Fic: Shackles
Title: Shackles
Author: yo_gert
Rating: PG
Summary: "You can’t hold on, Sammy,” Dean said. “I’ll only take you down with me.” Set S3. Originally published in The Brotherhood 6, by Pyramids Press.
Author's Note: The Cowee tunnel legend about the prisoners is real - 19 inmates drowned building the tunnel. If you're so inclined, you can take a train ride through it on the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad. I did, but I didn't hear the chains rattling...
The water wasn’t very deep, but it was cold where it splashed into the scow that was transporting them across the Tuckaseegee River to the job site. Dean Winchester sat with his hands tucked under his armpits, attempting to preserve his body heat in the frigid mountain air and avoid the water that was puddling in the center of the boat. Unfortunately, he was unable to keep his feet completely out of it, since the shackles around his ankles that bound him to his fellow prisoners didn’t allow much movement. The musty smell emanating from the sodden cuffs of his woolen prison-issue pants added to his discomfort. He sighed, resigning himself to wet boots and socks, and looked anxiously at the far shore, then back at the nineteen other men who sat lined up beside and across from him on the boat. Not much farther now…
A sudden lurch, followed by an immediate increase in the amount of water the scow was taking on, set off an immediate reaction in the prisoners, and they came to their feet almost as one.
The guard, a squat, compact fellow named Bill Foster, jumped up when he saw the prisoners moving, one hand on the stern for balance and the other brandishing his carbine. “Quit moving, damn it!” he shouted, “We can make it across even if we’re taking on water! If you move, you’ll tip the boat!”
Dean recognized this was good advice and tried to stop, but the chains that bound him to nineteen other men forced him to either stand with them or be dumped into the now ankle-deep water. The motion of the other prisoners was causing the small craft to wobble, which in turn was making their movements more erratic.
Dean tried to maintain his balance and gripped the shoulders of the men closest to him. “Stop! You’re going to take us all down!” he yelled, but his voice was lost in the panicked din. “If one of us goes over, we’ll all go!” Dean looked back at the guard and saw his own fear reflected in the other man’s eyes.
The prisoners’ movements had carried them toward the prow of the boat. As the weight shifted in the scow, the stern began to lift out of the water. “No! Go back the other way!” Dean yelled, trying to push the men in front of him back toward Bill with little success. Giving up on moving the tangle of bodies and leg irons, Dean began scrambling frantically back toward the stern, trying to find a handhold on the benches or side of the scow and sliding backward one foot for every two of forward progress he made.
Suddenly, there was a yell from the prow as one of the prisoners went overboard into the fast-moving, freezing December waters. Dean saw Bill’s eyes widen further as, one by one, the rest of the prisoners began to lose their battle with gravity and were pulled into the Tuckaseegee by the chains that connected them.
Then Bill was in motion, dropping his rifle and reaching toward Dean in a futile attempt to stop the inevitable. Dean lunged forward, falling onto his belly on the bottom of the sloping scow and straining toward Bill’s hand. Their fingers brushed briefly as Dean slid down the bottom of the boat toward the prow, but it was no use. He went over the side.
Icy waters closed over Dean’s head, and the world narrowed to chains and cold and darkness.
****
Dean gasped and his eyes flew open, darting confusedly about as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that he was outside, lying on the ground in some sort of wooded area. It was still late afternoon, so enough light filtered through the trees to allow him decent visibility.
Since he didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, Dean took a moment to concentrate on controlling his breathing and mentally catalog any possible injuries. The dream had been so vivid that he half-expected to find himself soaked through, and he was glad to discover that wasn’t the case. In fact, with the exception of a headache and a dull throbbing pain in the back of his right thigh, he seemed to be okay.
When he attempted to sit up, however, the motion caused both his headache and the leg wound to flare from “painful” to “excruciating,” and the accompanying dizziness made him lie back down. Dean gingerly prodded at the painful area on his leg, his fingers coming away wet. The wound was still bleeding, and Dean had no idea how long he’d been out.
“Awesome. This day just keeps getting better and better,” Dean grumbled.
Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate, to remember where he was and what he was doing. After a moment, his scattered thoughts began to come together, and he managed to reconstruct the day’s events.
The Winchesters were in Dillsboro, North Carolina, investigating reports of a recent rash of drowning deaths that involved the section of the Tuckaseegee River that was locally famous for having a “haunted railroad.” Sam’s research had turned up a story about nineteen prison inmates who’d died while working on blasting a tunnel through Cowee Hill. The boat carrying twenty men across the river to the worksite capsized, and all the prisoners drowned but one. According to the story, the prisoners were buried on top of Cowee Hill, above the tunnel they’d helped cut. Local legend held that when you went through the tunnel, you could hear chains rattling above you.
Violent deaths, unmarked graves, a local legend, and a recent tunnel renovation project: it was a recipe for restless spirits made suddenly vengeful, and the Winchesters, or, more accurately Dean, who was trying to keep both himself and Sam occupied as his final year progressed, had figured it for a pretty simple salt-and-burn. So they’d gone to do a bit of advance gravesite recon.
That had been that morning. They’d parked at the Dillsboro depot and simply followed the tracks for three or so miles to the Cowee tunnel. Even though the winter weather in North Carolina was unusually mild, it was still cold at that elevation, and the nearby river only increased the chill. But it was a clear day, and the exertion of navigating the hill, a steep climb through overgrown kudzu and rhododendron and pine, kept them plenty warm. They’d reached the top of the hill at noon and taken a moment to rest and set up a rough camp before arming themselves with EMF meters and separating to look for likely gravesites or signs of supernatural activity.
The only good thing Dean could say about the search was that the top of the hill wasn’t as overgrown as the surrounding area. Unfortunately, there was still sufficient growth to hide the wild boar that apparently called Cowee Hill home. The boar had taken exception to Dean poking around, and, after a brief altercation involving rock salt, Dean’s leg, and a pair of pretty sharp tusks, Dean had managed to drive it off. He’d then started limping back toward their temporary campsite.
But that didn’t explain how he had lost consciousness. Or the headache. Or the fact Dean was missing his EMF meter, his shotgun, and his brother. And apparently he’d managed to shatter the face of his watch either fighting the boar or when he fell. Reaching into his coat pocket, Dean withdrew his cell and checked. The dead battery added to his suspicions that he’d been attacked by more than just an angry boar: really strong spirits could deplete a battery in seconds. He was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way, then. Drawing in a deep breath, and hoping the boar wasn’t still nearby, Dean bellowed, “SAM!”
No answer, save for the wind and the distant sound of the Tuckaseegee as it flowed beside Cowee Hill and the Smoky Mountain railroad.
“SAM! SAMMY!”
Again Dean waited, and again there was no reply.
“Damn it,” he hissed, and began slowly levering himself to a sitting position, using his left leg to scoot his body over to a nearby pine tree where he could prop himself against it. First, he needed to stop the bleeding, so Dean removed his jacket and used the knife he kept in his boot to cut a wide strip from the bottom of his flannel shirt. He used the strip to secure his pocket handkerchief to the wound.
Once he finished, Dean carefully straightened his injured leg and relaxed against the tree, breathing deeply and closing his eyes. He would take a moment to gather his strength, and then he would go back to the campsite, get his bearings and another gun, and go look for Sam.
****
Dean struggled against the current, fighting to get his head above water. He succeeded long enough to get another lungful of air before the weight of the other prisoners dragged him under again. The current was strong, and he bumped along the bottom of the river, hands outstretched and grasping for anything that might stop their progress and allow them to try to surface.
Suddenly, his left foot collided with a hidden rock, and Dean felt something give. The pain forced a cry and precious air from his lungs, but the pull of the other bodies was gone. He was no longer shackled to the rest of the men! Dean made one last effort to gain the surface, and emerged coughing and sputtering. He looked up and saw the dock a little ways upstream-the current hadn’t taken him as far downstream as he’d thought, and it had pushed him closer to the shore-and began swimming toward it.
He had almost made it to the dock when something heavy brushed his leg. Startled, Dean reached to move the object away, and realized it was a body. Treading water, he reached down and grasped the man by the collar, pulling his head above water.
It was Bill Foster, the prison guard, and he didn’t seem to be breathing.
Dean pulled Bill closer and got his right arm around the man’s upper body, keeping Bill’s head above the water and allowing Dean to swim with his left arm.
Long minutes later, a shivering Dean managed to pull them both to shore. He rolled Bill onto his side and began pounding the man’s back. His efforts were rewarded when the other man coughed violently and then vomited river water onto the sandy shore.
After it was over, Bill rolled onto his back, squinting at Dean.
“The others?” he croaked hoarsely.
Dean merely shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest to stop their trembling, then turned back to stare blankly at the empty Tuckaseegee river.
****
Dean blinked awake, frowning. He had dismissed the first dream as a fluke; his dreams had been a bit more disturbing than usual lately, but he figured that was about par for the course for someone who was going to Hell in a matter of months. And he’d had case-related dreams before, especially when he was in the middle of a job or immediately after one. But the fact this dream had continued where it left off, like a movie reel that had been momentarily interrupted, was strange. And his usual dreams were never this vivid. He’d actually felt the chafing of the iron on his ankles, and the water’s freezing bite had forced the air out of his lungs. And this Bill Foster seemed as familiar to him as Bobby or Sam. Dean wished again for his EMF meter. If he’d been attacked by one of the spirits, it might explain both what had happened after the boar’s attack and the dreams. But the fact remained that if he wanted answers, he was going to have to get moving, so Dean returned his attention to the present.
His impromptu nap had lost him more time, but how much? The sun was lower now, edging toward dusk. The fact that he had nodded off-or was it passed out?-again was worrying, but the bottom line was that he didn’t have time for this crap. If he couldn’t make it back to the campsite by dark, he was going to be in a world of hurt. And where was Sam?
This last thought spurred Dean into action. Putting the majority of his weight on his good left leg, he used the tree for leverage and made it to a standing position, pausing for a moment to let himself adjust and the dizziness subside. His leg wound wasn’t bleeding, and Dean figured he could maintain a slow, steady pace that should get him back to the camp in less than an hour. If the boar was still around…well, Dean still had his knife, and he’d just have to cross that bridge when he came to it.
The sun was sinking behind the Smoky Mountains when Dean finally made it to his destination, and though he was relieved to note that their packs, supplies, and the fire pit they’d set up were undisturbed, the elder Winchester couldn’t stop the beginnings of panic from setting in.
There was no sign of Sam. No sign he’d returned to camp, that he’d set off in search of Dean…nothing.
Dean quickly located a flashlight and his Glock. He’d have felt better with the shotgun, but they’d only brought that, the rifle-which Sam had-and two handguns, so he would have to make do. He loaded the weapon with silver and iron, snagged some ibuprofen and chased them down with a few quick gulps of water, then put the first aid kit in one of the packs along with the salt and lighter fluid, and strapped it on.
The temperature on top of Cowee Hill began to drop as soon as the sun disappeared. Trees and vegetation managed to block most of the chill breeze that blew across the mountain, but Dean still felt a considerable amount of its bite. If Sam had run into whatever had knocked Dean out, he could be unconscious and unprotected, and possibly at risk for hypothermia.
“Damn it, Sammy, where are you?” Dean muttered, quickening his pace as much as possible but forcing himself to keep to the route they’d discussed. The brothers had plotted a search grid for the top of the hill, and Sam had estimated it would take them two or three hours to cover all the ground necessary. That had been over four hours before, Dean figured, since they had started out at 12:30, and the sun set around 5:00 this time of year. Sam should have at least made it back to camp. Hell, he should have made it back, had time to freak out about Dean’s well-being, and then come after him.
The pounding in Dean’s ears now had less to do with his headache and possible concussion than it did with his fear for Sam. A cold sweat broke out on his body as his mind replayed flashes from the past year, culminating with the memory of his brother’s limp and cooling body pressed against him as he knelt in the mud in Cold Oak.
Dean stopped, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes and willing his breathing under control. “Focus, focus,” he reminded himself angrily.
The Winchesters had set up their camp dead center on the top of Cowee Hill, directly over the tunnel. According to the grid, he should be approaching the western entrance of the tunnel at any minute, and when Dean examined his surroundings with the flashlight, he noted that the ground did seem to slope slightly downward. The roar of the Tuckaseegee river was louder here, as well.
The footing would only become more treacherous the closer Dean got to the drop-off over the tunnel’s entrance, so he forced himself to move slowly and carefully, swinging the flashlight in an arc and checking the ground before every step. He wouldn’t do his brother any good if he ended up in the river, or broken and bleeding on the tracks.
On his third step downward, the beam of his flashlight illuminated a figure slumped under a tree to his left. Dean hobbled forward as quickly as he dared, grabbing at tree branches to slow his descent and ignoring the pulling in his thigh.
“Sammy!” Breathless, Dean dropped to his knees beside his brother and willed his hands to stop shaking as he felt for a pulse.
At his touch, Sam stirred, blinking up at him groggily. “Dean?”
“Yeah, Sam, yeah, it’s me. What happened? Are you hurt?”
Sam put his right hand to the back of his head and grimaced. Dean frowned in sympathy: whatever had attacked him had packed a wallop, and if the same thing had gotten Sam, he probably had a sizeable lump back there.
Dean offered his left hand to Sam, and helped him into a more comfortable position leaning against the tree. Sam took a sip of water from the offered canteen as Dean checked him for other injuries.
“I’m not sure what happened,” Sam said after a moment. “I was almost to the end of my grid and about to turn back, when I heard something coming through the brush. Then it hit me.” He probed the lump again and hissed lightly. “Got me pretty good, whatever it was.”
Sam looked around, as though noticing the darkness for the first time. “How long have I been out?”
“A while,” Dean said, easing himself back to his feet and checking the area with the flashlight. “You got your rifle with you?”
“No,” came the reply after a minute. “No EMF meter, either.”
“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered. “Looks like Casper has sticky fingers and likes to play during the daytime.” Off Sam’s puzzled look, he continued, “Same thing happened to me. Lucky you got clobbered before hogzilla noticed you.”
“Hogzilla?”
“Yeah. So much for a simple salt-and-burn, but what else is new, right?”
Sam seemed to take Dean’s attempt at apology, explanation, and avoidance for what it was, and gave a short nod. “So what’s going on here?” he asked.
“Long story, little brother. But it’s gonna take a while to get back to camp, so I can fill you in on the way.” Dean helped Sam to his feet, and the Winchesters hobbled back toward the top of Cowee Hill.
Dean got Sam settled in back at the campsite, starting a fire and laying a fresh salt circle, then checking his brother’s head wound. It was probably a slight concussion and, all things considered, Dean figured they’d gotten off easy. He let Sam dress the punctures in his leg with a minimum of complaint, and both brothers ate a little jerky and drank some water. If the ghost had been active during the daytime, who knew how powerful it might become at night, and they both needed to be prepared.
“So, one ghost or several?” Sam asked after the two had loaded the remaining handguns and made themselves as comfortable as possible.
“The MO seems to point to one, but there are at least nineteen bodies up here, if the historical records are right. So why is one dude all hot and bothered while the rest are content?”
Sam shook his head. “Maybe the spirit attached itself to a particular item on the hill or inside the tunnel, and that item got disturbed?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s just a giant ass with a gun fetish. At this point, I don’t care. I want him to show himself so I can at least have the satisfaction of shooting him full of rock salt. That was my favorite shotgun!”
At Sam’s muted chuckle, Dean huffed out a breath that was one part irritated sigh and one part relief that Sam had decided to just go with this one, without using the forced downtime as an opportunity for any extraneous conversation. Dean leaned back against the weapons duffel, crossing his arms over his chest.
After a few minutes, Sam spoke again, his voice seeming to come from far away.
“Go ahead and get some rest, Dean. I’ll take first watch and wake you in a few hours.”
Dean tried to tell Sam he wasn’t tired, but couldn’t seem to form the words.
****
Dean sat on a log by the side of the river, watching numbly as the local sheriff and some men from town finished retrieving bodies from the water. The doctor had checked both him and Bill over, wrapped his ankle, and supplied them with dry clothes and a couple of blankets for warmth. For his part, Bill was helping identify the other inmates.
Due to the remote location and the logistical problems of removing nineteen dead bodies, plus the fact that normal society considered the bodies in question not worth the effort to begin with, it was decided that the dead would be buried on top of the tunnel they’d helped blast through the mountain. Dean was declared fit enough to help dig the hole, so he shouldered a shovel and limped up the hill after the other men, ignoring the pointed stares of the locals.
The digging was slow, muddy work, and when it was finished, Dean wanted nothing more than to rest his ankle, drink some water, and try to forget the day entirely. But Bill Foster pulled him aside as the work crew began cleaning up and making its way down the hill. The man’s ruddy face wore a serious expression, and Dean was puzzled.
“Something wrong, sir?” he asked, but Bill merely shook his head and motioned for Dean to follow him. Foster led the way to a clearing about halfway up the hill, then turned to face Dean, anger in every line of his body.
“There’s a rumor going around that the scow’s sinking wasn’t exactly an accident,” Bill said.
Dean frowned, but he didn’t get a chance to ask a question because Bill continued.
“In fact, the sheriff is wondering if maybe that scow shouldn’t have been on the river with so many people in it to begin with. I don’t suppose the sheriff’s asked you your opinion on that particular, has he?”
“No, sir,” replied Dean, becoming uncomfortably aware of the fact he and Bill were all alone on the mountain.
“Now, fortunately for me, most of the folk around here are in agreement that a boatful of criminals isn’t much of a loss in any case, but this sheriff, see, he has a bunch of high-minded ideas about justice and wants to be sure that the prisoners weren’t being mistreated in any way. He’s making a passel of noise about an official investigation and arraignments and a bunch of other stuff that’s just gonna be a hassle to all of us, you know?”
“The sheriff hasn’t said nothing to me, sir,” Dean said hastily. “And I know we weren’t being mistreated-y’all’ve always been fair enough. It was an accident!”
Bill Foster’s grim smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the funny part, isn’t it, boy?” he said finally. “See, I’m not worried about an investigation turning up anything on the boat-that was dumb luck. But there’s other folks above me who won’t look too kindly on me bringing any attention to the Dillsboro work camp and its day-to-day operations. And since I’ve got no good way to persuade the sheriff to stop sniffing around as long as there are survivors to interview, well…”
No way out. There was no way out, and Dean realized what was about to happen as Bill Foster raised his rifle.
“Sorry, boy. Bad luck all around, I guess,” Bill said, squeezing the trigger.
****
Dean opened his eyes to see Sam hovering over him, and he felt the release of a gentle pressure over his heart. He twitched away involuntarily, batting at his brother’s hand.
“The hell, Sam?”
Sam looked relieved at Dean’s normal response to his hovering. “I couldn’t wake you up, man. And then these noises started…”
Dean blinked and shook his head, trying to clear away the last vestiges of the dream. He needed to explain what was happening with the spirit, but wasn’t sure what was happening with his brother. “What noises?”
His answer was Sam lurching to his feet, gun pointed at the darkness. A scuffling noise came from the brush nearby.
“It’s not any of the nineteen, Sam,” Dean said urgently, and Sam’s eyes flew to him in surprise.
“What?”
“It’s been showing me what happened-the spirit. It’s not one of the drowned men, it’s the one we thought survived.”
Sam’s eyes widened further. “The one who supposedly overpowered the guard and escaped? How do you know?”
“You know those dreams I mentioned? It was trying to tell me, or maybe the attack triggered a replay, I don’t know. Foster-the guard-killed him.”
“Did you see where he was buried?” Dean shook his head, and Sam bit his lip, thinking. “So, that explains the pattern of deaths-all men, always on hunting trips, so they’d have rifles…and it explains why it went after our guns. But why didn’t it finish us off this afternoon?”
“Spirits aren’t as strong in the daytime?” Dean speculated. “Guess we should be counting our blessings-dude was pretty freaking strong to start with.”
Sam sighed. “So this spirit is stronger than we thought, and we don’t know where its body is buried.”
Dean gave a wry grin as apology. “Like I said, what else is new? Just another day at the office for Winchester, Inc.”
He didn’t allow Sam to respond to that one, turning his attention to his Glock instead. Dean picked up the gun and readied it, facing away from the fire to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.
“So we stay here, make sure the salt line is reinforced, and then either haul ass or figure out where this dude’s body is buried come daybreak.”
Sam nodded, and Dean could feel the weight of his gaze. “Yeah. Just…try not to go into any more spirit trances, okay?”
Dean snorted. “That’s your department, Sammy. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna steal your thunder.”
Sam gave a half-smile, then stationed himself opposite his brother, facing the darkness. They were well-protected and could wait it out, no problem.
Neither brother had counted on the boar, which chose exactly that moment to burst through the brush and charge the campsite on Dean’s side.
Dean managed a heartfelt, “Holy crap!” and squeezed off two quick shots, at least one of which hit its mark.
With a squeal of pain, the boar shifted course, hooves digging into the soft earth and kicking up sod and leaves and pine needles as it retreated back into the darkness.
Dean fired one last shot at its retreating haunches, yelling, “I hate that damn pig!”
Sam lowered his gun with a relieved chuckle and glanced at Dean, who was glaring daggers into the darkness. “So that’s hogzilla, huh?” Sam asked wryly.
“Shut up, Sam. Did you see those tusks?”
“Oh, yeah, must’ve been two inches long at least. Scary.”
“The back of my leg knows scary,” Dean muttered.
“I’m not making fun, dude, it’s just…I expected something a little bigger, that’s all.”
Dean was all set to make a scathing reply, when he noticed the boar’s charge and subsequent quick retreat had managed to create a gap in the salt line.
“Aw, damn. Sammy, you got the salt over there?”
As Dean turned toward Sam, there was a dark blur of movement across the gap. Something grasped Dean by his ankles and yanked.
“Sam!” Dean lost his grip on the Glock and rolled onto his stomach. He scrabbled desperately for a handhold as the spirit began dragging him quickly away from the fire.
“Dean!” He heard his brother’s answering call, and saw Sam raise his pistol, but the spirit was moving too quickly. Both Sam and the camp were out of sight by the time Dean heard his brother fire.
Dean bumped along the ground, brambles and rocks catching and scraping his flesh. The spirit’s icy grasp burned his ankles. The other victims had drowned after falling from a height-all campers or hunters in the woods around the Dillsboro railroad-and Dean knew if he didn’t find a way to stop his momentum, he was going to have much bigger problems than scrapes and frostbite. But he couldn’t see well enough to find something to grab.
He needed to buy Sam enough time to catch up. There was no way his brother would get to him by running blindly over uneven terrain in the dark, but they both knew the most likely point to drop a body into the Tuckaseegee river was directly to the south of their campsite, where the highest point of the hill overlooked both river and tracks. Dean prayed Sam would remember the route.
He finally resorted to shouting at the spirit, figuring maybe the sound could help Sam find him faster. “Let go of me, you giant freak! I didn’t shoot your sorry ass!”
The only response was an increase in speed, and Dean felt the change in the terrain moments before the spirit’s grasp on his ankles tightened for one final pull. They were at the edge of the tunnel, right above the river.
“SAM!”
Dean felt the spirit let go of his ankles the same time the ground beneath him gave way to nothing, and he flailed wildly, the sensation of falling and the noise of the river triggering memories from the day’s dreams. His scrabbling fingers managed to find a few thin brambles, and he grasped them tightly, feeling the slick surface of the scow’s bottom in place of the thorns that embedded themselves in his hands. Cold iron dug into the tender flesh of his left ankle as the weight on his limbs increased, and Dean started losing ground, sliding inexorably toward the water below.
When Dean felt a strong hand grasp his left wrist, he gasped and looked up, convinced he saw the familiar features of Bill Foster before him.
“Dean! I’ve got you. Just hang on!”
Dean struggled against the grip, kicking his legs in an attempt to get away.
“Dean! Hold still! It’s me. If you don’t calm down, we’re both going to go over the edge!”
Dean wasn’t sure which option was worse, letting Foster pull him up so he could shoot him later, or getting away from Foster and plunging into the river. The icy cold of the shackle felt as though it was going to cut through his ankle, and the weight of the other inmates kept pulling him down, out of the boat and toward the water. He kicked frantically, trying to fight against the pull, but it was useless. Foster’s grip was loosening.
And then he heard Sam’s voice.
“Dean! Listen, man, you have to keep still. I can’t hold you if you don’t keep still. C’mon, Dean!”
“Sam?” Dean looked up into the face of Bill Foster, but saw his brother instead. Surprise made him stop struggling, and he heard his brother’s quick sigh of relief.
“You with me now, bro?”
Dean nodded and stilled his body completely, trying to steady his breathing. The dream images were slowly fading, and when he felt the pain in his hands from the thorny brambles for the first time, the shock of it nearly made him let go. But even though Dean knew where and when he was now, the sensations of the shackle and the prisoners’ weight remained.
“Sam,” he gasped, straining against the pull, “something’s dragging me down.”
“It’s the spirit,” Sam grunted, the strain evident in his voice. Dean could see that Sam was trying to hold on to Dean with one hand and shoot the spirit attached to his leg with the other, but there was too much weight. Even though Dean was trying to hold still, the thing attached to him was making him sway side-to-side, and Sam couldn’t get a clear bead on the target.
“You can’t hold on, Sammy,” Dean said. “I’ll only take you down with me.”
“If you go, I go,” said Sam roughly, and he took his shot.
There was a screech. Dean’s body gave one final jerk downward, and then the extra weight was gone, along with Dean’s reserve of strength. The blood-slicked vines began slipping through his hands.
Sam tossed the gun aside and grasped Dean’s other wrist. The momentum was on Dean’s side now, and Sam had to work hard to make up the lost ground.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw the dark shape of the spirit begin to coalesce. He tried to call out a warning, but it flew at him too quickly, and his words were lost in a groan of pain as the additional weight again stretched muscle and tendon to the breaking point.
“No!” Sam yelled, redoubling his efforts. Dean could feel his brother’s muscles trembling as he struggled to keep them both alive.
Sam’s grip on Dean’s wrists was so tight that it was causing him to lose the feeling in both hands, but it wasn’t enough to stop their movement. He couldn’t let Sam die, too. Dean started to tell him so, but was interrupted when Sam suddenly started talking to the spirit, calling it out.
“Hey! Whoever you are! Stop this! This man you’re punishing isn’t Bill Foster! Bill Foster is dead, you hear me? Dead!”
It was useless, Dean thought as he felt the weight on his leg increase in response to his brother’s words. Sam’s blind determination to save him was just going to get him killed, and didn’t he know by now that Dean wasn’t going to let it happen, either now or when his contract came due? If Sam was too stubborn to save himself, Dean would just have to take matters into his own hands. He started to release his grip on the brambles, but Sam seemed to realize what Dean was attempting and squeezed his brother’s wrists harder in response.
“No, damn you!”
Dean didn’t even know whom Sam was addressing anymore: the spirit, him, the demon that held his contract. But it didn’t matter. Sam had to see reason on this one. This hunt was not going to end with his brother’s death.
Sam was breathless now, his voice beginning to quaver with desperation. “Listen to me! Bill Foster is dead! You have to let go and move on!”
“Sam.” Dean’s voice was barely a whisper, the strain of being pulled in two directions making it an effort to speak. “It won’t listen. Please. Let go.”
“NO!” Despite Sam’s denial, Dean could feel him sliding farther over the edge of the hill. Soon he would be too far over to have any leverage at all, and they would both plunge into the river below. And still Sam kept trying, which meant Dean had to as well.
“Sammy…it’s too much. Please.”
If Sam heard him, he gave no indication, continuing to speak to the spirit. “My brother didn’t hurt you-we’re trying to help you! Please, let him go!”
Dean thought he felt the slightest shift in weight, and he held his breath, not daring to move or hope.
“You’ve gotten justice, shown us the truth, and we’ll set the record straight!”
Dean looked up at his brother but couldn’t make out his expression. Sam’s head was bowed between his outstretched arms, forehead nearly touching the ground at the edge of the hill. His shoulders were shaking with the effort of stopping Dean’s fall.
Instinctively, the elder Winchester opened his mouth to reassure Sam, to let him know he understood Sam had done all he could. But the sudden memory of a deserted cabin and his brother’s still form caused the words to die in his throat. Sam wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment any more than Dean had when Bobby had said it to him, so Dean kept quiet, torn between a desire to live and the need to make sure his brother would be okay if he didn’t.
Taking in a deep breath, Sam turned his face upward and directed a final, anguished whisper at the spirit. “Please. He’s all I’ve got. Please.”
There was one more jerk. Then Dean was suddenly released, the weight gone. He closed his eyes and hoped that Sam still had enough strength left to pull him up.
Dean heard Sam gasp as the additional weight disappeared, and felt his brother tense in preparation for one final attempt at saving him. Slowly, Dean’s momentum reversed, accompanied by Sam’s muffled grunts. When Dean’s torso was far enough over the edge of the tunnel, Sam grabbed his belt and hauled him the rest of the way up.
Dean tried to help, but he couldn’t seem to coordinate his limbs. Once he was on solid ground again, he carefully rolled to his back and followed Sam’s gaze to the dark shape before them.
“It’s over. You can rest now,” Sam said gently. “You just have to let go.”
A faint glow began to spread from the center of the spirit outward, gaining strength and shaping itself into the form of a dark-skinned man in old-fashioned prison woolens. Then, with a sudden flash, it was gone, leaving both Sam and Dean to blink away the afterimages caused by the bright light.
Dean slowly unclenched his fists, hissing as the thorns from the vines he still held pulled out of his flesh. “Is it gone?” he asked.
“I think so,” Sam replied.
Dean looked at Sam thoughtfully, and his brother’s return gaze was part challenge and part promise. Dean acknowledged them both with a small smile that quickly disappeared into his customary smirk. “Huh. If I’d known all along that all we had to do was talk the damn thing to death, I’d have stayed at the motel and let you do all the work.”
“Funny,” Sam said dryly, avoiding his brother’s mangled hands with obvious care as he helped him to his feet. They began their slow trek back to the campsite.
They were less likely to injure themselves further if they didn’t try to get back off the hill in the dark, so they stayed on Cowee Hill for the remaining few hours of the night, returning to the motel after sunrise. Sam gave Dean dibs on the shower. Dean returned the favor by allowing Sam to wrap both his hands loosely in gauze and check his leg wound. Unsure of what to say, Dean fell back on the traditional Winchester hunt recap to fill the silence.
“Well, that was a bitch of a hunt. Dude, I didn’t even think wild boars were indigenous to this area!”
Sam paused for a moment, apparently considering his brother’s sudden display of vocabulary, then returned his attention to the punctures in Dean’s thigh, irrigating them and then washing them thoroughly with soap and water.
Which stung quite a bit. “OW! Son of a bitch!” Dean twisted to try to get a better look at his leg, but only succeeded in jostling the motel bed and aggravating the wound further.
“Do you want an infection? No? Then hold still!” Sam ordered.
“I want my rifle and another shot at that damn pig,” muttered Dean, dropping his head onto his arms in defeat and allowing Sam to finish cleaning and bandaging his leg.
“That should hold it.” Sam taped a square of gauze over the wound and tapped his brother lightly on the shoulder to indicate that the impromptu surgery was over. He shook a couple of painkillers out of the bottle and handed them to Dean, who tossed them back and chased them with a swallow of the bottled water Sam had placed on the nightstand.
Dean watched quietly as his brother readied himself for bed, waiting until Sam had turned out the light and gotten settled to speak.
“Hey, Sam?”
There was a sigh and a rustling of covers that indicated Sam had been expecting Dean to do this. “Yeah?”
“Thanks, man,” he said finally. “For not…you know.”
Dean swore he could hear his brother’s smile. “Yeah,” came the soft reply after a moment. “I know. And back at ya.”
Dean nodded into the darkness and closed his eyes, finally letting go.
Author: yo_gert
Rating: PG
Summary: "You can’t hold on, Sammy,” Dean said. “I’ll only take you down with me.” Set S3. Originally published in The Brotherhood 6, by Pyramids Press.
Author's Note: The Cowee tunnel legend about the prisoners is real - 19 inmates drowned building the tunnel. If you're so inclined, you can take a train ride through it on the Great Smoky Mountains Railroad. I did, but I didn't hear the chains rattling...
The water wasn’t very deep, but it was cold where it splashed into the scow that was transporting them across the Tuckaseegee River to the job site. Dean Winchester sat with his hands tucked under his armpits, attempting to preserve his body heat in the frigid mountain air and avoid the water that was puddling in the center of the boat. Unfortunately, he was unable to keep his feet completely out of it, since the shackles around his ankles that bound him to his fellow prisoners didn’t allow much movement. The musty smell emanating from the sodden cuffs of his woolen prison-issue pants added to his discomfort. He sighed, resigning himself to wet boots and socks, and looked anxiously at the far shore, then back at the nineteen other men who sat lined up beside and across from him on the boat. Not much farther now…
A sudden lurch, followed by an immediate increase in the amount of water the scow was taking on, set off an immediate reaction in the prisoners, and they came to their feet almost as one.
The guard, a squat, compact fellow named Bill Foster, jumped up when he saw the prisoners moving, one hand on the stern for balance and the other brandishing his carbine. “Quit moving, damn it!” he shouted, “We can make it across even if we’re taking on water! If you move, you’ll tip the boat!”
Dean recognized this was good advice and tried to stop, but the chains that bound him to nineteen other men forced him to either stand with them or be dumped into the now ankle-deep water. The motion of the other prisoners was causing the small craft to wobble, which in turn was making their movements more erratic.
Dean tried to maintain his balance and gripped the shoulders of the men closest to him. “Stop! You’re going to take us all down!” he yelled, but his voice was lost in the panicked din. “If one of us goes over, we’ll all go!” Dean looked back at the guard and saw his own fear reflected in the other man’s eyes.
The prisoners’ movements had carried them toward the prow of the boat. As the weight shifted in the scow, the stern began to lift out of the water. “No! Go back the other way!” Dean yelled, trying to push the men in front of him back toward Bill with little success. Giving up on moving the tangle of bodies and leg irons, Dean began scrambling frantically back toward the stern, trying to find a handhold on the benches or side of the scow and sliding backward one foot for every two of forward progress he made.
Suddenly, there was a yell from the prow as one of the prisoners went overboard into the fast-moving, freezing December waters. Dean saw Bill’s eyes widen further as, one by one, the rest of the prisoners began to lose their battle with gravity and were pulled into the Tuckaseegee by the chains that connected them.
Then Bill was in motion, dropping his rifle and reaching toward Dean in a futile attempt to stop the inevitable. Dean lunged forward, falling onto his belly on the bottom of the sloping scow and straining toward Bill’s hand. Their fingers brushed briefly as Dean slid down the bottom of the boat toward the prow, but it was no use. He went over the side.
Icy waters closed over Dean’s head, and the world narrowed to chains and cold and darkness.
****
Dean gasped and his eyes flew open, darting confusedly about as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that he was outside, lying on the ground in some sort of wooded area. It was still late afternoon, so enough light filtered through the trees to allow him decent visibility.
Since he didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, Dean took a moment to concentrate on controlling his breathing and mentally catalog any possible injuries. The dream had been so vivid that he half-expected to find himself soaked through, and he was glad to discover that wasn’t the case. In fact, with the exception of a headache and a dull throbbing pain in the back of his right thigh, he seemed to be okay.
When he attempted to sit up, however, the motion caused both his headache and the leg wound to flare from “painful” to “excruciating,” and the accompanying dizziness made him lie back down. Dean gingerly prodded at the painful area on his leg, his fingers coming away wet. The wound was still bleeding, and Dean had no idea how long he’d been out.
“Awesome. This day just keeps getting better and better,” Dean grumbled.
Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate, to remember where he was and what he was doing. After a moment, his scattered thoughts began to come together, and he managed to reconstruct the day’s events.
The Winchesters were in Dillsboro, North Carolina, investigating reports of a recent rash of drowning deaths that involved the section of the Tuckaseegee River that was locally famous for having a “haunted railroad.” Sam’s research had turned up a story about nineteen prison inmates who’d died while working on blasting a tunnel through Cowee Hill. The boat carrying twenty men across the river to the worksite capsized, and all the prisoners drowned but one. According to the story, the prisoners were buried on top of Cowee Hill, above the tunnel they’d helped cut. Local legend held that when you went through the tunnel, you could hear chains rattling above you.
Violent deaths, unmarked graves, a local legend, and a recent tunnel renovation project: it was a recipe for restless spirits made suddenly vengeful, and the Winchesters, or, more accurately Dean, who was trying to keep both himself and Sam occupied as his final year progressed, had figured it for a pretty simple salt-and-burn. So they’d gone to do a bit of advance gravesite recon.
That had been that morning. They’d parked at the Dillsboro depot and simply followed the tracks for three or so miles to the Cowee tunnel. Even though the winter weather in North Carolina was unusually mild, it was still cold at that elevation, and the nearby river only increased the chill. But it was a clear day, and the exertion of navigating the hill, a steep climb through overgrown kudzu and rhododendron and pine, kept them plenty warm. They’d reached the top of the hill at noon and taken a moment to rest and set up a rough camp before arming themselves with EMF meters and separating to look for likely gravesites or signs of supernatural activity.
The only good thing Dean could say about the search was that the top of the hill wasn’t as overgrown as the surrounding area. Unfortunately, there was still sufficient growth to hide the wild boar that apparently called Cowee Hill home. The boar had taken exception to Dean poking around, and, after a brief altercation involving rock salt, Dean’s leg, and a pair of pretty sharp tusks, Dean had managed to drive it off. He’d then started limping back toward their temporary campsite.
But that didn’t explain how he had lost consciousness. Or the headache. Or the fact Dean was missing his EMF meter, his shotgun, and his brother. And apparently he’d managed to shatter the face of his watch either fighting the boar or when he fell. Reaching into his coat pocket, Dean withdrew his cell and checked. The dead battery added to his suspicions that he’d been attacked by more than just an angry boar: really strong spirits could deplete a battery in seconds. He was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way, then. Drawing in a deep breath, and hoping the boar wasn’t still nearby, Dean bellowed, “SAM!”
No answer, save for the wind and the distant sound of the Tuckaseegee as it flowed beside Cowee Hill and the Smoky Mountain railroad.
“SAM! SAMMY!”
Again Dean waited, and again there was no reply.
“Damn it,” he hissed, and began slowly levering himself to a sitting position, using his left leg to scoot his body over to a nearby pine tree where he could prop himself against it. First, he needed to stop the bleeding, so Dean removed his jacket and used the knife he kept in his boot to cut a wide strip from the bottom of his flannel shirt. He used the strip to secure his pocket handkerchief to the wound.
Once he finished, Dean carefully straightened his injured leg and relaxed against the tree, breathing deeply and closing his eyes. He would take a moment to gather his strength, and then he would go back to the campsite, get his bearings and another gun, and go look for Sam.
****
Dean struggled against the current, fighting to get his head above water. He succeeded long enough to get another lungful of air before the weight of the other prisoners dragged him under again. The current was strong, and he bumped along the bottom of the river, hands outstretched and grasping for anything that might stop their progress and allow them to try to surface.
Suddenly, his left foot collided with a hidden rock, and Dean felt something give. The pain forced a cry and precious air from his lungs, but the pull of the other bodies was gone. He was no longer shackled to the rest of the men! Dean made one last effort to gain the surface, and emerged coughing and sputtering. He looked up and saw the dock a little ways upstream-the current hadn’t taken him as far downstream as he’d thought, and it had pushed him closer to the shore-and began swimming toward it.
He had almost made it to the dock when something heavy brushed his leg. Startled, Dean reached to move the object away, and realized it was a body. Treading water, he reached down and grasped the man by the collar, pulling his head above water.
It was Bill Foster, the prison guard, and he didn’t seem to be breathing.
Dean pulled Bill closer and got his right arm around the man’s upper body, keeping Bill’s head above the water and allowing Dean to swim with his left arm.
Long minutes later, a shivering Dean managed to pull them both to shore. He rolled Bill onto his side and began pounding the man’s back. His efforts were rewarded when the other man coughed violently and then vomited river water onto the sandy shore.
After it was over, Bill rolled onto his back, squinting at Dean.
“The others?” he croaked hoarsely.
Dean merely shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest to stop their trembling, then turned back to stare blankly at the empty Tuckaseegee river.
****
Dean blinked awake, frowning. He had dismissed the first dream as a fluke; his dreams had been a bit more disturbing than usual lately, but he figured that was about par for the course for someone who was going to Hell in a matter of months. And he’d had case-related dreams before, especially when he was in the middle of a job or immediately after one. But the fact this dream had continued where it left off, like a movie reel that had been momentarily interrupted, was strange. And his usual dreams were never this vivid. He’d actually felt the chafing of the iron on his ankles, and the water’s freezing bite had forced the air out of his lungs. And this Bill Foster seemed as familiar to him as Bobby or Sam. Dean wished again for his EMF meter. If he’d been attacked by one of the spirits, it might explain both what had happened after the boar’s attack and the dreams. But the fact remained that if he wanted answers, he was going to have to get moving, so Dean returned his attention to the present.
His impromptu nap had lost him more time, but how much? The sun was lower now, edging toward dusk. The fact that he had nodded off-or was it passed out?-again was worrying, but the bottom line was that he didn’t have time for this crap. If he couldn’t make it back to the campsite by dark, he was going to be in a world of hurt. And where was Sam?
This last thought spurred Dean into action. Putting the majority of his weight on his good left leg, he used the tree for leverage and made it to a standing position, pausing for a moment to let himself adjust and the dizziness subside. His leg wound wasn’t bleeding, and Dean figured he could maintain a slow, steady pace that should get him back to the camp in less than an hour. If the boar was still around…well, Dean still had his knife, and he’d just have to cross that bridge when he came to it.
The sun was sinking behind the Smoky Mountains when Dean finally made it to his destination, and though he was relieved to note that their packs, supplies, and the fire pit they’d set up were undisturbed, the elder Winchester couldn’t stop the beginnings of panic from setting in.
There was no sign of Sam. No sign he’d returned to camp, that he’d set off in search of Dean…nothing.
Dean quickly located a flashlight and his Glock. He’d have felt better with the shotgun, but they’d only brought that, the rifle-which Sam had-and two handguns, so he would have to make do. He loaded the weapon with silver and iron, snagged some ibuprofen and chased them down with a few quick gulps of water, then put the first aid kit in one of the packs along with the salt and lighter fluid, and strapped it on.
The temperature on top of Cowee Hill began to drop as soon as the sun disappeared. Trees and vegetation managed to block most of the chill breeze that blew across the mountain, but Dean still felt a considerable amount of its bite. If Sam had run into whatever had knocked Dean out, he could be unconscious and unprotected, and possibly at risk for hypothermia.
“Damn it, Sammy, where are you?” Dean muttered, quickening his pace as much as possible but forcing himself to keep to the route they’d discussed. The brothers had plotted a search grid for the top of the hill, and Sam had estimated it would take them two or three hours to cover all the ground necessary. That had been over four hours before, Dean figured, since they had started out at 12:30, and the sun set around 5:00 this time of year. Sam should have at least made it back to camp. Hell, he should have made it back, had time to freak out about Dean’s well-being, and then come after him.
The pounding in Dean’s ears now had less to do with his headache and possible concussion than it did with his fear for Sam. A cold sweat broke out on his body as his mind replayed flashes from the past year, culminating with the memory of his brother’s limp and cooling body pressed against him as he knelt in the mud in Cold Oak.
Dean stopped, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes and willing his breathing under control. “Focus, focus,” he reminded himself angrily.
The Winchesters had set up their camp dead center on the top of Cowee Hill, directly over the tunnel. According to the grid, he should be approaching the western entrance of the tunnel at any minute, and when Dean examined his surroundings with the flashlight, he noted that the ground did seem to slope slightly downward. The roar of the Tuckaseegee river was louder here, as well.
The footing would only become more treacherous the closer Dean got to the drop-off over the tunnel’s entrance, so he forced himself to move slowly and carefully, swinging the flashlight in an arc and checking the ground before every step. He wouldn’t do his brother any good if he ended up in the river, or broken and bleeding on the tracks.
On his third step downward, the beam of his flashlight illuminated a figure slumped under a tree to his left. Dean hobbled forward as quickly as he dared, grabbing at tree branches to slow his descent and ignoring the pulling in his thigh.
“Sammy!” Breathless, Dean dropped to his knees beside his brother and willed his hands to stop shaking as he felt for a pulse.
At his touch, Sam stirred, blinking up at him groggily. “Dean?”
“Yeah, Sam, yeah, it’s me. What happened? Are you hurt?”
Sam put his right hand to the back of his head and grimaced. Dean frowned in sympathy: whatever had attacked him had packed a wallop, and if the same thing had gotten Sam, he probably had a sizeable lump back there.
Dean offered his left hand to Sam, and helped him into a more comfortable position leaning against the tree. Sam took a sip of water from the offered canteen as Dean checked him for other injuries.
“I’m not sure what happened,” Sam said after a moment. “I was almost to the end of my grid and about to turn back, when I heard something coming through the brush. Then it hit me.” He probed the lump again and hissed lightly. “Got me pretty good, whatever it was.”
Sam looked around, as though noticing the darkness for the first time. “How long have I been out?”
“A while,” Dean said, easing himself back to his feet and checking the area with the flashlight. “You got your rifle with you?”
“No,” came the reply after a minute. “No EMF meter, either.”
“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered. “Looks like Casper has sticky fingers and likes to play during the daytime.” Off Sam’s puzzled look, he continued, “Same thing happened to me. Lucky you got clobbered before hogzilla noticed you.”
“Hogzilla?”
“Yeah. So much for a simple salt-and-burn, but what else is new, right?”
Sam seemed to take Dean’s attempt at apology, explanation, and avoidance for what it was, and gave a short nod. “So what’s going on here?” he asked.
“Long story, little brother. But it’s gonna take a while to get back to camp, so I can fill you in on the way.” Dean helped Sam to his feet, and the Winchesters hobbled back toward the top of Cowee Hill.
Dean got Sam settled in back at the campsite, starting a fire and laying a fresh salt circle, then checking his brother’s head wound. It was probably a slight concussion and, all things considered, Dean figured they’d gotten off easy. He let Sam dress the punctures in his leg with a minimum of complaint, and both brothers ate a little jerky and drank some water. If the ghost had been active during the daytime, who knew how powerful it might become at night, and they both needed to be prepared.
“So, one ghost or several?” Sam asked after the two had loaded the remaining handguns and made themselves as comfortable as possible.
“The MO seems to point to one, but there are at least nineteen bodies up here, if the historical records are right. So why is one dude all hot and bothered while the rest are content?”
Sam shook his head. “Maybe the spirit attached itself to a particular item on the hill or inside the tunnel, and that item got disturbed?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s just a giant ass with a gun fetish. At this point, I don’t care. I want him to show himself so I can at least have the satisfaction of shooting him full of rock salt. That was my favorite shotgun!”
At Sam’s muted chuckle, Dean huffed out a breath that was one part irritated sigh and one part relief that Sam had decided to just go with this one, without using the forced downtime as an opportunity for any extraneous conversation. Dean leaned back against the weapons duffel, crossing his arms over his chest.
After a few minutes, Sam spoke again, his voice seeming to come from far away.
“Go ahead and get some rest, Dean. I’ll take first watch and wake you in a few hours.”
Dean tried to tell Sam he wasn’t tired, but couldn’t seem to form the words.
****
Dean sat on a log by the side of the river, watching numbly as the local sheriff and some men from town finished retrieving bodies from the water. The doctor had checked both him and Bill over, wrapped his ankle, and supplied them with dry clothes and a couple of blankets for warmth. For his part, Bill was helping identify the other inmates.
Due to the remote location and the logistical problems of removing nineteen dead bodies, plus the fact that normal society considered the bodies in question not worth the effort to begin with, it was decided that the dead would be buried on top of the tunnel they’d helped blast through the mountain. Dean was declared fit enough to help dig the hole, so he shouldered a shovel and limped up the hill after the other men, ignoring the pointed stares of the locals.
The digging was slow, muddy work, and when it was finished, Dean wanted nothing more than to rest his ankle, drink some water, and try to forget the day entirely. But Bill Foster pulled him aside as the work crew began cleaning up and making its way down the hill. The man’s ruddy face wore a serious expression, and Dean was puzzled.
“Something wrong, sir?” he asked, but Bill merely shook his head and motioned for Dean to follow him. Foster led the way to a clearing about halfway up the hill, then turned to face Dean, anger in every line of his body.
“There’s a rumor going around that the scow’s sinking wasn’t exactly an accident,” Bill said.
Dean frowned, but he didn’t get a chance to ask a question because Bill continued.
“In fact, the sheriff is wondering if maybe that scow shouldn’t have been on the river with so many people in it to begin with. I don’t suppose the sheriff’s asked you your opinion on that particular, has he?”
“No, sir,” replied Dean, becoming uncomfortably aware of the fact he and Bill were all alone on the mountain.
“Now, fortunately for me, most of the folk around here are in agreement that a boatful of criminals isn’t much of a loss in any case, but this sheriff, see, he has a bunch of high-minded ideas about justice and wants to be sure that the prisoners weren’t being mistreated in any way. He’s making a passel of noise about an official investigation and arraignments and a bunch of other stuff that’s just gonna be a hassle to all of us, you know?”
“The sheriff hasn’t said nothing to me, sir,” Dean said hastily. “And I know we weren’t being mistreated-y’all’ve always been fair enough. It was an accident!”
Bill Foster’s grim smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the funny part, isn’t it, boy?” he said finally. “See, I’m not worried about an investigation turning up anything on the boat-that was dumb luck. But there’s other folks above me who won’t look too kindly on me bringing any attention to the Dillsboro work camp and its day-to-day operations. And since I’ve got no good way to persuade the sheriff to stop sniffing around as long as there are survivors to interview, well…”
No way out. There was no way out, and Dean realized what was about to happen as Bill Foster raised his rifle.
“Sorry, boy. Bad luck all around, I guess,” Bill said, squeezing the trigger.
****
Dean opened his eyes to see Sam hovering over him, and he felt the release of a gentle pressure over his heart. He twitched away involuntarily, batting at his brother’s hand.
“The hell, Sam?”
Sam looked relieved at Dean’s normal response to his hovering. “I couldn’t wake you up, man. And then these noises started…”
Dean blinked and shook his head, trying to clear away the last vestiges of the dream. He needed to explain what was happening with the spirit, but wasn’t sure what was happening with his brother. “What noises?”
His answer was Sam lurching to his feet, gun pointed at the darkness. A scuffling noise came from the brush nearby.
“It’s not any of the nineteen, Sam,” Dean said urgently, and Sam’s eyes flew to him in surprise.
“What?”
“It’s been showing me what happened-the spirit. It’s not one of the drowned men, it’s the one we thought survived.”
Sam’s eyes widened further. “The one who supposedly overpowered the guard and escaped? How do you know?”
“You know those dreams I mentioned? It was trying to tell me, or maybe the attack triggered a replay, I don’t know. Foster-the guard-killed him.”
“Did you see where he was buried?” Dean shook his head, and Sam bit his lip, thinking. “So, that explains the pattern of deaths-all men, always on hunting trips, so they’d have rifles…and it explains why it went after our guns. But why didn’t it finish us off this afternoon?”
“Spirits aren’t as strong in the daytime?” Dean speculated. “Guess we should be counting our blessings-dude was pretty freaking strong to start with.”
Sam sighed. “So this spirit is stronger than we thought, and we don’t know where its body is buried.”
Dean gave a wry grin as apology. “Like I said, what else is new? Just another day at the office for Winchester, Inc.”
He didn’t allow Sam to respond to that one, turning his attention to his Glock instead. Dean picked up the gun and readied it, facing away from the fire to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.
“So we stay here, make sure the salt line is reinforced, and then either haul ass or figure out where this dude’s body is buried come daybreak.”
Sam nodded, and Dean could feel the weight of his gaze. “Yeah. Just…try not to go into any more spirit trances, okay?”
Dean snorted. “That’s your department, Sammy. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna steal your thunder.”
Sam gave a half-smile, then stationed himself opposite his brother, facing the darkness. They were well-protected and could wait it out, no problem.
Neither brother had counted on the boar, which chose exactly that moment to burst through the brush and charge the campsite on Dean’s side.
Dean managed a heartfelt, “Holy crap!” and squeezed off two quick shots, at least one of which hit its mark.
With a squeal of pain, the boar shifted course, hooves digging into the soft earth and kicking up sod and leaves and pine needles as it retreated back into the darkness.
Dean fired one last shot at its retreating haunches, yelling, “I hate that damn pig!”
Sam lowered his gun with a relieved chuckle and glanced at Dean, who was glaring daggers into the darkness. “So that’s hogzilla, huh?” Sam asked wryly.
“Shut up, Sam. Did you see those tusks?”
“Oh, yeah, must’ve been two inches long at least. Scary.”
“The back of my leg knows scary,” Dean muttered.
“I’m not making fun, dude, it’s just…I expected something a little bigger, that’s all.”
Dean was all set to make a scathing reply, when he noticed the boar’s charge and subsequent quick retreat had managed to create a gap in the salt line.
“Aw, damn. Sammy, you got the salt over there?”
As Dean turned toward Sam, there was a dark blur of movement across the gap. Something grasped Dean by his ankles and yanked.
“Sam!” Dean lost his grip on the Glock and rolled onto his stomach. He scrabbled desperately for a handhold as the spirit began dragging him quickly away from the fire.
“Dean!” He heard his brother’s answering call, and saw Sam raise his pistol, but the spirit was moving too quickly. Both Sam and the camp were out of sight by the time Dean heard his brother fire.
Dean bumped along the ground, brambles and rocks catching and scraping his flesh. The spirit’s icy grasp burned his ankles. The other victims had drowned after falling from a height-all campers or hunters in the woods around the Dillsboro railroad-and Dean knew if he didn’t find a way to stop his momentum, he was going to have much bigger problems than scrapes and frostbite. But he couldn’t see well enough to find something to grab.
He needed to buy Sam enough time to catch up. There was no way his brother would get to him by running blindly over uneven terrain in the dark, but they both knew the most likely point to drop a body into the Tuckaseegee river was directly to the south of their campsite, where the highest point of the hill overlooked both river and tracks. Dean prayed Sam would remember the route.
He finally resorted to shouting at the spirit, figuring maybe the sound could help Sam find him faster. “Let go of me, you giant freak! I didn’t shoot your sorry ass!”
The only response was an increase in speed, and Dean felt the change in the terrain moments before the spirit’s grasp on his ankles tightened for one final pull. They were at the edge of the tunnel, right above the river.
“SAM!”
Dean felt the spirit let go of his ankles the same time the ground beneath him gave way to nothing, and he flailed wildly, the sensation of falling and the noise of the river triggering memories from the day’s dreams. His scrabbling fingers managed to find a few thin brambles, and he grasped them tightly, feeling the slick surface of the scow’s bottom in place of the thorns that embedded themselves in his hands. Cold iron dug into the tender flesh of his left ankle as the weight on his limbs increased, and Dean started losing ground, sliding inexorably toward the water below.
When Dean felt a strong hand grasp his left wrist, he gasped and looked up, convinced he saw the familiar features of Bill Foster before him.
“Dean! I’ve got you. Just hang on!”
Dean struggled against the grip, kicking his legs in an attempt to get away.
“Dean! Hold still! It’s me. If you don’t calm down, we’re both going to go over the edge!”
Dean wasn’t sure which option was worse, letting Foster pull him up so he could shoot him later, or getting away from Foster and plunging into the river. The icy cold of the shackle felt as though it was going to cut through his ankle, and the weight of the other inmates kept pulling him down, out of the boat and toward the water. He kicked frantically, trying to fight against the pull, but it was useless. Foster’s grip was loosening.
And then he heard Sam’s voice.
“Dean! Listen, man, you have to keep still. I can’t hold you if you don’t keep still. C’mon, Dean!”
“Sam?” Dean looked up into the face of Bill Foster, but saw his brother instead. Surprise made him stop struggling, and he heard his brother’s quick sigh of relief.
“You with me now, bro?”
Dean nodded and stilled his body completely, trying to steady his breathing. The dream images were slowly fading, and when he felt the pain in his hands from the thorny brambles for the first time, the shock of it nearly made him let go. But even though Dean knew where and when he was now, the sensations of the shackle and the prisoners’ weight remained.
“Sam,” he gasped, straining against the pull, “something’s dragging me down.”
“It’s the spirit,” Sam grunted, the strain evident in his voice. Dean could see that Sam was trying to hold on to Dean with one hand and shoot the spirit attached to his leg with the other, but there was too much weight. Even though Dean was trying to hold still, the thing attached to him was making him sway side-to-side, and Sam couldn’t get a clear bead on the target.
“You can’t hold on, Sammy,” Dean said. “I’ll only take you down with me.”
“If you go, I go,” said Sam roughly, and he took his shot.
There was a screech. Dean’s body gave one final jerk downward, and then the extra weight was gone, along with Dean’s reserve of strength. The blood-slicked vines began slipping through his hands.
Sam tossed the gun aside and grasped Dean’s other wrist. The momentum was on Dean’s side now, and Sam had to work hard to make up the lost ground.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw the dark shape of the spirit begin to coalesce. He tried to call out a warning, but it flew at him too quickly, and his words were lost in a groan of pain as the additional weight again stretched muscle and tendon to the breaking point.
“No!” Sam yelled, redoubling his efforts. Dean could feel his brother’s muscles trembling as he struggled to keep them both alive.
Sam’s grip on Dean’s wrists was so tight that it was causing him to lose the feeling in both hands, but it wasn’t enough to stop their movement. He couldn’t let Sam die, too. Dean started to tell him so, but was interrupted when Sam suddenly started talking to the spirit, calling it out.
“Hey! Whoever you are! Stop this! This man you’re punishing isn’t Bill Foster! Bill Foster is dead, you hear me? Dead!”
It was useless, Dean thought as he felt the weight on his leg increase in response to his brother’s words. Sam’s blind determination to save him was just going to get him killed, and didn’t he know by now that Dean wasn’t going to let it happen, either now or when his contract came due? If Sam was too stubborn to save himself, Dean would just have to take matters into his own hands. He started to release his grip on the brambles, but Sam seemed to realize what Dean was attempting and squeezed his brother’s wrists harder in response.
“No, damn you!”
Dean didn’t even know whom Sam was addressing anymore: the spirit, him, the demon that held his contract. But it didn’t matter. Sam had to see reason on this one. This hunt was not going to end with his brother’s death.
Sam was breathless now, his voice beginning to quaver with desperation. “Listen to me! Bill Foster is dead! You have to let go and move on!”
“Sam.” Dean’s voice was barely a whisper, the strain of being pulled in two directions making it an effort to speak. “It won’t listen. Please. Let go.”
“NO!” Despite Sam’s denial, Dean could feel him sliding farther over the edge of the hill. Soon he would be too far over to have any leverage at all, and they would both plunge into the river below. And still Sam kept trying, which meant Dean had to as well.
“Sammy…it’s too much. Please.”
If Sam heard him, he gave no indication, continuing to speak to the spirit. “My brother didn’t hurt you-we’re trying to help you! Please, let him go!”
Dean thought he felt the slightest shift in weight, and he held his breath, not daring to move or hope.
“You’ve gotten justice, shown us the truth, and we’ll set the record straight!”
Dean looked up at his brother but couldn’t make out his expression. Sam’s head was bowed between his outstretched arms, forehead nearly touching the ground at the edge of the hill. His shoulders were shaking with the effort of stopping Dean’s fall.
Instinctively, the elder Winchester opened his mouth to reassure Sam, to let him know he understood Sam had done all he could. But the sudden memory of a deserted cabin and his brother’s still form caused the words to die in his throat. Sam wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment any more than Dean had when Bobby had said it to him, so Dean kept quiet, torn between a desire to live and the need to make sure his brother would be okay if he didn’t.
Taking in a deep breath, Sam turned his face upward and directed a final, anguished whisper at the spirit. “Please. He’s all I’ve got. Please.”
There was one more jerk. Then Dean was suddenly released, the weight gone. He closed his eyes and hoped that Sam still had enough strength left to pull him up.
Dean heard Sam gasp as the additional weight disappeared, and felt his brother tense in preparation for one final attempt at saving him. Slowly, Dean’s momentum reversed, accompanied by Sam’s muffled grunts. When Dean’s torso was far enough over the edge of the tunnel, Sam grabbed his belt and hauled him the rest of the way up.
Dean tried to help, but he couldn’t seem to coordinate his limbs. Once he was on solid ground again, he carefully rolled to his back and followed Sam’s gaze to the dark shape before them.
“It’s over. You can rest now,” Sam said gently. “You just have to let go.”
A faint glow began to spread from the center of the spirit outward, gaining strength and shaping itself into the form of a dark-skinned man in old-fashioned prison woolens. Then, with a sudden flash, it was gone, leaving both Sam and Dean to blink away the afterimages caused by the bright light.
Dean slowly unclenched his fists, hissing as the thorns from the vines he still held pulled out of his flesh. “Is it gone?” he asked.
“I think so,” Sam replied.
Dean looked at Sam thoughtfully, and his brother’s return gaze was part challenge and part promise. Dean acknowledged them both with a small smile that quickly disappeared into his customary smirk. “Huh. If I’d known all along that all we had to do was talk the damn thing to death, I’d have stayed at the motel and let you do all the work.”
“Funny,” Sam said dryly, avoiding his brother’s mangled hands with obvious care as he helped him to his feet. They began their slow trek back to the campsite.
They were less likely to injure themselves further if they didn’t try to get back off the hill in the dark, so they stayed on Cowee Hill for the remaining few hours of the night, returning to the motel after sunrise. Sam gave Dean dibs on the shower. Dean returned the favor by allowing Sam to wrap both his hands loosely in gauze and check his leg wound. Unsure of what to say, Dean fell back on the traditional Winchester hunt recap to fill the silence.
“Well, that was a bitch of a hunt. Dude, I didn’t even think wild boars were indigenous to this area!”
Sam paused for a moment, apparently considering his brother’s sudden display of vocabulary, then returned his attention to the punctures in Dean’s thigh, irrigating them and then washing them thoroughly with soap and water.
Which stung quite a bit. “OW! Son of a bitch!” Dean twisted to try to get a better look at his leg, but only succeeded in jostling the motel bed and aggravating the wound further.
“Do you want an infection? No? Then hold still!” Sam ordered.
“I want my rifle and another shot at that damn pig,” muttered Dean, dropping his head onto his arms in defeat and allowing Sam to finish cleaning and bandaging his leg.
“That should hold it.” Sam taped a square of gauze over the wound and tapped his brother lightly on the shoulder to indicate that the impromptu surgery was over. He shook a couple of painkillers out of the bottle and handed them to Dean, who tossed them back and chased them with a swallow of the bottled water Sam had placed on the nightstand.
Dean watched quietly as his brother readied himself for bed, waiting until Sam had turned out the light and gotten settled to speak.
“Hey, Sam?”
There was a sigh and a rustling of covers that indicated Sam had been expecting Dean to do this. “Yeah?”
“Thanks, man,” he said finally. “For not…you know.”
Dean swore he could hear his brother’s smile. “Yeah,” came the soft reply after a moment. “I know. And back at ya.”
Dean nodded into the darkness and closed his eyes, finally letting go.