Damien flicked on the lighter and starting heating the knife. “Do you know how much tattoo removal usually costs? I got some ex-girlfriends who can tell you.”
“Really? I was under the impression they were all possessed or dead. Don’t tell me you’re into necrophilia, too.”
Damien chuckled and continued to heat the knife.
Dean forced himself passed the cloud of pain, and passed the panic that had intruded while his body stood vulnerable. He forced himself passed it all and racked his mind, trying to think of a way out. He glanced at Sam, preparing himself for Sam’s worried face, but was startled to find him in the process of cutting through his ropes.
Dean quickly swung his vision forward, not wanting to alert Damien of Sam’s escape attempt. He gasped as the movement jostled the spear.
Damien looked up at the sound. Switching the lighter to the hand holding the knife, Damien walked across the room and scooped up a half-empty bottle of vodka. He then pried Dean’s fingers away from the spear and pushed the bottle firmly into his hand. Dean gripped the bottle, staring at it.
“Drink,” Damien said. “It’ll hurt like hell if you don’t.” He flicked back on the lighter and continued to twist the knife in the flames, smiling a little.
The orange light danced off the bottle’s surface and maybe it was the blood loss and beating, but Dean found himself mesmerized by the dancing flames’ reflection. He blinked and realized Damien was still talking.
“I’m not a monster.” He was using a conversational tone that made Dean want to rip this spear from his shoulder and jab it into Damien’s eye. “I didn’t let him take away my mortality so that I can kill and torture people. I don’t paint my nails black and wear eyeliner for that reason either. I did it because I believe in his cause. What we do helps everyone. It’s more important than you can imagine. My life has a meaning now greater than it ever did when I was just one of you. Just a mortal fucking away my life.” He stepped closer and Dean cringed at the heat from the flames.
“They don’t suffer, the ones we kill,” Damien said quietly. “I’d give you that mercy, but he wants you alive. And he’d be furious if he knew Susie had branded you for death so soon, after so little observation. Plus…” Damien moved to Dean’s side and tore off the arm of his shirt, revealing the tattoo beneath. “Susie saw you killing me, and that pisses me off.”
Sweat rolled down Dean’s back. He gripped the bottle and, acting more on instinct than anything, swung it as hard as he could, right at Damien’s head. Damien’s arm whipped up and blocked the blow. He yanked the bottle from Dean’s grip and tossed it aside. “Fine, don’t drink it.”
“Saving it for later. Got an occasion in mind.” Dean managed to keep his voice strong. He was proud of himself.
Damien just smiled and pressed the hot knife against the tattoo’s edge.
Dean heard himself grunt and felt his teeth clench as his skin sizzled, the smell assaulting his senses and turning his stomach. Before he was able to pass out, a blur from the corner of his eye - Sam! - came plowing into Damien, knocking him to the ground.
In the absence of the heat from the knife, a cold - sharp and sudden - hit Dean and his shivering increased. But he ignored it. “Sam,” he called, watching with growing urgency as Damien flung Sam across the room. Sam was only deterred for a second, long enough to clear the stars from his eyes, before running back towards Damien like a freakin’ freight train. They collided and fell to the ground in a mess of fists.
“Sam!” Dean called louder. “Get him out of this room!”
Damien pushed Sam off him and grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt, and together they propelled themselves into a wall, breaking through the old wood and tumbling into the room beyond. Dean cringed at the sound of Sam’s body slamming to the floor beyond. That wasn’t what he meant!
“Dammit,” he muttered. Sam couldn’t hold out against Damien. Jesus, they were beyond his sight but he could still hear flesh smacking flesh. Hand shaking with what he reasoned was pain alone, Dean gripped the spear, but he gasped as the pressure sent sharp rivulets through him. “Shit!” He took a deep breath and clenched his teeth.
He reached up and wrapped his fingers around the spear. He tightened his grip and shut his eyes. One, two, THREE. He yanked the spear clear through his shoulder. This time there was no music to drown out his scream.
Sam’s head snapped towards the sound of his brother’s scream. Bad move. Damien slammed his fist into Sam’s face. The next thing he knew, Sam was sprawled on the floor, blinking back a haze of fog and staring up at Damien’s angry face. He seemed farther away than he should have and his lips were moving, but a buzzing had replaced Sam’s hearing. He blinked slowly, watching Damien’s hair hang down like black buzzards diving for their prey. He blinked and saw Damien’s fist in the air, blinked again and saw it closer, blinked again and it had consumed his vision.
A sound like a gunshot penetrated the buzzing and Sam opened his eyes to find blood dripping onto his shirt. But it wasn’t his. The blood was running from a widening hole in Damien’s shirt.
Sam scrambled back, watching as Damien’s fingers reached for his chest, stopping just short of the wound as he stared at it in shock. Damien looked over his shoulder and Sam followed his gaze. Dean stood with the gun still held upright in his hands.
“Dean,” Sam gasped, noting the blood that ran from Dean’s shoulder, creating a soaking red circle that continued to widen.
“Move,” Dean said, still holding the gun.
Sam frowned: his head was ringing and he was shocked by the turn of events.
Dean nodded at Damien’s tilting body.
“Whoa.” Sam jumped up and stumbled backwards, grabbing the wall to steady himself. Damien looked up at him before his eyes rolled into his head and he slumped forward, hitting the ground with a small thump. For a second, they could hear the distant chatter of students as they quietly stared at Damien’s body. “Is he…”
Before Sam finished the sentence, Damien’s let put a muffled groan and he slowly pushed himself onto his back. His chest was glistening with blood and sweat rolled down his dirty face. He was staring up at Dean; he still looked shocked.
Dean took a few steps closer. “Those symbols make you a god, but away from them you bleed pretty just like the rest of us.”
“P-please,” Damien gasped.
Dean lifted the gun and aimed at Damien’s head. “Karma’s a bitch.” He pulled the trigger.
Sam flinched as the shot rang out and blood splattered the ground. Then he watched, mesmerized, as Damien’s body began to age rapidly, like a badly done special effect, until it withered into dust and bone. Quiet again descended as they stared at Damien’s remains. Then Dean’s legs gave out.
“Dean!” Sam rushed to his brother’s side and caught him before he fell to the ground. “Hey, hey,” Sam soothed, shifting Dean’s weight so that he could lean him carefully against the wall. “A little too much excitement, huh?” He took a closer look at the wound in Dean’s shoulder and cringed. The flesh was torn and blood now soaked almost half Dean’s shirt - who knew what damage Dean had done to himself, tearing the spear out like that.
“I’m good for a few more rounds,” Dean said as Sam removed his own outer shirt and pressed it tightly against the wound to staunch the bleeding. Dean flinched and clenched his jaw, but didn’t say anything.
“With a Chihuahua maybe,” Sam muttered, moving to tie the shirt like a makeshift bandage. He had to hold back a gasp, though, when he saw the burn that now replaced that spearhead tattoo. A spot of flesh like angry pink froth. Sam ran a hand over his face, breathing out slowly as anger and nausea battled in his stomach. He almost felt like he was betraying Dean, coming out of this with only a few bruises.
“Give me some credit,” Dean said, Sam guessed to fill the quiet that had again settled as Sam tore some more cloth and wrapped it around the burn. “Put me in a ring with Paris, her Chihuahua and that anorexic friend and watch me go.”
Sam smiled briefly, growing more worried with every shudder that racked Dean’s body.
“NO!” A scream tore into the room, high-pitched and frantic. Sam whipped around with a start. Susie stood in the doorway, staring in horror at Damien’s remains.
“Oh, great,” Dean muttered, forcing himself higher up the wall.
“No!” she yelled again, stumbling into the room and falling to her knees beside Damien. “Oh god…” she choked, cautiously placing a hand on what remained of Damien’s shoulder. “Damien…oh god…please come back…I’m sorry, baby…I’m so sorry…”
“Cue the violins,” Dean said, having managed to get himself standing, pushing away Sam’s help.
Susie’s red-rimmed eyes snapped towards his. She glanced down at the gun still in his hands. “You!” She stood up and curled her hands into fists. “You killed him! You fucking bastard! He didn’t deserve to die this way!”
Sam stood warily between them.
“Right, he was an upstanding citizen,” Dean snapped. “A bit bonkers and sadistic, but just upstanding.”
Susie screamed and catapulted herself at Dean.
“Whoa!” Sam jumped in her way and caught her in his arms as she flailed and fought, angry tears running down her face.
“I’m going to kill you!” she kept screaming at Dean.
“Let her at me, Sam,” Dean said, despite wavering on his feet. “She’s not Paris Hilton or a damn Chihuahua, but I’ll take what I can get.”
“Not helping, Dean,” Sam grunted as he pushed Susie away.
Susie scrunched up her face and screamed again. A blue energy rose from her body and formed into a translucent copy of herself. Her astral projection sprang forward and Sam felt its energy collide into him and he fell backwards.
Dean brought up his gun and aimed as the energy surged forward.
“No!” Sam shouted, jumping up and pushing Dean’s arm aside. The shot rang out, a small clump of plaster raining from the ceiling where the bullet struck.
The sound seemed to shock Susie from her distress and her astral projected self snapped back into her. She opened her eyes and stopped screaming, looking up at the hole in the ceiling. She pressed her fists to her eyes as more tears appeared.
Sam looked at Dean in shock. “She’s human, Dean. She’s still being controlled by whoever Damien was talking about.” Dean looked at him but didn’t say anything, just carefully leaned against the wall. Sam softened. “Give me the gun, Dean,” he said, gently prying open Dean’s fingers. Or trying to. They were curled around it so tightly that his fingers had turned white. “Dean, let go.”
Dean sluggishly looked down at his hand, almost like he hadn’t been aware he was clutching it. His fingers loosened. Not much, but enough. Sam took the gun from him and tucked it into his waistband, pulling his shirt over it.
“You son of a bitch,” Susie choked, looking back at Dean. “Damien wasn’t a bad guy!” She strode into the room with the symbols, clambering through the hole that Sam and Damien had made during their fight.
Sam and Dean cautiously watched as Susie grabbed a key from her pocket and dropped to her knees, opening a door hidden in the floor. Her head disappeared into it for a second and when she reappeared she was holding some boxes. She strode back to Sam and Dean and dumped the boxes at their feet, grabbing a fistful of paper from them and waving it in their faces. “He agreed to give up mortality to continue the project!” She chucked the papers at them and they each caught a few pages. The pages consisted of rows and rows of neat notes under the headings:
Hypothesis, subject, test, behavioral reactions, psychological reactions, conclusion.
“It’s a social experiment, you fools!” Susie continued. “He and Damien do tests, and recruit others like me to help. We choose people and we change their lives somehow, give them something traumatic to deal with: stage some suicides and see how it effects the classmates, see if the rumor mill starts churning or if the quest for grades are affected; we kill family members and watch how long it takes to recover, if personalities change; we gave Sam that fucking dream and tested you with those fucking numbers to watch how he’d react, see how long before he’d tell you and then see how you’d react.” Susie grabbed her hair in distress and walked back over to Damien, looking down at his remains in disbelief.
Sam had grown cold and he could feel Dean tense beside him.
“Fucking experiments?” Dean whispered. “We’re fucking experiments? You killed those people to test out a…a thesis? We’re lab rats to you?”
“Don’t you get it!” Susie screamed, eyes wide and voice cracking. “No one has ever been able to conduct research into the human psyche like we can! Fucking ethics gets in the way, fucking researchers die before any real break through! But imagine if you could live forever, imagine if you could conduct a centuries’ long experiment to solve the mystery of whether our characters and values are innate, or whether they can change at the drop of a suicide or at the death of a family member.” She strode up to them and grabbed the boxes back, violently chucking them across the room. Thousands of sheets came fluttering out, almost blanketing the room white. “Damien was helping your sorry asses!”
Sam blinked hard, trying to absorb this information.
“We were fucking experiments?” Dean repeated, yelling this time. Ignoring his shoulder, he strode forward, pushing away Sam’s attempts to steady him, and grabbed Susie by her arm. “Everything that’s happened, all those deaths over the years, everything, it was all part of this Dr Evil nonsense?”
“Not nonsense,” Susie growled. “So a few people die in the end. It’s worth it! They’d be proud to know they’re helping us understand ourselves better! You should be proud that he chose you to be a part of this too!”
Sam stepped up beside Dean, watching the exchange and ready to jump in if need be. Dean’s eyes were glazed over, and Sam couldn’t tell whether from pain or anger. He was too shocked himself to form a reaction other than bewilderment. But the more he thought about it, a chill began to creep up his spine. Damien had been a researcher who sold his soul for a chance to study human behavior forever. To kill people and analyze the reactions. He was a sociopath turned academic.
“You turn a human into a fly yet?” Dean finally said, letting go of Susie in disgust.
“I hate you,” she hissed, backing up and kneeling beside Damien again.
“Gee, really? You want to follow up that riveting response by slamming a door and listening to some loud Linkin Park?”
“Come on, Dean,” Sam said, gently taking a hold of Dean’s good arm and pulling him towards the exit. Dean didn’t refuse the help.
“Wait,” Dean said. He nodded at a bottle of alcohol lying in the other room. “Grab that for me, would ya.”
Sam frowned but quickly retrieved it, not wanting to argue with Dean when he looked this pale.
Once outside, Dean stumbled. Sam instantly tightened his hold and lifted some of Dean’s weight off his own feet. “I’m getting you to the hospital and you better not complain -”
“No,” Dean said, finally pushing Sam away.
Sam frowned. “You don’t listen to anything I say, do you?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? Dean, you could give Carrie a run for her money!”
“Sam,” Dean growled, clutching his arm protectively and trying to hide a grimace. “We need to find this other player before he gets wind of what we did to his bum chum in there.”
“Okay, yeah, I get that, but the hunt can wait till after you stop bleeding to death. I mean, you know, after we stop you bleeding to death. Not after you finish bleeding…dammit, you know what I mean!”
Dean rolled his eyes.
How the hell did Dean manage to make it look like Sam was being overprotective while with a hole in his goddamn shoulder?
“You patch it up,” Dean said, glancing at Sam.
“What?” Sam said, the dizziness in his head increasing.
“Sam, we do this ER shit all the time. I’ll wait in that building over there.” He pointed to one of the abandoned lots. “Go grab the First Aid kit. And my jacket. And don’t get any blood on my car. It’ll stain the leather.”
Sam looked down at himself and realized with a start that he was covered with blood - both Dean’s and Damien’s. He looked back up at Dean and raised his eyebrows, trying not to feel annoyed. “Don’t stain the leather? We’re getting you a shrink when this is over.”
“And we’re getting you a haircut.”
Sam smirked, but still hesitated. He didn’t want to leave Dean alone, even if to grab the First Aid kit. “You know,” he said, “in the state you’re in, I could just carry you over my shoulder to the hospital and you couldn’t do anything about it.”
Dean glared at him. “Yeah? Want to know what I’d do about it after my shoulder gets better?”
Sam sighed. “I’m going, I’m going.” He turned and hurried for the car, crossing his arms over his chest to hide the blood, but hesitated again and looked back over at Dean. He watched as Dean slowly made his way to the building, stumbling a few times. Sam’s arms and legs twitched, wanting to help him.
“Damn your stubborn ass.”
Dean grabbed hold of the rotting door frame and pulled himself in, panting with exertion. He used the last of his strength to push the door shut and then slid down the wall, not able to move any further into the room. He grimaced and looked down at his shoulder. The cloth Sam had wrapped around it was starting to darken. He just sighed and leaned his head against the wall. He felt dizzy and nauseous and hot and cold all at the same time.
This hunt sucked.
The building’s windows were boarded up so that only a few thin lines of light peeked through, and they barely penetrated the dust and mold that had built up over the years. It was strangely comforting. To sit here in the dark, listening to his own breath and knowing no one else could hear how ragged it sounded. Dean rolled his eyes. He didn’t even want to know what the shrinks would say about that.
Dean’s head snapped up at the sound of the door opening, but his body didn’t respond nearly as fast. It just sat there. Sam squeezed through the door and then shoved the thing closed again, frowning as it groaned and creaked in protest, a few splinters snaking up the frame.
“Trust you to choose the most dangerous building,” Sam said, kneeling next to Dean and shooting him concerned glances as he put down the First Aid kit and jacket.
“Trust you to choose the most dangerous college,” Dean said, face flushing under Sam’s scrutiny.
“Danger seems to follow us around, if you hadn’t noticed.” Sam slowly peeled off the cloth covering the wound in Dean’s shoulder. Dean dug his fingers into his palms, refusing to make a sound. “Dean…this looks bad.”
“We’re Winchesters: we heal extraordinarily fast… if you haven’t noticed.” He tried to keep his voice steady for Sam’s sake. “Just get out the fucking lighter and cauterize the damn thing.”
Sam looked uncertain. He sighed and took out some gauze, alcohol swabs and a lighter. He tore Dean’s shirt around the wound and cleared away the blood as best he could. “I can’t see anything,” he muttered, standing up and yanking one of the planks from the window.
The morning light hit Dean’s face and he cringed at the intrusion, black dots blurring his vision.
“Here,” Sam said, passing Dean the bottle of vodka he’d made Sam retrieve and a few of the pages he still had from those boxes.
Dean unscrewed the lid and took a large swallow of the alcohol, before putting it aside and picking up the papers. “The booze I get, what am I ‘spose to do with these?”
“A distraction,” Sam said, flicking on the lighter.
“Hate to break it to you, Sammy, but reading about my role as a lab rat in some psycho’s experiment isn’t really very distrac- OW!” He scrunched the papers in his hand, shutting his eyes as his vision blurred. This was the second time in as many hours that he’d been forced to smell his own skin sizzling. “Right,” he finally said, breathing hard and trying to keep from screaming or, you know, throwing up. “That was the distraction.”
“Sorry,” Sam said, quickly removing the lighter to start on the hole in the back of Dean’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he said again as Dean flinched and involuntarily pulled away.
“If you don’t stop saying sorry, I’m going to have to start apologizing.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to hit you over the head with this bottle!”
“Right, sor-” Sam caught himself. “Right.”
The glare slid from Dean’s face and he blinked rapidly to clear his vision.
“Okay, all done,” Sam said, sounding relieved.
Dean didn’t dare look at his shoulder, couldn’t stomach the damage. He felt it. He smelled it. Eyelids growing heavy, black creeping across his vision, Dean forced his head to turn and look at Sam instead. “Where’s my lollipop?”
Sam smirked. “We’re out of lollipops, but here,” he grabbed a pack of aspirin from the kit, “take a few of these.”
Dean reached out with his good arm and took the packet, popping out five and tossing them into his mouth, grabbing the open bottle of vodka.
“Not with - !”
Dean swallowed the pills and put the bottle aside.
“That,” Sam finished with a sigh. He pushed away the First Aid kit and leaned against the wall beside Dean. “You’re going to give me premature gray hair, I swear.”
Dean smirked slightly and closed his eyes, giving in to his exhaustion for a second. “Hey, at least then I can call you an old fuddy duddy. Suits you.”
“Thanks.” Sam’s laugh sounded strained.
Dean forced his eyes open and leaned forward, grabbing the papers and smoothing them out on the floor in front of him, the movement forcing back his exhaustion. He glanced at Sam, who had a nasty bruise forming on the side of his face and a few smaller yellow ones dotted here and there. “Have to tell ya, buddy, not really seeing the appeal of this whole college thing.”
“My experience was slightly different.” Sam glanced at the papers and froze. He reached out and pointed to a number sequence at the top of the page. “967540-32810-0000,” he read out loud, the blood draining from his face. “Dean,” he said, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Rearrange those numbers.”
Dean frowned. “I’m suffering blood loss here and you want me to do math? This is to get me back for that time when you were three and I told you one plus one equaled five, right?”
Sam ignored him and picked up the pages, looking torn between excitement and shock. “Rearranged they turn into 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 0 0 0 0 0 0.”
“The countdown?”
Sam shook his head. “Not a countdown. Damien said that the dream about killing you was a red herring. Meant to trick us from the real trail. So… so maybe those numbers weren’t actually counting down anything. Maybe they meant something different, completely different, and Susie just led us to believe it was a countdown. Maybe we’ve been chasing red herrings this whole time…”
Dean blinked a few times, wondering if his eyelids usually felt this heavy. “Huh?”
Sam rummaged through his bag. “We’re a part of their twisted little social experiment, right? They’ve been watching us for a while, taking photographs of us. They knew we were brothers and, after Susie was drawn to me that day on the lawn, they knew we dealt in the supernatural. That means that the dream and the numbers and pretending to be a ghost…all of that was geared towards watching how we’d react. They were messing with our minds, so those numbers might mean anything and they were just waiting to see how long it would take us to work it out.” Sam paused from his search and frowned. “You know, before Susie and Damien took it upon themselves to make you leave.”
He finally pulled a class schedule from the bag. “It’s…it’s the extended course code for Contemporary Cultural Studies.”
“The class we were sitting in?”
Sam nodded.
Dean used the wall to pull himself up, keeping his injured arm close and steady.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked in alarm, hurrying to stand beside Dean.
“This other dude, whoever the fuck he is, has to be from that class too. I’m going to find him.”
Sam looked incredulous. “After you’ve just had a spear shoved through your shoulder and a tattoo burnt off? You’re going go find this other guy? No plan, just go and hope he doesn’t kill you.”
“Yep. You going to pass me my jacket or stay here all day asking stupid questions?”
Sam stared at Dean for a second before shaking his head and scooping up Dean’s jacket. For a second, Dean thought Sam was going to throw it at him, but instead he walked behind Dean and held it open for him.
“I can put on my own jacket. Can tie my own shoes and brush my teeth, too.”
“Humor me.”
Dean sighed and carefully slid his arms into it, biting his lip to avoid crying out with the movement. He then pulled up the zipper to hide the blood.
Sam was quickly shoving the kit and papers into his bag.
“Dude, you want to attract the sharks? Hide that mess,” Dean nodded at Sam’s shirt. Sam looked down at himself and quickly pulled his shirt off, turning it inside out to hide the blood stains.
“Better?”
“You’re a bona fide Houdini.”
Sam rolled his eyes, smiling a little.
Dean groaned when he saw the smile. If he had to deal with Sam’s concern and then his relief whenever Dean made a joke, he was going to kill himself. Or Sam. He hadn’t decided which.
The sun was making Dean’s head swim and dots were dancing in front of his vision. Sunshine was overrated.
“This isn’t one of your smarter ideas,” Sam said. “In fact, barging into the faculty office and demanding the names and histories of everyone in that class isn’t an idea at all.”
Dean shot him an annoyed look before returning his gaze to the grass: he didn’t completely trust his legs to guide him on their own. “I’m not twiddling my thumbs waiting for this man of mystery to literally sweep me off my feet. We’ve been jumping through their fucking hoops this whole time. Time to get proactive.”
“We could rally,” Sam muttered.
“You’re funny, really, just hilarious.”
“Dean, whoever we’re dealing with here is calculating. He’s not just an angry spirit. He knows what he’s doing and he knows we’re trying to stop him. He has the upper hand.”
“So, this is what happens when the Geeks try to take over the world.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Dean looked at Sam and cringed. “Sorry. My mind went to an image of Doctor Evil stroking his cat and then to Revenge of the Geeks, and they kinda got merged. You know, like, this is evil, college style.”
Sam continued to stare at him with raised eyebrows. He slowed down and reached for Dean’s arm, stopping him. “Dean, are you sure you’re okay?”
No, he wasn’t. His head felt fuzzy and light and he was having trouble concentrating. “I’m fine. Keep going. What were you saying? Something about calculus and rashes.”
“Calculating,” Sam stressed, looking more concerned. “I said they’re calculating. Rashes, what?”
Sam’s voice started to slur and he began tilting. Funny, Dean thought, the world tilted with him.
The next thing he knew, Dean was in Sam’s arms. Embarrased, he pushed Sam away. “Personal space, dude.”
“Dean, you are not alright. Stop being a dick. Let me take you to the hospital.”
“A what?”
“Dean!”
“Sam,” Dean growled in response, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. “I’ve just about had it with this overprotective shit. I’m fine and I’ll be finer once we’re done with this school.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ve about had it with your Rambo complex. When you collapse and die, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Dean scowled. “If I collapse and die, I’m haunting your ass.”
Sam visibly sighed, but to his credit he only swept his gaze over Dean’s bandages and bruises once before pretending to buy Dean’s assurances.
Dean turned and rounded the street that would lead them to the faculty building. He stopped short at the sight that met him. “What the fuck happened?”
Sam stepped up beside him and smirked. “Lunch hour.”
The quad was filled with students. Teeming with them. A huge crowd carrying books and bags and food, expertly maneuvering around each other to avoid the collisions Dean was sure were inevitable, but that just didn’t seem to happen. He warily eyed the congestion of bodies in the centre of this loud clump. “And we can’t be off fighting swamp monsters, why?” Dean sighed and strode resolutely into the mob, Sam following closer that Dean would’ve liked.
“…I bought the green one…”
“…what do you feel like?...”
“…that class is breaking my balls…”
“…should I ask her...”
“…he’s such a bastard…”
“…it’s a public area, we can post whatever we want…”
“…end the war on Iraq! Sign the petition!...”
“…it was so much fun…”
“…maybe we should streak…”
By the time Dean and Sam got to the faculty office, Dean’s arm was throbbing something shocking from the amount of times he’d been bumped into, he’d broken out in a sweat from the exertion of staying upright on his own two feet, and he was just plain pissed off.
He slammed his good arm down on the counter separating him from the office hand, then slumped forward to lean his weight on it.
The older woman jumped and stared up at him in surprise. She stood up and backed away a few steps. “Can I help you boys?” She was eyeing them with suspicion, discreetly trying to step behind her chair.
“Uh, yeah, actually,” Sam said, shooting a glance at Dean before continuing. “We were wondering if-”
“We need to see the names and files of everyone in Contemporary Cultural Studies,” Dean interrupted. “Now would be good.”
An annoyed look started to overpower the woman’s surprise. She pursed her lips and glared at Dean from beyond her glasses. “I can’t just give you that information. You’ll need to talk to the faculty advisor and bring your grievances to him.”
Dean sighed loudly. “Look, lady-”
“That’s fine,” Sam cut in. “Where can we find him?”
She gave Dean another angry look before turning to address Sam. “He’s in his office. I’ll see if he has time to see you…gentlemen.” She disappeared into the advisor’s office.
“Dean-”
“I know,” Dean snapped, rubbing his forehead and shutting his eyes as another wave of dizziness hit him. “It wouldn’t kill me to be polite once in a while, yadda, yadda, yadda.”
“I was going to ask if you wanted some more aspirin.”
Dean opened his eyes and peered up at Sam. “Oh.”
The door to the faculty advisor’s office opened and the woman reappeared. She walked back behind the counter and started to pile a few folders into a large storage box, coldly refusing to look Dean in the eye again. Boy, could he piss people off or what. “He’ll see you in a few minutes. Take a seat, please,” she finally said, lifting the box.
“I’m good right here,” Dean said, forcing a quick smile.
The woman huffed but Sam hurried around the counter, quickly lifting the box from her arms before she had a chance to start lecturing Dean. “Let me help with those,” he said, glancing at Dean and shaking his head with a small smile.
Dean rolled his eyes. Always with the politeness. It was going to be the death of that boy. Or at least do his back in one day.
“Thank you, dear,” the woman said, smiling in surprise. “At least there are a few young people left who know how to treat others with respect.”
“Where do you want these?”
“Just in that storage room, over there.”
Sam nodded and lifted the box easily, disappearing into the room. Dean turned away and leaned his back against the counter, catching his reflection in a nearby window. The reflection’s odd angle made his face look transparent, his eyes lost somewhere beyond the glass so that only the black of his bruises followed when he turned his head. Jesus, he looked like death.
He looked away, unsettled by the distorted image. A book on a nearby stand caught his attention. Dean frowned and walked over to it, picking it up off its stand. On the front was a picture of a large church bell with its echoes represented in little black semi-circles. A crowd of people stood beneath the bell. The image felt familiar…
…This is too important for you two to screw up The voice was in his head! A loud boom that reverberated through his body and for a second Dean thought he was standing beneath a large church bell as it chimed, the echoes hitting harder than the initial tolls…
Dean slowly moved back across the room and lowered himself into one of the plastic chairs, hands still clutching the book. “The Echo Effect.” He traced his finger over the author’s name. Martin Linberg. Wasn’t that…
Dean looked up when the Faculty Advisor’s door opened and Professor Linberg emerged with a hearty grin.
Dean frowned. “You teach that Cultural Studies lecture.”
“That’s right,” he smiled.
“You teach, write, and advise?” Dean asked. “Geez, you must be downing those multis.”
The Professor chuckled, opening his door and stepping back. “Oh my,” he said when Dean stood up. “What happened to you, young man? Are you okay?”
“Followed a snake into his lair,” Dean muttered, glancing at the storage room door. He could still hear Sam fiddling around.
The professor frowned, looking baffled. “Uh, okay. Come in, come in. Tell me what’s on your mind. What’s this about class lists?”
Dean followed him in, watching the floor to make sure his feet were cooperating. He still didn’t trust his body after almost collapsing out on the lawn. “Yeah, see, um…my brother’s better at the whole explaining thing.”
“Yep,” Linberg said, sitting at his desk.
“He’s off earning a seat in heaven, he’ll be here soon.” Dean pulled out a chair opposite Linberg and sat down. Satisfied that he couldn’t stumble now that he was sitting, Dean looked up.
A wall of spears met his gaze.
Dean froze, staring at them. They looked like a display. Some were old, some new. Each had a little title above it. Dean let his gaze travel down to the book in his hands, then back up at the Professor. The guy was watching Dean with a glint in his eyes that Dean hadn’t noticed earlier. “Oh.”
“Oh?” The Professor smiled. “Oh, what, young man?”
“Um…” Dean looked around, noticing how the office gleamed with almost unnatural cleanliness. Unnatural being the key word. “Othello. Yeah…I have to go read that. For a class. Right now.”
Linberg frowned. “Well, if you must.”
“Yeah…” Dean stood up and backed towards the door. “I was just going to rent it, but…reading is important.”
The door slammed shut before Dean reached it. “Ah crap,” he sighed. He turned to face the professor, cursing Sam for taking his gun from him. “So, you’re the mastermind, huh? Kinda clichéd, don’t you think. One step above ‘the butler did it.’”
The professor smiled and stood up, watching Dean closely. “You never suspected me.”
Dean saluted him. “Good point. I mean, you’d know, wouldn’t you? You and your little minions have been playing stalker since we arrived in this town. What’s up with that?”
The professor clasped his hands behind his back and casually walked around his desk, approaching Dean.
Dean edged to the side, looking for a make-do weapon. Before he’d found one, he was flung against the wall by an invisible force, the impact sending a spark of pain through his shoulder. “Son of a bitch!”
The professor sat on the edge of the desk, frowning in disproval. “Now, really, must we use such language? We’re civilized men.”
Dean glared at him for a second, growing more angry with every failed attempt to move from this frickin’ wall. “Fuck you.”
“Fine. Use deplorable language. Someone obviously so uneducated has no other verbal weapon.”
“Go to hell, bitch.”
Dean stumbled forward as the energy binding him to the wall suddenly disappeared. Not wasting a second, he grabbed an envelope opener from the desk and plunged into the professor’s chest.
“Honestly, Dean,” the professor said, looking down at the knife protruding from his chest. “I’m the ‘mastermind’ as you called it; I’m a bit more powerful than my assistants.”
He pulled out the knife and Dean flinched, waiting for the thing to end up in his chest. Instead, the professor placed it back on the desk and waved his hand lazily. Dean flew through the air and collided into one of the bookshelves. He slid to the floor, shielding his head from the barrage of books that fell with him. When the thumps settled, Dean opened his eyes and forced himself up, ignoring his protesting body. “There something you want from me, or you just need a new punching bag?”
Again, Dean was flung against a wall by that invisible force. “Jesus, almighty,” he growled. “You bad guys never play fair, you know that? Just tell me one thing, alright, why a fucking spearhead tattoo? Why that symbol? A dagger not classy enough for you?”
The professor smiled and glanced over at his spearhead display. “A spear is a symbol of power and destiny. The Ancient Greek Mythology associated the spear with Zeus’ lightening bolts. In the gospel of John, the Spear of Destiny pierced Jesus’ side during the crucifixion. The spear represents human will, and even Jesus himself couldn’t fight that.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s a pointy stick.”
The professor stood and scooped up his book, The Echo Effect, from the floor. He sat back on the edge of the desk, crossing his leg over one knee and staring at the book’s cover. “I’m not the villain in the tale.”
“Yeah, that seems to be all I’m hearing lately,” Dean muttered.
“Maybe because it’s the truth.” He looked up at Dean and set the book aside. “The human condition is fascinating. I dedicated my life, and my afterlife, to studying you people. You understand nothing about yourselves; it’s almost pathetic. I’m helping you. I’m uncovering, subject by subject, whether or not you’re shaped by circumstance or if you’re born into a personality that never sheds. Whether values change after trauma and what people are willing to give up for that which they consider most important. My work will eventually help the human race understand itself better.”
“Gee, that’s real Mother Theresa of you,” Dean spat. “Oh wait, you murder people, you ass! That there’s gonna disqualify you from the Noble prize.”
The professor leaned back and crossed his arms. “Death is a part of life. It’s a part of my research. There is no reason to become emotional about it. Everyone dies eventually.”
“Everyone but you, right?”
The professor looked away for second. “One day I’d liked to have retired. Damien was going to take my place and continue the project.”
“Oh, the one I put a bullet through? Twice, actually.” Dean smiled coldly. “I was second time lucky.”
Anger flashed through the professor’s eyes. “Yes, him. He was a good man. I handpicked him to be my apprentice almost a century ago. His death was unfortunate.” The professor stood and stepped closer to Dean. “Now I have a ‘beef’ with you, as people put it.”
Dean smiled slowly. “Am I seeing an emotional reaction? Couldn’t avoid becoming like the people you studied, huh?”
They stared at each other for a second, Dean smiling and the professor glaring. Suddenly, he reached for the lapels of Dean’s shirt and flung him onto the desk. Dean’s back arched on impact. The professor leaned close, using one arm to hold Dean down; the other coming down on Dean’s shoulder wound. Dean cried out, trying to move away.
“I want you to pay close attention,” the professor snarled, pressing harder.
Dean clenched his jaw against the pain sparking from his shoulder.
“This was never about you,” the professor said. “We chose you and your brother as subjects simply because Susie foresaw your death and we didn’t want to waste an opportunity to study how that knowledge would affect a family.” He leaned closer and Dean could feel the professor’s cold breath on his face. “That all changed when you killed my apprentice. Mine! He had more talent and worth than you’ll ever know! So I want you to listen carefully. Everything, and I mean everything, that happens now is on your shoulders.”
He let go and Dean slumped down against the desk until he was sitting on the floor, hand wrapped around his arm to protect his throbbing shoulder. A buzzing had entered his head and was beginning to drown out any other noise.
“Dean.”
Dean reluctantly looked up. The professor puts his fingers to his lips. “Listen.”
Dean strained his ears, trying to hear past the buzzing. In the distant, an ambulance’s siren wailed. Dean’s heartbeat increased. A scream. Another scream. All from outside. His gaze locked with the professor’s. “No,” he whispered, dread coiling through him and numbing him to any pain other than that growing in his chest.
The office door opened on its own and the professor stood back, giving Dean room to leave. “On your shoulders,” he repeated.
Dean pulled himself up with shaking hands and stumbled out of the office. The room beyond was empty. So was the hall. “Sam!” he called. Dean’s breath froze in his lungs when no one answered other than the office hand.
Dean was shaking so badly he could barely move, or maybe it was the dread. But he found he couldn’t breathe, or think or do anything other than watch the exit sign loom closer. That’s when he realized he was moving, that his legs were propelling him towards the door even though he felt nothing other than this pain clawing at his chest. He watched as his hand reached out and opened the door. He watched as the large crowd outside drew closer. They all faced away from Dean, staring at the pavement.
Numbly, Dean moved forward.
***
Go to Chap 8