FIC:Idjits: A Love Story
This is my summergen entry for missyjack , she never got it, cause apparently, she dropped out. Whatever...I liked the prompt, so I'm gonna share it with y'all. I cannot for the life of me remember how to post to communities, so, only you lucky folks will get to see this masterpiece. (snort)
I also apparently can't remember how to do a cut tag, so if this thing's been popping up on your flist in it's uncut glory, I apologize.
Idjits: A Love Story
An excerpt from the Journal of Bobby Singer
May 1, 2008
Dean’s got 24 hours left. We’re going after Lilith. I found the bitch. She’s in Indiana. Times like this I wish we’d take a goddamn plane. What’s the point of being afraid you’re gonna crash and die if you’re gonna DIE in less than a day anyway? Idjits.
Hell, we’re probably all gonna die. Keep Dean company in hell. That actually don’t sound so bad. What the hell am I sayin’?
Gotta go. (If this is the last entry, you know we didn’t make it. If so, my will’s in the top right desk drawer in Hecate’s Dictionary of Demons. And as we discussed, you BURN the gym bag in my closet, Leo, without opening it, or I’ll haunt your ass. And don’t forget to feed my dogs!)
May 6, 2008
Dean’s dead. Dammit. We failed, Lilith’s still around and Dean’s gone. It wasn’t pretty. I can’t write about this right now. I need a drink.
May 8, 2008
My fuckin’ head is killing me. Whiskey’s good for dulling the pain-least till you wake up the next day, wishing you was dead. And Sam. Sam might be next to die. Mainly ‘cause I’m gonna kill him. Stupid bastard keeps thinking he’s gonna go after Lilith. I keep slippin’ Xanax in his oatmeal. It’s not strong enough to knock him out, and he won’t drink whiskey with breakfast. Dean woulda. Hell, Dean did nothing BUT drink when Sam bought it. Cryin’ and drinkin’ till he went off and made that damned stupid deal. Idjit. Sam though, he’s different. He cried at first, but now he’s real quiet. Scary quiet. Kinda like a zombie. If he ain’t tearing through my books looking for a way into Hell, he’s just sitting there, staring straight ahead. I don’t know what’s going on in that giant skull of his, but it ain’t good.
May 9
Caught Sam trying to use a summoning spell to find Lillith. Idjit. He’s got hex bags that keep Lillith from finding him, and his brilliant plan is to bring that bitch right to my door. I swear, these Winchesters are gonna be the death of me.
May 10
Caught Sam trying to summon Ruby. Idjit.
May 11
Caught Sam sneaking out just before midnight. Idjit. I let him go, cause I already purified every crossroad within twenty miles of here. And I siphoned off all but a smidge of gas from the Impala. He got about a mile away before she quit on him. I’m pretty sure he tried to run to get to the crossroads near the river by midnight, but, he didn’t make it. He came walking home, sweating like a pig and downed a bottle of water from the fridge.
I’m gonna have a talk with that boy soon as he wakes up from the sleeping pills I put in the water bottle.
May 12
I may have put too many pills in that bottle of water.
May 13
Pretty sure it was too many. I keep having to make sure he’s still breathing.
May 14
Sam woke up. Then he packed his bag and left. I’m an idjit.
May 16
It’s been two weeks since Dean died and went to Hell. I keep wanting to forget what happened, but, I think Dean would’ve wanted me to put this down somewhere so people will know he really wasn’t an idjit, just a poor, brave boy who loved his family more than he loved life itself. So I’m gonna tell what went down that night-- write it down real complete, so I never forget.
Anyway, we found the house in New Harmony, just like the cipher said, and Lillith was there, possessing a little girl. It looked like half the neighborhood was possessed, black eyes watching everything. We had a half-assed plan- Sam and Dean were going in the house to try to kill Lillith, and I was supposed to keep the “neighbors” out of the way while they did. Now how I was gonna do that, I didn’t know.
Them boys went in, and every demon bastard within six blocks was suddenly making for the front door, and I had nothing…till I saw the sprinkler.
Thank god for suburbia and their freakin’ obsession with green lawns. I just blessed the water in the lines, and turned on the irrigation system in the front yard. The demons flipped out, people screaming and sizzling like human bacon. The sprinklers kept them at bay, and I was hoping they’d take off, regroup, but the demons just stood there, outside the reach of the spray, waiting for their chance. I had to keep blessing the water to keep them outside. I looked at my watch at about a minute till midnight.
Suddenly, it was like a goddamned atomic bomb went off in that house, that’s what it looked like. White hot flash of light bust out the windows, lit up the sky and every damned demon threw up an arm to protect eyes that weren’t their own. I didn’t know what it meant, could only hope it was good, ‘specially when all of them bastards took off, a black smoke parade, and the good people of New Harmony dropped like stones in the front yard. I run across the yard, right over those bodies, and into the house. And then I tripped over some poor dead woman right inside the door.
I still hoped, all the way up them stairs I still hoped that maybe the quiet and the lack of demons was a good sign. ‘Course, it wasn’t good. Walked in that door and knew it right away, there was so much blood, and Dean…. Sam was holdin’ him and he was just…shredded to bits. Lillith was gone, somehow, and Dean was lying dead.
I could hear people on the lawn outside starting to wake up from the possessions. And there was screaming off in the distance. We couldn’t stay there, but Sam was damn near catatonic. I finally told him we had to go before the law came and took Dean from us. That seemed to wake him up.
I grabbed a bedspread off a bed in another room, a pink, frilly number, and actually thought for a second, “Dean’ll kill me for this,” before I laid out that blanket. Sam set him down, and I wrapped Dean up. He was still warm, and I wanted to believe he was still in there, but he wasn’t. It was his eyes-glassy, like marbles. I tried to cover his face, but Sam wouldn’t have it. He picked his brother up from the floor, real gentle, said, “Sorry, Dean,” as if he could have hurt him. Held him in his arms and carried him, like a small child, out to the Impala and laid him out on the back seat, adjusted the blanket and placed his giant paw over Dean’s face and closed his eyes. If it weren’t for the blood on Dean’s face, you’da thought he was just nappin’.
The sound of sirens wailin’ in the distance got things moving. Sam and I got in the car, and he drove me around the block to where I’d parked the Chevelle.
I offered to leave the car, but Sam, he wanted to drive, wanted to be alone with Dean. I didn’t have time to argue, so I offered to lead the way.
That was a long ass drive. We high-tailed it out of Indiana like there were demons on our asses, and we didn’t actually know that wasn’t true. I kept one eye on the road, and the other in the rear view, watchin’ to see if Sam was okay. And damned if that boy didn’t keep that car on the road, straight and true. We crossed the Ohio River straight off, I-64 took us right into Illinois, drove west for about 3 hours, and finally Sam signaled that he needed to stop.
Good thing too, driving with one eye looking ahead and the other behind gave me a hell of a headache.
We pulled into one of them all night gas and grub joints and being as it was about 3:30 in the morning, there wasn’t a soul around save the poor fella stuck behind bulletproof glass. I stayed with the cars while Sam went inside to relieve himself. He looked a mess, he’d been crying, eyes bloodshot, face gray. Can’t say I looked much better. I filled the cars up, then noticed through the back window that Dean’s blanket had slipped off. I finished off the tank, then opened up the back door of the Impala, and adjusted the blanket around Dean, who was stone cold by now. Blood had soaked through that pink spread and left a dark purple stain. I was a bit concerned that should we get pulled over by the law, there’d be no explaining away the dead body in the back seat.
I squatted down by the door, and tried not to bust out bawling again. Dean looked like one of them wax dummies in a ticky-tacky overpriced tourist trap. I tried to rub a spot of blood off his cheek, and could feel that rigor mortis had started. His jaw was clenched tight. I let my hand rest on his cold head, and I said a little prayer, but knew it wouldn’t reach him where he was.
Sam showed up just then, with a couple cups of coffee. “See that?” he said, nodding his head back down the road we’d just travelled. The sky had taken on a purplish, bruised look, and there were flashes of blue lightning illuminating black clouds. Looked like a bunch of snakes with flashlights going on and off. It looked really weird.
I told Sam that we couldn’t keep travelling with Dean in the backseat when it got light out. Any trucker passing would be able to see into the car, and they’d call the State Police.
Sam said he couldn’t put Dean in the trunk like a bag of rock salt, so I said we should find a place to stay before it got light, somewhere safe, where we could do a proper ceremony, like we did for John when he died.
But Sam wouldn’t hear of it. We argued about it for a good five minutes before Sam got this funny look on his face.
“Too fast. That storm is moving too fast.” Sam said and something in his voice made my guts turn to water.
I squinted at the clouds through the darkness. That wasn’t no ordinary storm.
Suddenly, the lights in the station flickered, went dark, then flickered on again. We knew, right away, it was demons, and they were coming right for us.
“Go!” Sam yelled, and I didn’t hesitate. I sprinted for my car, damned fast for an old man, and peeled out. Took the road that went north, Sam hot on my tail. The demon cloud surrounded the station, and all I could see in the rearview was a swirling black cloud where the station was, and then, nothing but black. I remembered the poor guy in the station and hoped they’d killed him quick.
We drove north, then east, then west, and north again, trying to shake the demons from our tail. Finally, as it was just starting to get light, Sam called me on my cell. He’d spotted an abandoned farmhouse that looked like a good place to hide.
We parked the cars out back, and I checked out the house first, just to make sure it was safe. It was fine, if a bit sparse on amenities. Lots of empty beer bottles, some crappy old furniture, cigarette butts and the like. Charming. Looked like it was a party house for local teenagers. Sam brought Dean in and laid him out on the sofa in the front room, and he sat next to him for the next twelve hours, not moving. I sat with him. Kind of a modified form of sitting Shiva, modified since Dean wasn’t actually buried yet. And none of us were Jewish. But still, there was a bit of comfort in the thought-there’s a reason for traditions, after all.
I don’t think Sam was comforted though. He wouldn’t eat, not that we had much more than some candy bars. He drank some water, but didn’t want the whiskey flask I offered. He’d been awake now for about 48 hours and he looked like hell. And I hate to say it, but as bad as Sam looked, Dean looked worse. Instead of pale, now his skin was a weird splotchy red with a green cast. Where he’d been stiff as a board when Sam brought him in, now the rigor was starting to resolve and his face was slack and his mouth gaped open. I could hardly bear to look at him.
And I’m not going to go into the whole thing about how he smelled, because, that goes without saying. Again, not pretty at all.
I’d been dozing in a ratty recliner on and off all day, and after awhile, I decided it was time to reconnoiter. Plus, it was getting a little too déjà vu for me, I’d been through this before with Dean and I needed some air. Took the Chevelle, and with Sam’s blessing, went to get the lay of the land, make sure the demons really were gone, and maybe get something the boy would eat.
I found a town just a few miles down the road, and I checked out the local cemetery, and picked up a bucket of chicken. Hit a liquor store on the way back to stock up. Even if Sam wasn’t gonna drink, I needed some liquid courage to have the whole, “Dean’s dead and it’s time you got on with things,” conversation with Sam.
Got back to the house, took a couple swigs from my bottle of Jack, grabbed the chicken, and resolved to make Sam do SOMETHING about his brother. I opened the back door, and the stench nearly sent me to my knees. I shut the door quick, and put the chicken back into the car. No sense wasting a good bucket of chicken. Fortunately, or unfortunately, as the case may be, Dean’s decomposition had sped up to the point of eye-watering, gag-inducing bad.
Sam was sitting on the floor next to his brother, staring off into space.
“Boy, we gotta…” I said, and Sam said, “I know.”
I told him there was a deep woods behind the farm where we could build a pyre for Dean, but again, Sam said no. He said Dean would need a body to come back to. I was pretty sure Dean wouldn’t want THIS particular shredded and rotting body, but I didn’t tell Sam that.
Instead, I said that I’d seen some wood behind the barn that we could use to make a coffin. And so, we did. Wasn’t the prettiest box ever, wasn’t even very sturdy, but Sam said that was okay, it would be easier for Dean to get out.
That boy. He had a case of denial big as his damned boots.
For one last touch, Sam made a cross out of barn wood. To mark the spot, in case he needed to come back. “To pay respects,” he said and walked away.
“To do some hoodoo, ya mean,” I said, but he didn’t hear me.
We loaded Dean into the box, sans the pink wrapper, and was then I noticed he was wearing different clothes.
“I cleaned him up and dressed him while you were gone,” Sam said, and put the lid on the coffin. “I couldn’t let him go into the ground like that.”
I can’t even bring myself to think about how hard that must have been for him. It still breaks my heart two weeks later.
We carried the coffin out to the car. It was too tight a fit to get the box into the Impala, so I rigged up a roof skid to put it on top of my car. Sam wanted Dean to go in the Impala, but I reminded him that Dean would not want her paint scratched by his box, and Sam agreed.
It was dusk when we left, less chance of being spotted. We drove in on dirt roads, and then across fields until we couldn’t go any further, then we carried the box, flashlights, and a bag of grave digging supplies that Dean used to call the “desecration duffle”.
Dead weight isn’t just a term, by the way. My arms were shaking by the time Sam decided on the right spot for Dean’s grave, a small clearing in a thick copse of trees. He started digging. I rested and held the flashlight. Sam kept digging. I thought about what to say over Dean, thought Sam would want some words said. Sam kept digging, I kept offering to help, he kept saying no thanks and then, it was done. We lowered Dean’s box into the ground, and Sam sprinkled the coffin with salt and holy water. If we weren’t gonna burn him, at least we could leave him a little protection, lame as it was.
Sam was staring again, so I took shovel in hand and started to fill in the hole. That boy flinched when the first clod of dirt hit Dean’s coffin. I filled, and he sank down onto the ground and cried. Thank God. I was more worried about the lack of emotion than about the tears. In my experience, tears end, eventually. That cold, emotionless state…well, you only have to look at John Winchester to see how that ends up.
I finished filling up the grave, and Sam wiped his face, and got to his feet.
I offered to say some words over him, but Sam said, “I got it.” He pulled the amulet that Dean always wore from his pocket, and put it around his neck.
“Set me as a seal on your heart,
as a seal on your arm;
for stern as death is love,
relentless as the nether world is devotion;
it’s flames are a blazing fire.
Deep waters cannot quench love,
nor floods sweep it away.
Were one to offer all he owns to purchase love,
he would be roundly mocked.”
He scooped up a handful of dirt, and let it fall on Dean’s grave. “You loved me too much, Dean. Just like Dad loved you too much. And I know I should just go on, live the life you wanted me to, but I can’t. I love you too much. I don’t know how I’m gonna do it, but I swear, I’m gonna get you back.” And then he just turned and walked away.
I gathered up the duffle, and that was that. Dean was dead and buried, and burning in Hell. And Sam was heading down a familiar road. And damned if that wasn’t what passed for normal for a Winchester.
Anyway, that’s how it all went down. Sam’s off looking for ways to bring Dean back, and I’m looking for ways to keep this all from happening again. ‘Cause Lillith is still out there, and we have nothing to fight her with, nowhere to hide.
I need a fucking drink.
June 15
Haven’t written in awhile. Been kinda down in the mouth. Actually, I kinda been mostly drunk. Heard from Sam-he’s still looking for a way to spring Dean from Hell. I’ve done some research, made a few inquiries, but I keep coming up dry. I keep thinking, if only we’d had more time, if we’d had a place to hide Dean from the Hellhounds, maybe things would be different.
June 20
I’ve got an idea. It’s stupid, but…maybe it isn’t. I’m thinking of a demon-proof bomb shelter. If the hex bags could hide Sam and Dean from Lillith, maybe there’s a way to hide from all of them. It would have to be made of iron…preferably consecrated iron.
I gotta make some calls.
July 10
It’s too goddamned bad Bela Temple is dead, cause I’ve gotta raise some cash, and she was always a good resource to sell to. Looks like I may have to sell Jay Leno the fucking Aston Martin DB I was saving for my retirement. Turns out building a consecrated iron bomb shelter in your basement is pretty fucking expensive.
August 30
It’s done. And its goddamned impressive, if I do say so myself. Got all the comforts of home-beds, food, water, ventilation, weapons, research books, a fully stocked first aid and liquor cabinet. And one last touch-an old poster of Bo Derek. Put that up cause it was Dean’s favorite when he used to stay with me when he was younger. Kind of a tribute to that monkey-spankin’sonofabitch. God, I miss him.
And his brother.
I need a drink.
September 21, 2008
Dean is out of Hell. DEAN IS OUT OF MOTHERFUCKING HELL. He’s alive and whole and damned if he doesn’t look GOOD. Showed up on my doorstep four days ago, alive and breathing. It ain’t a trick, and Sam didn’t do it. Apparently an ANGEL did it ‘cause GOD told him to. This is kinda bending my brain. In the course of a few days Dean’s alive, and Angels and GOD apparently exist. I don’t know what to think, but there’s still the fact that DEAN IS ALIVE AND OUT OF HELL.
Gonna celebrate by cleaning this place up. Starting with me. No more drinking. I’ve got to get back into the game. Make that call to Olivia Lowery. I’ve got work to do.
I also apparently can't remember how to do a cut tag, so if this thing's been popping up on your flist in it's uncut glory, I apologize.
Idjits: A Love Story
An excerpt from the Journal of Bobby Singer
May 1, 2008
Dean’s got 24 hours left. We’re going after Lilith. I found the bitch. She’s in Indiana. Times like this I wish we’d take a goddamn plane. What’s the point of being afraid you’re gonna crash and die if you’re gonna DIE in less than a day anyway? Idjits.
Hell, we’re probably all gonna die. Keep Dean company in hell. That actually don’t sound so bad. What the hell am I sayin’?
Gotta go. (If this is the last entry, you know we didn’t make it. If so, my will’s in the top right desk drawer in Hecate’s Dictionary of Demons. And as we discussed, you BURN the gym bag in my closet, Leo, without opening it, or I’ll haunt your ass. And don’t forget to feed my dogs!)
May 6, 2008
Dean’s dead. Dammit. We failed, Lilith’s still around and Dean’s gone. It wasn’t pretty. I can’t write about this right now. I need a drink.
May 8, 2008
My fuckin’ head is killing me. Whiskey’s good for dulling the pain-least till you wake up the next day, wishing you was dead. And Sam. Sam might be next to die. Mainly ‘cause I’m gonna kill him. Stupid bastard keeps thinking he’s gonna go after Lilith. I keep slippin’ Xanax in his oatmeal. It’s not strong enough to knock him out, and he won’t drink whiskey with breakfast. Dean woulda. Hell, Dean did nothing BUT drink when Sam bought it. Cryin’ and drinkin’ till he went off and made that damned stupid deal. Idjit. Sam though, he’s different. He cried at first, but now he’s real quiet. Scary quiet. Kinda like a zombie. If he ain’t tearing through my books looking for a way into Hell, he’s just sitting there, staring straight ahead. I don’t know what’s going on in that giant skull of his, but it ain’t good.
May 9
Caught Sam trying to use a summoning spell to find Lillith. Idjit. He’s got hex bags that keep Lillith from finding him, and his brilliant plan is to bring that bitch right to my door. I swear, these Winchesters are gonna be the death of me.
May 10
Caught Sam trying to summon Ruby. Idjit.
May 11
Caught Sam sneaking out just before midnight. Idjit. I let him go, cause I already purified every crossroad within twenty miles of here. And I siphoned off all but a smidge of gas from the Impala. He got about a mile away before she quit on him. I’m pretty sure he tried to run to get to the crossroads near the river by midnight, but, he didn’t make it. He came walking home, sweating like a pig and downed a bottle of water from the fridge.
I’m gonna have a talk with that boy soon as he wakes up from the sleeping pills I put in the water bottle.
May 12
I may have put too many pills in that bottle of water.
May 13
Pretty sure it was too many. I keep having to make sure he’s still breathing.
May 14
Sam woke up. Then he packed his bag and left. I’m an idjit.
May 16
It’s been two weeks since Dean died and went to Hell. I keep wanting to forget what happened, but, I think Dean would’ve wanted me to put this down somewhere so people will know he really wasn’t an idjit, just a poor, brave boy who loved his family more than he loved life itself. So I’m gonna tell what went down that night-- write it down real complete, so I never forget.
Anyway, we found the house in New Harmony, just like the cipher said, and Lillith was there, possessing a little girl. It looked like half the neighborhood was possessed, black eyes watching everything. We had a half-assed plan- Sam and Dean were going in the house to try to kill Lillith, and I was supposed to keep the “neighbors” out of the way while they did. Now how I was gonna do that, I didn’t know.
Them boys went in, and every demon bastard within six blocks was suddenly making for the front door, and I had nothing…till I saw the sprinkler.
Thank god for suburbia and their freakin’ obsession with green lawns. I just blessed the water in the lines, and turned on the irrigation system in the front yard. The demons flipped out, people screaming and sizzling like human bacon. The sprinklers kept them at bay, and I was hoping they’d take off, regroup, but the demons just stood there, outside the reach of the spray, waiting for their chance. I had to keep blessing the water to keep them outside. I looked at my watch at about a minute till midnight.
Suddenly, it was like a goddamned atomic bomb went off in that house, that’s what it looked like. White hot flash of light bust out the windows, lit up the sky and every damned demon threw up an arm to protect eyes that weren’t their own. I didn’t know what it meant, could only hope it was good, ‘specially when all of them bastards took off, a black smoke parade, and the good people of New Harmony dropped like stones in the front yard. I run across the yard, right over those bodies, and into the house. And then I tripped over some poor dead woman right inside the door.
I still hoped, all the way up them stairs I still hoped that maybe the quiet and the lack of demons was a good sign. ‘Course, it wasn’t good. Walked in that door and knew it right away, there was so much blood, and Dean…. Sam was holdin’ him and he was just…shredded to bits. Lillith was gone, somehow, and Dean was lying dead.
I could hear people on the lawn outside starting to wake up from the possessions. And there was screaming off in the distance. We couldn’t stay there, but Sam was damn near catatonic. I finally told him we had to go before the law came and took Dean from us. That seemed to wake him up.
I grabbed a bedspread off a bed in another room, a pink, frilly number, and actually thought for a second, “Dean’ll kill me for this,” before I laid out that blanket. Sam set him down, and I wrapped Dean up. He was still warm, and I wanted to believe he was still in there, but he wasn’t. It was his eyes-glassy, like marbles. I tried to cover his face, but Sam wouldn’t have it. He picked his brother up from the floor, real gentle, said, “Sorry, Dean,” as if he could have hurt him. Held him in his arms and carried him, like a small child, out to the Impala and laid him out on the back seat, adjusted the blanket and placed his giant paw over Dean’s face and closed his eyes. If it weren’t for the blood on Dean’s face, you’da thought he was just nappin’.
The sound of sirens wailin’ in the distance got things moving. Sam and I got in the car, and he drove me around the block to where I’d parked the Chevelle.
I offered to leave the car, but Sam, he wanted to drive, wanted to be alone with Dean. I didn’t have time to argue, so I offered to lead the way.
That was a long ass drive. We high-tailed it out of Indiana like there were demons on our asses, and we didn’t actually know that wasn’t true. I kept one eye on the road, and the other in the rear view, watchin’ to see if Sam was okay. And damned if that boy didn’t keep that car on the road, straight and true. We crossed the Ohio River straight off, I-64 took us right into Illinois, drove west for about 3 hours, and finally Sam signaled that he needed to stop.
Good thing too, driving with one eye looking ahead and the other behind gave me a hell of a headache.
We pulled into one of them all night gas and grub joints and being as it was about 3:30 in the morning, there wasn’t a soul around save the poor fella stuck behind bulletproof glass. I stayed with the cars while Sam went inside to relieve himself. He looked a mess, he’d been crying, eyes bloodshot, face gray. Can’t say I looked much better. I filled the cars up, then noticed through the back window that Dean’s blanket had slipped off. I finished off the tank, then opened up the back door of the Impala, and adjusted the blanket around Dean, who was stone cold by now. Blood had soaked through that pink spread and left a dark purple stain. I was a bit concerned that should we get pulled over by the law, there’d be no explaining away the dead body in the back seat.
I squatted down by the door, and tried not to bust out bawling again. Dean looked like one of them wax dummies in a ticky-tacky overpriced tourist trap. I tried to rub a spot of blood off his cheek, and could feel that rigor mortis had started. His jaw was clenched tight. I let my hand rest on his cold head, and I said a little prayer, but knew it wouldn’t reach him where he was.
Sam showed up just then, with a couple cups of coffee. “See that?” he said, nodding his head back down the road we’d just travelled. The sky had taken on a purplish, bruised look, and there were flashes of blue lightning illuminating black clouds. Looked like a bunch of snakes with flashlights going on and off. It looked really weird.
I told Sam that we couldn’t keep travelling with Dean in the backseat when it got light out. Any trucker passing would be able to see into the car, and they’d call the State Police.
Sam said he couldn’t put Dean in the trunk like a bag of rock salt, so I said we should find a place to stay before it got light, somewhere safe, where we could do a proper ceremony, like we did for John when he died.
But Sam wouldn’t hear of it. We argued about it for a good five minutes before Sam got this funny look on his face.
“Too fast. That storm is moving too fast.” Sam said and something in his voice made my guts turn to water.
I squinted at the clouds through the darkness. That wasn’t no ordinary storm.
Suddenly, the lights in the station flickered, went dark, then flickered on again. We knew, right away, it was demons, and they were coming right for us.
“Go!” Sam yelled, and I didn’t hesitate. I sprinted for my car, damned fast for an old man, and peeled out. Took the road that went north, Sam hot on my tail. The demon cloud surrounded the station, and all I could see in the rearview was a swirling black cloud where the station was, and then, nothing but black. I remembered the poor guy in the station and hoped they’d killed him quick.
We drove north, then east, then west, and north again, trying to shake the demons from our tail. Finally, as it was just starting to get light, Sam called me on my cell. He’d spotted an abandoned farmhouse that looked like a good place to hide.
We parked the cars out back, and I checked out the house first, just to make sure it was safe. It was fine, if a bit sparse on amenities. Lots of empty beer bottles, some crappy old furniture, cigarette butts and the like. Charming. Looked like it was a party house for local teenagers. Sam brought Dean in and laid him out on the sofa in the front room, and he sat next to him for the next twelve hours, not moving. I sat with him. Kind of a modified form of sitting Shiva, modified since Dean wasn’t actually buried yet. And none of us were Jewish. But still, there was a bit of comfort in the thought-there’s a reason for traditions, after all.
I don’t think Sam was comforted though. He wouldn’t eat, not that we had much more than some candy bars. He drank some water, but didn’t want the whiskey flask I offered. He’d been awake now for about 48 hours and he looked like hell. And I hate to say it, but as bad as Sam looked, Dean looked worse. Instead of pale, now his skin was a weird splotchy red with a green cast. Where he’d been stiff as a board when Sam brought him in, now the rigor was starting to resolve and his face was slack and his mouth gaped open. I could hardly bear to look at him.
And I’m not going to go into the whole thing about how he smelled, because, that goes without saying. Again, not pretty at all.
I’d been dozing in a ratty recliner on and off all day, and after awhile, I decided it was time to reconnoiter. Plus, it was getting a little too déjà vu for me, I’d been through this before with Dean and I needed some air. Took the Chevelle, and with Sam’s blessing, went to get the lay of the land, make sure the demons really were gone, and maybe get something the boy would eat.
I found a town just a few miles down the road, and I checked out the local cemetery, and picked up a bucket of chicken. Hit a liquor store on the way back to stock up. Even if Sam wasn’t gonna drink, I needed some liquid courage to have the whole, “Dean’s dead and it’s time you got on with things,” conversation with Sam.
Got back to the house, took a couple swigs from my bottle of Jack, grabbed the chicken, and resolved to make Sam do SOMETHING about his brother. I opened the back door, and the stench nearly sent me to my knees. I shut the door quick, and put the chicken back into the car. No sense wasting a good bucket of chicken. Fortunately, or unfortunately, as the case may be, Dean’s decomposition had sped up to the point of eye-watering, gag-inducing bad.
Sam was sitting on the floor next to his brother, staring off into space.
“Boy, we gotta…” I said, and Sam said, “I know.”
I told him there was a deep woods behind the farm where we could build a pyre for Dean, but again, Sam said no. He said Dean would need a body to come back to. I was pretty sure Dean wouldn’t want THIS particular shredded and rotting body, but I didn’t tell Sam that.
Instead, I said that I’d seen some wood behind the barn that we could use to make a coffin. And so, we did. Wasn’t the prettiest box ever, wasn’t even very sturdy, but Sam said that was okay, it would be easier for Dean to get out.
That boy. He had a case of denial big as his damned boots.
For one last touch, Sam made a cross out of barn wood. To mark the spot, in case he needed to come back. “To pay respects,” he said and walked away.
“To do some hoodoo, ya mean,” I said, but he didn’t hear me.
We loaded Dean into the box, sans the pink wrapper, and was then I noticed he was wearing different clothes.
“I cleaned him up and dressed him while you were gone,” Sam said, and put the lid on the coffin. “I couldn’t let him go into the ground like that.”
I can’t even bring myself to think about how hard that must have been for him. It still breaks my heart two weeks later.
We carried the coffin out to the car. It was too tight a fit to get the box into the Impala, so I rigged up a roof skid to put it on top of my car. Sam wanted Dean to go in the Impala, but I reminded him that Dean would not want her paint scratched by his box, and Sam agreed.
It was dusk when we left, less chance of being spotted. We drove in on dirt roads, and then across fields until we couldn’t go any further, then we carried the box, flashlights, and a bag of grave digging supplies that Dean used to call the “desecration duffle”.
Dead weight isn’t just a term, by the way. My arms were shaking by the time Sam decided on the right spot for Dean’s grave, a small clearing in a thick copse of trees. He started digging. I rested and held the flashlight. Sam kept digging. I thought about what to say over Dean, thought Sam would want some words said. Sam kept digging, I kept offering to help, he kept saying no thanks and then, it was done. We lowered Dean’s box into the ground, and Sam sprinkled the coffin with salt and holy water. If we weren’t gonna burn him, at least we could leave him a little protection, lame as it was.
Sam was staring again, so I took shovel in hand and started to fill in the hole. That boy flinched when the first clod of dirt hit Dean’s coffin. I filled, and he sank down onto the ground and cried. Thank God. I was more worried about the lack of emotion than about the tears. In my experience, tears end, eventually. That cold, emotionless state…well, you only have to look at John Winchester to see how that ends up.
I finished filling up the grave, and Sam wiped his face, and got to his feet.
I offered to say some words over him, but Sam said, “I got it.” He pulled the amulet that Dean always wore from his pocket, and put it around his neck.
“Set me as a seal on your heart,
as a seal on your arm;
for stern as death is love,
relentless as the nether world is devotion;
it’s flames are a blazing fire.
Deep waters cannot quench love,
nor floods sweep it away.
Were one to offer all he owns to purchase love,
he would be roundly mocked.”
He scooped up a handful of dirt, and let it fall on Dean’s grave. “You loved me too much, Dean. Just like Dad loved you too much. And I know I should just go on, live the life you wanted me to, but I can’t. I love you too much. I don’t know how I’m gonna do it, but I swear, I’m gonna get you back.” And then he just turned and walked away.
I gathered up the duffle, and that was that. Dean was dead and buried, and burning in Hell. And Sam was heading down a familiar road. And damned if that wasn’t what passed for normal for a Winchester.
Anyway, that’s how it all went down. Sam’s off looking for ways to bring Dean back, and I’m looking for ways to keep this all from happening again. ‘Cause Lillith is still out there, and we have nothing to fight her with, nowhere to hide.
I need a fucking drink.
June 15
Haven’t written in awhile. Been kinda down in the mouth. Actually, I kinda been mostly drunk. Heard from Sam-he’s still looking for a way to spring Dean from Hell. I’ve done some research, made a few inquiries, but I keep coming up dry. I keep thinking, if only we’d had more time, if we’d had a place to hide Dean from the Hellhounds, maybe things would be different.
June 20
I’ve got an idea. It’s stupid, but…maybe it isn’t. I’m thinking of a demon-proof bomb shelter. If the hex bags could hide Sam and Dean from Lillith, maybe there’s a way to hide from all of them. It would have to be made of iron…preferably consecrated iron.
I gotta make some calls.
July 10
It’s too goddamned bad Bela Temple is dead, cause I’ve gotta raise some cash, and she was always a good resource to sell to. Looks like I may have to sell Jay Leno the fucking Aston Martin DB I was saving for my retirement. Turns out building a consecrated iron bomb shelter in your basement is pretty fucking expensive.
August 30
It’s done. And its goddamned impressive, if I do say so myself. Got all the comforts of home-beds, food, water, ventilation, weapons, research books, a fully stocked first aid and liquor cabinet. And one last touch-an old poster of Bo Derek. Put that up cause it was Dean’s favorite when he used to stay with me when he was younger. Kind of a tribute to that monkey-spankin’sonofabitch. God, I miss him.
And his brother.
I need a drink.
September 21, 2008
Dean is out of Hell. DEAN IS OUT OF MOTHERFUCKING HELL. He’s alive and whole and damned if he doesn’t look GOOD. Showed up on my doorstep four days ago, alive and breathing. It ain’t a trick, and Sam didn’t do it. Apparently an ANGEL did it ‘cause GOD told him to. This is kinda bending my brain. In the course of a few days Dean’s alive, and Angels and GOD apparently exist. I don’t know what to think, but there’s still the fact that DEAN IS ALIVE AND OUT OF HELL.
Gonna celebrate by cleaning this place up. Starting with me. No more drinking. I’ve got to get back into the game. Make that call to Olivia Lowery. I’ve got work to do.