Haunted: Chapter 7
Okay, I'm happier with this chapter. It just feels a lot smoother.
Plus, you know, it's DeanWhumping-centric, and that's always fun to
write :D But, given that the world is usually run by the great god of
Irony, now that I'm happy with a chapter, you readers will probably
think it sucks :P Ah well, if that's the case then I'll know for the
future not to forget to offer up the sacrificial lamb before posting.
Now, i must move it and begin wrapping up this story ! Uni starts back in two weeks...I'm becoming strapped for time! Just yesterday I realized I have 5 novels to read for one class (*before* it starts), and that I haven't even bought the books yet! Ah me...stress.
HAUNTED: Chapter 7
This is crazy, Sam kept thinking, over and over, as he frantically searched through the graveyard, trying to locate a Palmer plot. There wasn’t one there! And he knew there wouldn’t be - the police reports had said nothing about another family dieing in that house. So what had Dean been talking about?
This is crazy, Sam repeated to himself. While searching the last stretch of graves, he mentally began filing through all that had happened in the past few days. There had to be something there to explain what was going on in that house and with that family - with the Palmers and the Parkers. Then something dawned. Or more, two memories clicked into place and offered Sam the answer he sought.
… “We thought he really loved them.” The old man snorted again, “apparently Brad loved his cat more.”
…Jamie walked past them, the cat following obediently. “Be careful,” Jamie paused at the top of the stairs, turning to Dean, “rats sometimes bite back.”
Finally beginning to understand, Sam ran back to the Parker’s gravestones. He shone his light across them, counting. Five in total. The parents, two boys and a little girl. He flashed back to that first day he and Dean had entered the house, pretending to be council employees. Sitting on the couches had been the parents, two boys and that little girl from his dreams. Five in total.
“The Palmers are the Parkers,” Sam realized, mumbling to himself. And according to Dean, Brad and Bret weren’t the only ones haunting this town - the whole family had refused to move on! That meant they all had to have died violently somehow.
Sam shone his light over each gravestone. They had all died within a week of Bret’s murder. Brad was the last one to die - a few days after his parents and sister. Did that mean that he’d killed them too?
But whether Brad had or hadn’t, Sam and Dean weren’t in the habit of revenging deaths. They’re job was to stop them happening in the first place. So why had Sam had a vision of a dead girl?
Sam closed his eyes and brought the vision forward, blocking out any distraction so that he could concentrate on what he’d seen.
A little girl ran down the empty street, crying for help. Something was hurting her family.
It was the same girl as the Palm - er - Parker one, that was for sure. And the street around her was definitely Archers Way…wait a minute! Sam scrunched up his face as he concentrated harder, forcing his mind to hold onto the vision - of what he remembered of it. The street…it was different. More cluttered. With discarded toys, trash that had missed the bins, overgrown lawns…There! On the corner of the street hung some leftover decorations from a News Years Party. It said…1990.
Sam’s eyes snapped open. His breath caught in his throat for a moment. He’d had a vision of something happening 16 years ago!
And in the ensuing shock and confusion, Sam found himself making the least important connection:
“Hey, I remember these,” Sam said, picking up one of the Strawberry Shortcake dolls. Dean gave him a look. Sam rolled his eyes. “From the girls at my pre-school.”
Sam laughed tiredly, rubbing his eyes. Well now he knew why the kid was so behind in the toy commodity department.
But what he still couldn’t work out was why he was having visions of things that he couldn’t possibly stop unless he miraculously fell onto a time machine. It had to have something to do with that next part of the vision - of Dean shooting someone. But who? Dean was trapped in a house where everyone was dead! God…this was all so confusing!
Gathering himself together, Sam quickly crouched to re-read those strange inscriptions. Okay, these had to hold some hint as to how this family was anchoring themselves to this world without needing their bones. And that’s all Sam really cared about at the moment - finding a way to destroy the Parkers’ spirits before they could hurt Dean. He could worry about the rest later.
He traced his fingers along the inscription on Bret’s grave - Beloved son, devoted brother, tragedy was your burden, your gift - and then the one on Brad’s grave - Brad Parker. Beloved son, devoted brother, in death he shall find the peace he missed in life.
Sam read them over again, frowning, before checking out what it said on the other graves. The girl’s was standard, while a strange symbol marked the parents’ graves. Sam’s eyes widened - he recognized it! It was a black symbol. It helped contain dark magic.
He quickly dialed Dean.
Dean felt his heartbeat increase as his phone rang, over and over.
What. The. Fuck… Jamie had known it was about to ring. Now that was creepy.
Jamie smiled slowly. “Are you going to answer that?” he asked, enjoying how unnerved Dean looked.
Dean swallowed, gathering back his usual bravado. “Are you going to fry me if I do?”
“No,” Jamie said, almost thoughtfully. “I’ll wait. I’m doing this for him, remember. Make sure to let him know this is a goodbye.”
Dean slowly withdrew his phone, keeping a weary eye on Jamie’s smug little self the whole time. “Sam?” he answered.
“Dean, listen to me,” Sam’s voice came through the line. He was talking fast, breathless. “The Palmers are the Parkers. Don’t ask me how, just trust me.”
Dean’s eyes flickered towards Jamie.
“They’re posing as the Palmers for our benefit. I guess Brad must have killed the rest of his family before he killed himself, and is using some sort of black magic to keep them all grounded without needing the bones. He obviously planned the whole thing before killing himself - like he decided that in death he’d win his brother’s forgiveness by, I dunno, using supernatural ability to kill people he thought were a threat to his town, to people like his brother. People like him. There’s a symbol marking the parents graves - theirs must be containing the energy.”
Sam paused to take a breath. “Dean?”
Dean let a smile slide onto his face, watching Jamie to make sure he saw it. “Describe the symbol for me.”
Jamie frowned at this.
Sam described it. Dean’s smile grew wider. “I know the one.” Dean had been trained to know these things. The symbol was used by certain cults to keep their dead’s spirits grounded to the physical plain. But more than that - if used correctly it let the spirit hold onto part of its human side - the spirit retained its memories and personality, and was able take human form like the Parker family was doing now. They were still dead, still spirits, but could pass as human if they held their preternatural ability in check. And Dean was quickly realizing that their powers were weaker when passing as human.
“Sam,” Dean said. “Dad’s journal, page 70. Oh, and,” and he stressed this last part, “I’ll see you real soon.”
Jamie just chuckled, shaking his head.
“Oh, and Sam, one other thing. Burn the parents’ bones.”
“NO!” Jamie yelled, his chuckle giving way to shock and then rage as he let a bolt of energy fly from his hand and shatter Dean’s phone.
Dean jumped out of the way, sparing a mournful glance at the remnants of his phone before locking eyes with Jamie’s ones as they burned black with anger.
It was Dean’s turn to smile. “You didn’t think we’d work it out, did you, Brad.”
At the mention of his name, the muscles grew taunt in Brad’s face as rage surged through him. This wasn’t meant to happen!
“Haven’t you seen Legally Blonde? You never underestimate the pretty ones!” Dean continued. “Now who’s not so bright? I mean, you have enough evil mind mojo to know that Sam’s going to call, but not enough to know what he’s calling about?”
“What did you do?” Brad’s hands clenched as he shook, whether in anger or grief Dean didn’t care.
“No, Brad, I think the question is what did you do. You shot your brother, that’s what! And then killed the rest of your family!”
Brad flew at Dean, grabbing him by the lapels of his shirt and pushing him against the wall with such force that Dean’s teeth rattled. Brad kept his hands clenched on Dean’s shirt as he spoke, face so close that Dean could feel Brad’s icy breath against his cheek. He turned away in disgust. “They were brought back differently to me Bret and Cindy. Burning their bones wont get rid of me. You’re taking them away from me for nothing!” He slammed Dean against the wall again.
Dean felt a spark of fear shiver down his back at those words but was careful not to let it show. “So then, what, you killed them and brought them back to sing you lullabies before bedtime?”
“What would you know about it, your daddy abandoned you.”
Dean froze. “What did you say?”
Brad smiled. It was a shaky smile. His anger was overpowering his usual calm.
“In the graveyard. I read Sam’s memories. You’re the reason his girlfriend’s dead. The reason he hasn’t found his dad. The reason he has no future, no friends. You tried to push your life onto him. I wont let you! Not again! Bret didn’t deserve that!”
“Bret?” Dean mumbled. Ah crap, just what he needed. A remorseful ghost on the verge of a breakdown.
Still pinning Dean to the wall, Brad’s eyes drifted away, staring at something only he could see. “I didn’t mean to do that. He knew not to make me mad, knew I couldn’t control it. But …he was my baby brother. He was trying to be like me. To be tough like me. But I’m sorry for what I did,” his eyes slid back towards Dean’s, “and I’m going to make you and everyone like you sorry too.”
“I’m nothing like you,” Dean spat, “I didn’t shoot my own brother.” His words were aimed at digging deep.
Brad’s grip loosened on Dean’s shirt and he backed away, staring at Dean with a chilling calm, his eyes becoming cool and cold once again.
Brad smiled. “No, but he shot you.” He flicked his wrist and from the floor sprung a lamp’s cord, snaking itself around Dean’s neck. “Which tells me more than enough.”
Dean’s eyes bulged as he dropped to his knees, clawing at the cord desperately. It tightened around his neck, cutting off his air, squeezing shut his throat.
“Brad, stop it!” a new voice entered the mix. But Dean barely noticed - he couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t even panic! The need for air was consuming his every thought or action. His lungs screamed, ballooning up like they were trying to break free of Dean’s chest. In the distance he heard a thud and realized vaguely that it was his own body falling to the ground, unable to remain upright.
“Bret, you know I have to! Why do you keep doing this to me?”
Voices, sounds, crying…it was all so far away to Dean. Black spots had begun to appear in front of his eyes. His head felt like it was floating away from his body.
“He isn’t you!”
“But he will be if I don’t make him sorry!”
Dean’s vision was fading so fast that all he could see were patches - of shoes, of chair legs - just patches. A buzzing noise was crowding his mind, blocking his ears. He didn’t know if his fingers were still clawing at the rope, he couldn’t feel them anymore.
… “Please, Bret, I have to…”
… “Shh, okay…don’t be upset…”
… “ You’ll see…”
And then he could breath. The pressure left his neck and Dean gasped, taking in breath after breath. The sounds were still distant, his sight still dark, but his lungs were singing with relief. And for a few minutes that’s all he knew - the sweet sensation of breath.
Vaguely, somewhere in the distance, he felt pressure lifting from his neck. He felt his arms pulled back and bound tightly. He felt himself lifted from the ground. Feeling began to return to his body and he felt his legs stumble as he was pulled. And a door opening. And then a soft floor as he was thrown down, his head hitting something hard. And then everything went black.
“Argh,” Sam grimaced, moving the phone away as a surge of static burst through it. He hesitantly placed it back against his ear. It was dead.
Oh that can’t be good, Sam thought.
Grabbing his shovel, he began digging up the parents’ graves. “How’d you spend your night, Sam?” Sam muttered to himself. “Partying, studying, sleeping? No, I spent it digging up graves.”
Sometime later, muscles on fire, Sam finally flicked the match onto the rotting corpses and watched them burn. He let himself fall to the ground, watching the fire for a moment as he got his breath back. He sure hoped that was the end of it. Remembering what Dean had said about their dad’s journal, Sam forced his tired arms to reach for his bag and pull the journal out.
“Page 70,” Sam mumbled as he flipped through them, carefully counting. Opening on what he was pretty sure was page 70, Sam quickly scanned the content. It was the right page - it had a large picture of the symbol he’d found on those headstones. Beneath the picture was a few paragraphs detailing what the symbol was used for - grounding spirits to the earth, retaining bits of their human sides, and so on. He’d pretty much guessed all that himself. It also said that destroying the things holding the energy should destroy the spirits. Well, he’d just done that.
“Red…” Sam then mumbled, remembering what Bret’s spirit had said. He frowned. Where did that fit in. The symbol was black. Though he knew enough to understand that Bret’s spirit most likely wasn’t referring to the symbol, but to something that might help them. Like how he had led them to the right house when he’d told Dean ‘Archers Way.’
“Red…” Sam mumbled again. “Blood, roses…fire trucks? A lot of things are red, Sam.” Sam sighed heavily. “And now I’m talking to myself, great.”
He tried to ring Dean again. The phone was still dead. That doesn’t have to mean anything, Sam told himself. Silently this time. It was probably just damaged. And Dean was probably on his way back to the motel right now. Sam had burnt the bones guarding the symbol. The ghosts were gone. Dean was safe.
Sam tapped the phone absently against his chin, thinking. He sprung up, grabbing his bag. He was going to the Parker house.
You know…just to be safe.
Now, the question was, how was he going to get there?
Dean’s head throbbed. A groan escaped his lips before he could stop it. Forcing his eyes open, he found himself lying on a dirt floor. Confused, he struggled to lift himself up. A sharp pain shot through his arm and up his shoulder. He closed his eyes, wincing. At least now he knew why he’d found it so difficult to sit up - his hands were bound together! Tight. Behind his back. At least he was able to breathe. Why Brad hadn’t just strangled him to death was a mystery in itself, but Dean sure wasn’t about to question it. He was alive; that was good enough for him.
The throbbing in his head retreating, Dean looked around. He was in some kind of basement. One with dirt floors and wooden planks littering the floor. That’s obviously what he’d hit his head on. The small room was lit by numerous hanging light bulbs. To his right there was a stairwell leading up to a closed door. To his left was another wall. With some effort, he twisted around to look at what was behind him.
He gasped, involuntarily falling backwards. He struggled up, annoyed by his reaction, and let his eyes roam the wall. Splattered against it, painting it red like some sick collage, were blood stains. Numerous and varied. But all splattered. Like people had been shot up close. Many people, by the looks of it.
“Great,” Dean mumbled. “Just great.”
“Blood stains. That’s why it has to be done down here. They stain,” a voice said from across the room. Dean looked over to find Brad materializing in the empty basement. He was sitting against the opposite wall, staring at the stains.
Dean sighed, twisting himself away from that wall so that he was facing him. “Brad,” he greeted unenthusiastically.
“I do hear blood stains are the darndest things to remove,” Dean said when Brad didn’t say anything. But Brad still remained silent. Dean raised an eyebrow. “Uh, hostage in the room. Remember me?”
Brad’s face scrunched up - his eyes rimmed red, his mouth twitching. “Bret doesn’t understand. He still doesn’t get why I’m doing this. I keep trying to show him. I’m sorry about what I did. I’m just making sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh god, am I going to have to play therapist to get out of this one?”
“Shut up!” Brad yelled, jumping to his feet. “You don’t know anything!”
Dean grinned, while discreetly trying to twist his hands out from the rope binding them. “I know that Bret dearest told me where to find you. Yeah, that’s right. Whispered it right into my ear.”
Brad stood silently, chest heaving. “You’re lying.”
“No, no. I don’t lie. Ever since I saw Pinocchio. Don’t want that shit happening to my nose.”
“You’re lying!” Brad screamed, his veins beginning to pulsate.
Dean carefully watched Brad grow angrier, using his distracted state to tug at his bindings more aggressively. He could feel the coarse rope rubbing into his skin, but at this point he really didn’t care. His first priority was to avoid becoming a splattered mark on a stained wall.
“Brothers, huh? You should probably go talk to Bret about his squealing habit.” Dean gestured towards the stairs with his head.
Brad kept glaring at Dean, his chest heaving, his lips pulled back in a snarl. “You can’t get out of those ropes. I’m not an idiot. They’re tight.”
Dean stopped struggling for a second, surprised.
“I know what you’re trying to do…I wont let you turn me against him!” His voice rose in anger.
Okay, that backfired, Dean admitted, gulping. He grimaced as he watched a hole appear in the side of Brad’s head - the gun shot wound was materializing.
“Uh, you got something on your head there,” Dean pointed out.
Brad backhanded him across the face. Hard. Dean fell to the floor, but instantly struggled back up into his sitting position. He Glared at Brad as his face stung, and he knew a red mark had been left behind.
“Huh. Now so do you,” Brad said, throwing Dean’s grin back at him.
“At least I’m still pretty,” Dean spat back.
Brad just smiled, before reeling back his arm and punching Dean in the mouth. Dean’s head snapped back and stars spun in front of his eyes as he felt warm blood run down his chin. Once the world stopped spinning, he turned his head and spat it out.
“No wonder your brother’s teaming up with us to get rid of you - you hit like a girl,” Dean said, tasting the blood in his mouth.
Brad’s eyes clouded over, and his lifted up his hand. The lights began flickering as he drew the electricity into his hand. “If I hit like a girl, I zap like Zeus.”
He sauntered up to Dean and leant down in front of him, smiling as Dean’s muscles strained in his failed attempt to avoid flinching. He placed his fingers on Dean’s chest and let the energy surge out from his fingertips.
Heat exploded in Dean’s chest and he clenched his jaw, eyes shut tightly against the pain. But it stopped almost instantly. Panting slightly, Dean opened his eyes. God, he wanted to wipe that smug smile off Brad’s face.
“Told you,” was all Brad said.
“Yeah, bet you told Bret too. I can see why you won brother of the year. Oh, wait, that wasn’t you. They disqualify murderers.”
Brad angrily slammed his hands down on Dean’s chest and let more bolts of energy rip from his fingers and into Dean’s body. Dean cried out as the energy flew through him in a burst of heat and pain, cutting through him like a jagged knife. He fell to the ground, his body writhing, his hands clenching into tight fists behind him. But then it was over again.
He lay there panting, sweat trickling down his face, heart beating so loud he could hear it in his ears. Okay that had hurt. A lot. Time to shut up, Dean, he warned himself. No more goading the human electrical pole. He tried to lie still, any movement jolting a spark of residue pain through his body. But Brad grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him to his feet, slamming him against the blood stained wall. Dean cringed, waiting for the ripples of pain to pass. Then he opened his eyes, staring at Brad unwaveringly.
“No more smart remarks?” Brad asked. “I think I’m getting through to you. People need to be taught by example. I learnt from my past, and then I taught this town. The troublemakers were my example. I weeded them out. People learnt. Now it’s your turn, Dean.”
Dean concentrated on breathing deeply, on keeping his anger at bay.
“And your brother will thank me.”
Dean’s anger sprang to the surface and he used his bound hands to push away from the wall, swiping at Brad with his shoulder. “You leave Sam out of this! We are nothing like you two!”
Brad picked up a piece of plank and swung it, almost gracefully. It struck Dean in the stomach and he fell to his knees, winded, coughing.
“You’re wrong.” He brought the plank down on Dean’s back. Dean collapsed to the ground, his lips tasting dirt. “You’re just like me, you’re all just like me. You stop for a moment. You look around. You realize there’s nothing else. You are nothing else. This is all you are. Your brother wanted to be more, you drew him back.”
Brad drew back his leg and kicked Dean in the ribs, flipping him over onto his back. Dean tried to curl up against the pain sparking through his ribs, to draw up his knees and lie there on his side, but Brad kicked him again, in the same spot, jarring the cracked ribs. Dean’s back arched in the effort not to scream. His brow was furrowed, his breath shaky, his skin warming up in reaction to the pain, but he forced his eyes open and let them connect with Brad’s.
“Something to say, Dean?”
Dean stared at him for a moment, but then looked away. “No,” he whispered.
Brad watched him for a moment. He then grabbed Dean and pulled him up, slamming him back against the wall. Dean’s legs couldn’t hold his weight and slid back down. Brad grabbed Dean’s head and he tried to recoil, but Brad held on strong.
“And I know why I’m - ” Brad scrunched up his face and shook his head, “why you, why you are like that,” he quickly corrected.
Dean wanted nothing more than to roll his eyes and spit back a smart remark, but with his lips stinging, his head swimming, his body still reeling from the aftershocks of the, well, shocks, and his ribs continually shooting out bursts of pain every time he breathed, Dean wisely decided against it.
Brad let himself shimmer out of existence and return a second later, gray and transparent, back in his spirit form. An icy breeze suddenly swept the room as the lights began to flicker and Brad’s spirit began sparking with energy. Dean felt the cold creep up his spine.
Brad’s spirit put his hands back on the sides of Dean’s head. Dean winced at the touch, but let his eyes again meet Brad’s, anger shooting out of them. “You…you think…just because…” Dean coughed, trying to get the words out through the blood welling in his mouth and the pain shooting through his ribs, “because I swear…and speak rudely…that…that brother of mine…that you like so much… needs you to rescue him…from me…god help us from psychotic losers…”
Dean didn’t get a chance to finish. Angrily, Brad’s spirit squeezed Dean’s head and let the energy rip from his fingers, letting it course into Dean’s head and puncture into his blood stream, traveling the length of his body, splicing through it with a speed and strength that left Dean screaming.
“I’m - you’re...you are like that because of the loneliness. We wear it like a jacket. We tried to swallow it and move on. But cant, couldn’t. So we bring them into it. Use them to clamber out of the water, not caring if we drown them in the process…”
Dean could barely understand what Brad was saying. Dean’s body was taunt, his jaw clenched tightly, his hands straining against the rope. Blue and white spots were erupting in front of his vision. He banged his head against the wall and dug frantic grooves into the dirt floor with his legs. Get off me! he tried to shout, but the words got caught in his throat, tangled with his screams. He could feel the blood dripping from his eyes and nose and ears. Could taste it in his throat, taste it passing over his lips. He couldn’t breathe! Couldn’t move!
But then it stopped. Dean instantly slumped, his head falling to his chest. His breath past his lips in shuddering gasps. His skin felt clammy and cold. He shivered without realizing it. Coughed and chocked on his own blood without noticing.
Vaguely, through the ringing in his ears, Dean heard that little girl’s voice. It sounded far away. But hell, so did Brad’s voice and he was right in front of Dean. “The other one’s here!” she said.
The ringing in his ears disappeared and Dean fought through the fog in his head that was trying to smother him.
“What’s he doing here?” Brad asked, stepping away from Dean, uncertain.
“I don’t know. What do we do?” she asked, sounding scared.
Dean struggled up onto his knees. “No…Sam…” Dean gasped out. “Don’t you dare hurt him…”
“Go hide, Cindy,” Brad commanded. This wasn’t meant to happen! He wasn’t meant to be here! Brad waited for Cindy to leave the room and then grabbed a plank of wood. He swung it at Dean’s head.
Dean felt the wood connect, felt his head whip to the side, felt his body sway, felt the air rushing past him as he began to fall. He saw the ground spinning in front of him, spinning closer. He felt himself hit the ground, felt dirt spray his face, felt his ribs jar from the impact. He felt blackness begin to creep across his vision. And he didn’t fight it. Didn’t want to fight it.
He let it take him.
TBC
Go to Chapter 8
Now, i must move it and begin wrapping up this story ! Uni starts back in two weeks...I'm becoming strapped for time! Just yesterday I realized I have 5 novels to read for one class (*before* it starts), and that I haven't even bought the books yet! Ah me...stress.
HAUNTED: Chapter 7
This is crazy, Sam kept thinking, over and over, as he frantically searched through the graveyard, trying to locate a Palmer plot. There wasn’t one there! And he knew there wouldn’t be - the police reports had said nothing about another family dieing in that house. So what had Dean been talking about?
This is crazy, Sam repeated to himself. While searching the last stretch of graves, he mentally began filing through all that had happened in the past few days. There had to be something there to explain what was going on in that house and with that family - with the Palmers and the Parkers. Then something dawned. Or more, two memories clicked into place and offered Sam the answer he sought.
… “We thought he really loved them.” The old man snorted again, “apparently Brad loved his cat more.”
…Jamie walked past them, the cat following obediently. “Be careful,” Jamie paused at the top of the stairs, turning to Dean, “rats sometimes bite back.”
Finally beginning to understand, Sam ran back to the Parker’s gravestones. He shone his light across them, counting. Five in total. The parents, two boys and a little girl. He flashed back to that first day he and Dean had entered the house, pretending to be council employees. Sitting on the couches had been the parents, two boys and that little girl from his dreams. Five in total.
“The Palmers are the Parkers,” Sam realized, mumbling to himself. And according to Dean, Brad and Bret weren’t the only ones haunting this town - the whole family had refused to move on! That meant they all had to have died violently somehow.
Sam shone his light over each gravestone. They had all died within a week of Bret’s murder. Brad was the last one to die - a few days after his parents and sister. Did that mean that he’d killed them too?
But whether Brad had or hadn’t, Sam and Dean weren’t in the habit of revenging deaths. They’re job was to stop them happening in the first place. So why had Sam had a vision of a dead girl?
Sam closed his eyes and brought the vision forward, blocking out any distraction so that he could concentrate on what he’d seen.
A little girl ran down the empty street, crying for help. Something was hurting her family.
It was the same girl as the Palm - er - Parker one, that was for sure. And the street around her was definitely Archers Way…wait a minute! Sam scrunched up his face as he concentrated harder, forcing his mind to hold onto the vision - of what he remembered of it. The street…it was different. More cluttered. With discarded toys, trash that had missed the bins, overgrown lawns…There! On the corner of the street hung some leftover decorations from a News Years Party. It said…1990.
Sam’s eyes snapped open. His breath caught in his throat for a moment. He’d had a vision of something happening 16 years ago!
And in the ensuing shock and confusion, Sam found himself making the least important connection:
“Hey, I remember these,” Sam said, picking up one of the Strawberry Shortcake dolls. Dean gave him a look. Sam rolled his eyes. “From the girls at my pre-school.”
Sam laughed tiredly, rubbing his eyes. Well now he knew why the kid was so behind in the toy commodity department.
But what he still couldn’t work out was why he was having visions of things that he couldn’t possibly stop unless he miraculously fell onto a time machine. It had to have something to do with that next part of the vision - of Dean shooting someone. But who? Dean was trapped in a house where everyone was dead! God…this was all so confusing!
Gathering himself together, Sam quickly crouched to re-read those strange inscriptions. Okay, these had to hold some hint as to how this family was anchoring themselves to this world without needing their bones. And that’s all Sam really cared about at the moment - finding a way to destroy the Parkers’ spirits before they could hurt Dean. He could worry about the rest later.
He traced his fingers along the inscription on Bret’s grave - Beloved son, devoted brother, tragedy was your burden, your gift - and then the one on Brad’s grave - Brad Parker. Beloved son, devoted brother, in death he shall find the peace he missed in life.
Sam read them over again, frowning, before checking out what it said on the other graves. The girl’s was standard, while a strange symbol marked the parents’ graves. Sam’s eyes widened - he recognized it! It was a black symbol. It helped contain dark magic.
He quickly dialed Dean.
Dean felt his heartbeat increase as his phone rang, over and over.
What. The. Fuck… Jamie had known it was about to ring. Now that was creepy.
Jamie smiled slowly. “Are you going to answer that?” he asked, enjoying how unnerved Dean looked.
Dean swallowed, gathering back his usual bravado. “Are you going to fry me if I do?”
“No,” Jamie said, almost thoughtfully. “I’ll wait. I’m doing this for him, remember. Make sure to let him know this is a goodbye.”
Dean slowly withdrew his phone, keeping a weary eye on Jamie’s smug little self the whole time. “Sam?” he answered.
“Dean, listen to me,” Sam’s voice came through the line. He was talking fast, breathless. “The Palmers are the Parkers. Don’t ask me how, just trust me.”
Dean’s eyes flickered towards Jamie.
“They’re posing as the Palmers for our benefit. I guess Brad must have killed the rest of his family before he killed himself, and is using some sort of black magic to keep them all grounded without needing the bones. He obviously planned the whole thing before killing himself - like he decided that in death he’d win his brother’s forgiveness by, I dunno, using supernatural ability to kill people he thought were a threat to his town, to people like his brother. People like him. There’s a symbol marking the parents graves - theirs must be containing the energy.”
Sam paused to take a breath. “Dean?”
Dean let a smile slide onto his face, watching Jamie to make sure he saw it. “Describe the symbol for me.”
Jamie frowned at this.
Sam described it. Dean’s smile grew wider. “I know the one.” Dean had been trained to know these things. The symbol was used by certain cults to keep their dead’s spirits grounded to the physical plain. But more than that - if used correctly it let the spirit hold onto part of its human side - the spirit retained its memories and personality, and was able take human form like the Parker family was doing now. They were still dead, still spirits, but could pass as human if they held their preternatural ability in check. And Dean was quickly realizing that their powers were weaker when passing as human.
“Sam,” Dean said. “Dad’s journal, page 70. Oh, and,” and he stressed this last part, “I’ll see you real soon.”
Jamie just chuckled, shaking his head.
“Oh, and Sam, one other thing. Burn the parents’ bones.”
“NO!” Jamie yelled, his chuckle giving way to shock and then rage as he let a bolt of energy fly from his hand and shatter Dean’s phone.
Dean jumped out of the way, sparing a mournful glance at the remnants of his phone before locking eyes with Jamie’s ones as they burned black with anger.
It was Dean’s turn to smile. “You didn’t think we’d work it out, did you, Brad.”
At the mention of his name, the muscles grew taunt in Brad’s face as rage surged through him. This wasn’t meant to happen!
“Haven’t you seen Legally Blonde? You never underestimate the pretty ones!” Dean continued. “Now who’s not so bright? I mean, you have enough evil mind mojo to know that Sam’s going to call, but not enough to know what he’s calling about?”
“What did you do?” Brad’s hands clenched as he shook, whether in anger or grief Dean didn’t care.
“No, Brad, I think the question is what did you do. You shot your brother, that’s what! And then killed the rest of your family!”
Brad flew at Dean, grabbing him by the lapels of his shirt and pushing him against the wall with such force that Dean’s teeth rattled. Brad kept his hands clenched on Dean’s shirt as he spoke, face so close that Dean could feel Brad’s icy breath against his cheek. He turned away in disgust. “They were brought back differently to me Bret and Cindy. Burning their bones wont get rid of me. You’re taking them away from me for nothing!” He slammed Dean against the wall again.
Dean felt a spark of fear shiver down his back at those words but was careful not to let it show. “So then, what, you killed them and brought them back to sing you lullabies before bedtime?”
“What would you know about it, your daddy abandoned you.”
Dean froze. “What did you say?”
Brad smiled. It was a shaky smile. His anger was overpowering his usual calm.
“In the graveyard. I read Sam’s memories. You’re the reason his girlfriend’s dead. The reason he hasn’t found his dad. The reason he has no future, no friends. You tried to push your life onto him. I wont let you! Not again! Bret didn’t deserve that!”
“Bret?” Dean mumbled. Ah crap, just what he needed. A remorseful ghost on the verge of a breakdown.
Still pinning Dean to the wall, Brad’s eyes drifted away, staring at something only he could see. “I didn’t mean to do that. He knew not to make me mad, knew I couldn’t control it. But …he was my baby brother. He was trying to be like me. To be tough like me. But I’m sorry for what I did,” his eyes slid back towards Dean’s, “and I’m going to make you and everyone like you sorry too.”
“I’m nothing like you,” Dean spat, “I didn’t shoot my own brother.” His words were aimed at digging deep.
Brad’s grip loosened on Dean’s shirt and he backed away, staring at Dean with a chilling calm, his eyes becoming cool and cold once again.
Brad smiled. “No, but he shot you.” He flicked his wrist and from the floor sprung a lamp’s cord, snaking itself around Dean’s neck. “Which tells me more than enough.”
Dean’s eyes bulged as he dropped to his knees, clawing at the cord desperately. It tightened around his neck, cutting off his air, squeezing shut his throat.
“Brad, stop it!” a new voice entered the mix. But Dean barely noticed - he couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t even panic! The need for air was consuming his every thought or action. His lungs screamed, ballooning up like they were trying to break free of Dean’s chest. In the distance he heard a thud and realized vaguely that it was his own body falling to the ground, unable to remain upright.
“Bret, you know I have to! Why do you keep doing this to me?”
Voices, sounds, crying…it was all so far away to Dean. Black spots had begun to appear in front of his eyes. His head felt like it was floating away from his body.
“He isn’t you!”
“But he will be if I don’t make him sorry!”
Dean’s vision was fading so fast that all he could see were patches - of shoes, of chair legs - just patches. A buzzing noise was crowding his mind, blocking his ears. He didn’t know if his fingers were still clawing at the rope, he couldn’t feel them anymore.
… “Please, Bret, I have to…”
… “Shh, okay…don’t be upset…”
… “ You’ll see…”
And then he could breath. The pressure left his neck and Dean gasped, taking in breath after breath. The sounds were still distant, his sight still dark, but his lungs were singing with relief. And for a few minutes that’s all he knew - the sweet sensation of breath.
Vaguely, somewhere in the distance, he felt pressure lifting from his neck. He felt his arms pulled back and bound tightly. He felt himself lifted from the ground. Feeling began to return to his body and he felt his legs stumble as he was pulled. And a door opening. And then a soft floor as he was thrown down, his head hitting something hard. And then everything went black.
“Argh,” Sam grimaced, moving the phone away as a surge of static burst through it. He hesitantly placed it back against his ear. It was dead.
Oh that can’t be good, Sam thought.
Grabbing his shovel, he began digging up the parents’ graves. “How’d you spend your night, Sam?” Sam muttered to himself. “Partying, studying, sleeping? No, I spent it digging up graves.”
Sometime later, muscles on fire, Sam finally flicked the match onto the rotting corpses and watched them burn. He let himself fall to the ground, watching the fire for a moment as he got his breath back. He sure hoped that was the end of it. Remembering what Dean had said about their dad’s journal, Sam forced his tired arms to reach for his bag and pull the journal out.
“Page 70,” Sam mumbled as he flipped through them, carefully counting. Opening on what he was pretty sure was page 70, Sam quickly scanned the content. It was the right page - it had a large picture of the symbol he’d found on those headstones. Beneath the picture was a few paragraphs detailing what the symbol was used for - grounding spirits to the earth, retaining bits of their human sides, and so on. He’d pretty much guessed all that himself. It also said that destroying the things holding the energy should destroy the spirits. Well, he’d just done that.
“Red…” Sam then mumbled, remembering what Bret’s spirit had said. He frowned. Where did that fit in. The symbol was black. Though he knew enough to understand that Bret’s spirit most likely wasn’t referring to the symbol, but to something that might help them. Like how he had led them to the right house when he’d told Dean ‘Archers Way.’
“Red…” Sam mumbled again. “Blood, roses…fire trucks? A lot of things are red, Sam.” Sam sighed heavily. “And now I’m talking to myself, great.”
He tried to ring Dean again. The phone was still dead. That doesn’t have to mean anything, Sam told himself. Silently this time. It was probably just damaged. And Dean was probably on his way back to the motel right now. Sam had burnt the bones guarding the symbol. The ghosts were gone. Dean was safe.
Sam tapped the phone absently against his chin, thinking. He sprung up, grabbing his bag. He was going to the Parker house.
You know…just to be safe.
Now, the question was, how was he going to get there?
Dean’s head throbbed. A groan escaped his lips before he could stop it. Forcing his eyes open, he found himself lying on a dirt floor. Confused, he struggled to lift himself up. A sharp pain shot through his arm and up his shoulder. He closed his eyes, wincing. At least now he knew why he’d found it so difficult to sit up - his hands were bound together! Tight. Behind his back. At least he was able to breathe. Why Brad hadn’t just strangled him to death was a mystery in itself, but Dean sure wasn’t about to question it. He was alive; that was good enough for him.
The throbbing in his head retreating, Dean looked around. He was in some kind of basement. One with dirt floors and wooden planks littering the floor. That’s obviously what he’d hit his head on. The small room was lit by numerous hanging light bulbs. To his right there was a stairwell leading up to a closed door. To his left was another wall. With some effort, he twisted around to look at what was behind him.
He gasped, involuntarily falling backwards. He struggled up, annoyed by his reaction, and let his eyes roam the wall. Splattered against it, painting it red like some sick collage, were blood stains. Numerous and varied. But all splattered. Like people had been shot up close. Many people, by the looks of it.
“Great,” Dean mumbled. “Just great.”
“Blood stains. That’s why it has to be done down here. They stain,” a voice said from across the room. Dean looked over to find Brad materializing in the empty basement. He was sitting against the opposite wall, staring at the stains.
Dean sighed, twisting himself away from that wall so that he was facing him. “Brad,” he greeted unenthusiastically.
“I do hear blood stains are the darndest things to remove,” Dean said when Brad didn’t say anything. But Brad still remained silent. Dean raised an eyebrow. “Uh, hostage in the room. Remember me?”
Brad’s face scrunched up - his eyes rimmed red, his mouth twitching. “Bret doesn’t understand. He still doesn’t get why I’m doing this. I keep trying to show him. I’m sorry about what I did. I’m just making sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh god, am I going to have to play therapist to get out of this one?”
“Shut up!” Brad yelled, jumping to his feet. “You don’t know anything!”
Dean grinned, while discreetly trying to twist his hands out from the rope binding them. “I know that Bret dearest told me where to find you. Yeah, that’s right. Whispered it right into my ear.”
Brad stood silently, chest heaving. “You’re lying.”
“No, no. I don’t lie. Ever since I saw Pinocchio. Don’t want that shit happening to my nose.”
“You’re lying!” Brad screamed, his veins beginning to pulsate.
Dean carefully watched Brad grow angrier, using his distracted state to tug at his bindings more aggressively. He could feel the coarse rope rubbing into his skin, but at this point he really didn’t care. His first priority was to avoid becoming a splattered mark on a stained wall.
“Brothers, huh? You should probably go talk to Bret about his squealing habit.” Dean gestured towards the stairs with his head.
Brad kept glaring at Dean, his chest heaving, his lips pulled back in a snarl. “You can’t get out of those ropes. I’m not an idiot. They’re tight.”
Dean stopped struggling for a second, surprised.
“I know what you’re trying to do…I wont let you turn me against him!” His voice rose in anger.
Okay, that backfired, Dean admitted, gulping. He grimaced as he watched a hole appear in the side of Brad’s head - the gun shot wound was materializing.
“Uh, you got something on your head there,” Dean pointed out.
Brad backhanded him across the face. Hard. Dean fell to the floor, but instantly struggled back up into his sitting position. He Glared at Brad as his face stung, and he knew a red mark had been left behind.
“Huh. Now so do you,” Brad said, throwing Dean’s grin back at him.
“At least I’m still pretty,” Dean spat back.
Brad just smiled, before reeling back his arm and punching Dean in the mouth. Dean’s head snapped back and stars spun in front of his eyes as he felt warm blood run down his chin. Once the world stopped spinning, he turned his head and spat it out.
“No wonder your brother’s teaming up with us to get rid of you - you hit like a girl,” Dean said, tasting the blood in his mouth.
Brad’s eyes clouded over, and his lifted up his hand. The lights began flickering as he drew the electricity into his hand. “If I hit like a girl, I zap like Zeus.”
He sauntered up to Dean and leant down in front of him, smiling as Dean’s muscles strained in his failed attempt to avoid flinching. He placed his fingers on Dean’s chest and let the energy surge out from his fingertips.
Heat exploded in Dean’s chest and he clenched his jaw, eyes shut tightly against the pain. But it stopped almost instantly. Panting slightly, Dean opened his eyes. God, he wanted to wipe that smug smile off Brad’s face.
“Told you,” was all Brad said.
“Yeah, bet you told Bret too. I can see why you won brother of the year. Oh, wait, that wasn’t you. They disqualify murderers.”
Brad angrily slammed his hands down on Dean’s chest and let more bolts of energy rip from his fingers and into Dean’s body. Dean cried out as the energy flew through him in a burst of heat and pain, cutting through him like a jagged knife. He fell to the ground, his body writhing, his hands clenching into tight fists behind him. But then it was over again.
He lay there panting, sweat trickling down his face, heart beating so loud he could hear it in his ears. Okay that had hurt. A lot. Time to shut up, Dean, he warned himself. No more goading the human electrical pole. He tried to lie still, any movement jolting a spark of residue pain through his body. But Brad grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him to his feet, slamming him against the blood stained wall. Dean cringed, waiting for the ripples of pain to pass. Then he opened his eyes, staring at Brad unwaveringly.
“No more smart remarks?” Brad asked. “I think I’m getting through to you. People need to be taught by example. I learnt from my past, and then I taught this town. The troublemakers were my example. I weeded them out. People learnt. Now it’s your turn, Dean.”
Dean concentrated on breathing deeply, on keeping his anger at bay.
“And your brother will thank me.”
Dean’s anger sprang to the surface and he used his bound hands to push away from the wall, swiping at Brad with his shoulder. “You leave Sam out of this! We are nothing like you two!”
Brad picked up a piece of plank and swung it, almost gracefully. It struck Dean in the stomach and he fell to his knees, winded, coughing.
“You’re wrong.” He brought the plank down on Dean’s back. Dean collapsed to the ground, his lips tasting dirt. “You’re just like me, you’re all just like me. You stop for a moment. You look around. You realize there’s nothing else. You are nothing else. This is all you are. Your brother wanted to be more, you drew him back.”
Brad drew back his leg and kicked Dean in the ribs, flipping him over onto his back. Dean tried to curl up against the pain sparking through his ribs, to draw up his knees and lie there on his side, but Brad kicked him again, in the same spot, jarring the cracked ribs. Dean’s back arched in the effort not to scream. His brow was furrowed, his breath shaky, his skin warming up in reaction to the pain, but he forced his eyes open and let them connect with Brad’s.
“Something to say, Dean?”
Dean stared at him for a moment, but then looked away. “No,” he whispered.
Brad watched him for a moment. He then grabbed Dean and pulled him up, slamming him back against the wall. Dean’s legs couldn’t hold his weight and slid back down. Brad grabbed Dean’s head and he tried to recoil, but Brad held on strong.
“And I know why I’m - ” Brad scrunched up his face and shook his head, “why you, why you are like that,” he quickly corrected.
Dean wanted nothing more than to roll his eyes and spit back a smart remark, but with his lips stinging, his head swimming, his body still reeling from the aftershocks of the, well, shocks, and his ribs continually shooting out bursts of pain every time he breathed, Dean wisely decided against it.
Brad let himself shimmer out of existence and return a second later, gray and transparent, back in his spirit form. An icy breeze suddenly swept the room as the lights began to flicker and Brad’s spirit began sparking with energy. Dean felt the cold creep up his spine.
Brad’s spirit put his hands back on the sides of Dean’s head. Dean winced at the touch, but let his eyes again meet Brad’s, anger shooting out of them. “You…you think…just because…” Dean coughed, trying to get the words out through the blood welling in his mouth and the pain shooting through his ribs, “because I swear…and speak rudely…that…that brother of mine…that you like so much… needs you to rescue him…from me…god help us from psychotic losers…”
Dean didn’t get a chance to finish. Angrily, Brad’s spirit squeezed Dean’s head and let the energy rip from his fingers, letting it course into Dean’s head and puncture into his blood stream, traveling the length of his body, splicing through it with a speed and strength that left Dean screaming.
“I’m - you’re...you are like that because of the loneliness. We wear it like a jacket. We tried to swallow it and move on. But cant, couldn’t. So we bring them into it. Use them to clamber out of the water, not caring if we drown them in the process…”
Dean could barely understand what Brad was saying. Dean’s body was taunt, his jaw clenched tightly, his hands straining against the rope. Blue and white spots were erupting in front of his vision. He banged his head against the wall and dug frantic grooves into the dirt floor with his legs. Get off me! he tried to shout, but the words got caught in his throat, tangled with his screams. He could feel the blood dripping from his eyes and nose and ears. Could taste it in his throat, taste it passing over his lips. He couldn’t breathe! Couldn’t move!
But then it stopped. Dean instantly slumped, his head falling to his chest. His breath past his lips in shuddering gasps. His skin felt clammy and cold. He shivered without realizing it. Coughed and chocked on his own blood without noticing.
Vaguely, through the ringing in his ears, Dean heard that little girl’s voice. It sounded far away. But hell, so did Brad’s voice and he was right in front of Dean. “The other one’s here!” she said.
The ringing in his ears disappeared and Dean fought through the fog in his head that was trying to smother him.
“What’s he doing here?” Brad asked, stepping away from Dean, uncertain.
“I don’t know. What do we do?” she asked, sounding scared.
Dean struggled up onto his knees. “No…Sam…” Dean gasped out. “Don’t you dare hurt him…”
“Go hide, Cindy,” Brad commanded. This wasn’t meant to happen! He wasn’t meant to be here! Brad waited for Cindy to leave the room and then grabbed a plank of wood. He swung it at Dean’s head.
Dean felt the wood connect, felt his head whip to the side, felt his body sway, felt the air rushing past him as he began to fall. He saw the ground spinning in front of him, spinning closer. He felt himself hit the ground, felt dirt spray his face, felt his ribs jar from the impact. He felt blackness begin to creep across his vision. And he didn’t fight it. Didn’t want to fight it.
He let it take him.
TBC
Go to Chapter 8