Supernatural: Carouselambra (4/5)
All disclaimers, notes, warnings and summary are in the Master post: Carouselambra
Chapter Seven
2006
Bobby leaned back in the chair and raised his arms above his head, stretching out his sore and tired muscles. He'd been sitting in that chair, leaning over the books he'd brought with him from Sioux Falls, for six hours. Between those books and Sam's laptop, which he'd inherited from Sam three hours earlier, he'd managed to fill half a notebook with things that might have a chance of killing Coy Holman.
But the dozens of phone calls he'd made to as many hunters all over the country told him that everything he'd studied was bogus. They all agreed that the only way to be absolutely sure that you'd gotten rid of an angry spirit with unfinished business - not just weakened it, but actually killed it - was to let it finish whatever it was wanting to do. You could control the outcome, they said, and make sure that the damage done wasn't too substantial, but if you had nothing you could burn to destroy the thing with, there really wasn't anything else you could do.
Bobby sighed as he pushed himself to his feet. Keeping the damage to a minimum wasn't even possible, and hadn't been for a long time.
"But I don't ... if it wasn't, then ... why does it hurt so much?"
Bobby rubbed his forehead with his hand and walked over to stand between the beds where the boys were sleeping.
Sam was sprawled out on his stomach, arms and legs sticking out every which way. His feet, as usual, were hanging off the end of the bed, but since he hadn't bothered to take his shoes off before collapsing on the mattress, maybe that was for the best. His face was mostly buried in the pillow, but it was turned toward the other bed, the one occupied by his brother. He was in the same place and position he'd been in when he fell asleep, because he'd been watching Dean sleep until he'd finally given up himself.
Bobby couldn't even imagine what all of this was doing to Sam. It was hard enough to find out that someone you loved had been through something so horrible in the first place; finding out that they'd only gone through it to keep it from happening to you had to be damn near impossible. Add to that the fact that Dean hadn't been having the best luck waking up when he did sleep, and the fact that Sam had spent an entire week - alone, damn that John Winchester - thinking that one day soon Dean just wasn't going to wake up at all ... He didn't know how the kid was holding himself together at all.
He bent down to untie Sam's shoes, carefully pulling them off and dropping them to the floor. At least he'd be able to sleep a bit more comfortably like that.
Then he turned to face the other bed.
Dean had been the first to drop, not more than an hour after Bobby had gotten there. He was still wearing Sam's clothes, which Bobby thought looked absolutely ridiculous on him. But all the same, he couldn't help but smile. Curled up on his right side, facing the window with his right hand under his pillow, face relaxed and peaceful, in a baggy shirt, rolled up jeans and bare feet, Dean actually looked at peace. But Bobby knew that it was an illusion.
If this hunt was tearing Sam apart, what did it have to be doing to Dean? He didn't know the exact details of what had gone on with Holman, and he didn't really want to. He knew it was pretty damn bad, and that was more than enough. He didn't ever want to see Dean in a state like he had been that night again.
Bobby shook his head, pulled the spare blanket from the foot of the bed and spread it all the way to Dean's shoulders, then turned and walked back to the chair, lowering himself into it carefully. He glanced at the boys one more time before turning back to his book.
He didn't think he'd ever felt so damned old.
1998
John burst through the door only seconds later. He hadn't bothered pulling the key out of his pocket, and he hadn't bothered to check if it was open. He didn't even come to a complete stop. He just lifted his foot and, with one powerful thrust of his leg, broke it loose from the locks and kicked it open. Then he was inside the room, looking for Sam. He found him immediately, curled up against the wall next to the dresser.
"Sam? You okay?" he asked.
"Dean ..."
John spun away from Sam quickly and stormed toward the door between the two rooms.
Bobby was right behind him, and made it into the room just in time to watch John fail to bust that door open. He kicked it just as he had the other one, but it held fast. It didn't even look like it shook.
"Dean!" John was screaming at the closed door as he pounded on it with his fists. "Can you hear me?! Dean!"
"Holman's holding it closed," Bobby pointed out, and he wasn't at all surprised or affected by the glare John shot him across his shoulder.
"Fuck that," John said. He pulled a handful of salt from the pocket of his coat and flung it at the door, loosening the spirit's hold just long enough to deliver another giant kick that almost broke it off its hinges. John had his shotgun raised and was in the room almost before Bobby even realized that it had worked.
Dean was pinned to the wall, just like Sam had said he was, and he wasn't alone.
Coy Holman was standing there, entirely too close to Dean, who looked like he'd passed out. The boy's head hung forward limply, his chin against his chest and his eyes closed. There was no muscle resistance in his arms or legs, and Holman's hands around his wrists seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright.
"Get the fuck away from my son."
John's voice was low, cold and deadly. Bobby had never been on the receiving end of that particular tone of voice, and he was grateful for that. Everything he'd ever seen that had been was dead now.
"Uh oh. Daddy's home."
Bobby ran in behind John and was immediately flung across the room, only stopping because he slammed into the wall behind the beds. He pulled against it out of instinct, even though he knew it was pointless.
John took advantage of the spirit's second of distraction, stepped forward far enough to press the barrel of his shotgun against the side of its head and pulled the trigger.
The result was instantaneous. Coy Holman disappeared with a pained shriek, and Dean's limp body crashed to the floor.
"Sam!" John called out. He fell to his knees at Dean's side and pressed his fingers against his son's neck. "Make sure that damn salt line is broken and prop the door open. Bobby, you know any kinda chant that can control that thing?"
"I can banish it from the rooms," Bobby answered.
"Then get that fucking thing outta here!" John, satisfied that the pulse he'd located meant that his oldest child was still among the living, glanced up and through the door into the other room. He saw Sam scuffing the salt with his foot as he wedged the door open with a chair. The kid was holding it together really well out there now, despite the condition he'd been in when John had kicked the door in.
Maybe he had what it took to be a hunter after all.
Bobby had started his banishing spell, and Sam had finished clearing the door, so Coy Holman's spirit was on its way out. That left John free to attend to Dean, who was still lying in a heap against the wall. John put one hand behind his head and the other behind his back, pulling him up gently until his forehead was resting against John's chest.
"Dean?" he said softly, shaking Dean's shoulders lightly. "Come on, Dean. It's time to wake up now."
Bobby was still working his magic, and Sam was hovering in the door between the rooms, ready to put the salt line back as soon as Bobby gave him the signal. John blocked them both out. All of his attention, every last ounce of it, was focused on Dean, who hadn't responded to him at all.
"Dean!" John shook him harder. The only change was that Dean's head fell away from John's chest and flopped back across his arm. John jumped in surprise and what he might admit, one day in the distant future, was a healthy dose of fear.
"Bobby!"
Bobby appeared behind him and knelt at his side quickly. "Sam's fixing the salt and wedging the door shut," he said. Then he looked down at Dean's closed eyes and lax face, and he knew what had John so frantic. "Too late?"
John looked up, his eyes wider than Bobby thought he'd ever seen them. "He's got him," he said, keeping his voice low in an obvious effort to keep Sam from hearing either the words or the panic behind them. "We're too late. He's just like all the others."
"We still have time, John. We don't know how long ..." Bobby let his words trail off when he saw the anger growing again in John's eyes. "Let's get him on the bed," he said, moving around to Dean's head to help John lift him. "Then we'll figure out what to do next."
"I got him," John said. He shifted his arms so that one went under Dean's arms and across his back and the other went under his knees. He used his legs to slowly push himself to his feet, taking a few seconds to adjust Dean's weight in his arms, ignoring the way his head fell back over his arm. "I got ya, Dean," he whispered. "It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna fix this; I promise. You just hold on."
"Dad."
The voice floated in from behind him as he and Bobby settled Dean down on his bed. John took a few moments to check Dean over for any other injuries, taking in the bruises on his throat and around his wrists, watching as Bobby pulled up his shirt and revealed the circle of bruises in the middle of his chest, right above his heart. John massaged his eyes with his fingers before pressing his hand against his mouth.
"Dad?"
John closed his eyes for a second, using the time to push down everything he was feeling. The fear was gone from his expression when he turned toward Sam, who'd moved further into the room but was still standing back away from the bed.
"Is he okay?" If ever there had been a moment when Sam actually looked as young as he really was, that was it. "Is he awake? Is he all right? He was screaming ..."
John took one step toward his youngest and put a hand on his shoulder, heading off the panic that both he and Bobby heard creeping back into his voice.
"Calm down, Sam," John commanded gently. "Last thing I need right now is you passing out on me."
Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Bobby watched Sam's hand come up to rest on top of John's, and he had to wonder if the boy really was pulling strength from that connection. It wouldn't have surprised him to find out he was - these Winchesters were a unique breed. It only took a few seconds for Sam to get himself back under control, and once he did, he opened his eyes and nodded at John.
"Physically, he's fine. Just some bruises. But, no, he's not awake." John paused, licking his lips as he considered whether or not to tell Sam the truth about what was happening. Neither John nor Bobby could even guess at exactly what Sam had seen before Holman had locked him out, but it was probably safe to assume that he'd seen enough to not be surprised by anything they could say.
The problem was that Sam was still just a kid. And even though John had made a few questionable parenting decisions through the years, Bobby had no doubt that this particular spirit's proclivities were something John didn't want Sam knowing about just yet. Especially in light of the fact that it had Dean under its control.
John glanced across at Bobby quickly, asking his opinion without speaking. Bobby shrugged as he reached for the blanket at the end of the bed and started pulling it up across Dean.
"Okay, Sam, here's the thing. Coy Holman is a ... well, he's a killer, son. Real evil son of a bitch. He killed six teenage boys from all over Iowa while he was alive, and he's killed six more here in Johnston."
"As a spirit?"
John nodded. "We don't know how he does it, because ... well, we just don't." Bobby agreed with John not telling Sam that part. The boy didn't need to hear that they had no witnesses to interview because none of them had survived. "He does something to them, puts them in some sort of a coma, and they just don't wake up from it."
Sam's eyes went impossibly wide at that, all the color drained from his face, and he swallowed hard. "So he's gonna ... Dean's gonna die?"
"No!" John bellowed, but he calmed himself back down quickly. "No, Sammy. Your brother is not going to die. Me and Bobby, we're gonna fix this."
"We already might've weakened him," Bobby put in from where he sat on the bed at Dean's side. "We don't know what he does to them. Us breakin' in on him might be enough."
"Yeah, but it might not," Sam pointed out. He turned back to John again.
"Just give us a few minutes, Sam," John said. "We'll figure out how to get Dean back, and he'll be fine, okay? Just give us a chance to figure out how to fix it."
John didn't really need time to figure out what to do, because he already knew, and Bobby knew it, too. What they needed was a few more minutes to get Sam calmed down, to make sure he'd be able to see to Dean while they were gone, and then they'd be on their way to the cemetery. They'd already burned the body of the victim they'd found in the woods behind the motel, so there was nothing else to hold him here.
Lighting Coy Holman's ass up was going to be a distinct pleasure.
But as certain as Bobby was of what he and John were going to do, he also knew that John was a bit more careful talking about things like that in front of Sam. Sam seemed to have a bit of a problem with the concept of killing things that looked or had been human. It was an understandable problem to have; Dean had had some issues with it, too, when he was younger. Werewolves and black dogs and wendigos were one thing. Humans were entirely different.
"I already know how to fix it," Sam said, with more hatred and determination in his voice than Bobby had ever heard.
"What's that?" John asked, with another sideways glance at Bobby. Neither one of them could have imagined the words that would come out of Sam's mouth next.
"We can dig the bastard up, salt and burn his worthless ass, and send him straight to Hell."
2006
Bobby grabbed his ringing cell phone up from the table and flipped it open as fast as he could, checking quickly to make sure that the boys hadn't stirred. "Just a sec," he said into the phone. He quietly pushed himself away from the desk once more, crossed the room, and was out the door in a matter of seconds.
"Yeah?" he said.
"You got them, Bobby? How are they?"
Bobby leaned against the wall next to the door, blinking against the early afternoon sun. He'd kept the curtains pulled in the room so the boys could sleep better, and his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness.
"Yeah, I got 'em. They're sleepin' right now."
"But how are they?"
Bobby sighed. "'Bout as good as you'd expect, I reckon. Sam's a mess. He said he's been distracted ever since they got there yesterday. Can't think straight. But he managed to figure out what Dean did that night. I walked in on the end of that conversation, and it wasn't pretty."
"And Dean?"
Bobby adjusted the bill of his hat and looked back at the door to their room. "He's dealin', I guess. Good as he ever does, anyway. Pretendin' he's fine, sayin' it don't bother him. Truth is, boy's scared shitless, and it shows." The only answer was a deep sigh. "You comin'?"
"You know I can't."
Bobby pushed away from the door and walked around the corner of the motel, getting as far from the door and the possibility of the boys overhearing him as possible. How he'd ever expected this man to be reasonable about this ...
"Oh, I know that, do I? You know what else I know? I know that they're here alone, Sam's falling apart, Coy Holman's not dead, he's set after Dean again, and they damn well need you! That's what I know!"
"They've got you. You'll look out for them, won't you?"
"Who the hell you think you're talkin' to? Of course I'm lookin' out for 'em, but damn it, John, it's not me they're needin' right now."
"Have you figured out how to get rid of him?"
Bobby sighed and slumped back against the building. "Dean did. Neither Sam or me either one like it, but there's nothin' else we can be sure'll work. I've spent the whole damn day lookin' for another way, but it don't look like there is one." There was no response. "Are you even gonna ask what it is?"
"Am I going to like it?"
"Hell, no," Bobby answered hotly. "Might get you to bring your worthless ass out here and stop him."
"That's why I'm not asking."
"So you'll just stay wherever you are, wait until you get the next message from Sam, tellin' you that Dean's actually died this time? Or maybe from Dean, beggin' you to help him save Sam? You went a whole week not knowing if your oldest was alive or dead, John! How the hell do you ...?"
"I knew, Bobby. The same way I knew they were okay in Lawrence. The same way I'll know they're still okay tomorrow."
"Fuck you, John Winchester."
There was silence on the other end of the phone, and Bobby was starting to think maybe John had hung up on him. "If we'd just burned Holman first that night ..."
"It wouldn't'a done a damn bit of good, because he'd've still been tied to that boy in the woods," Bobby pointed out. "And now's not the time to go questionin' what we did. We did everything we knew to do. It just went sideways on us."
"No," John said. "It went sideways on my kids."
As was too often the case with John Winchester, Bobby couldn't disagree.
"Take care of my boys for me, Bobby," John said. "Get them out of this. And this time, make sure the son of a bitch suffers."
Chapter Eight
2006
Bobby let them both sleep until they woke up on their own. For Sam, that was just after noon. Dean slept until almost four. They spent the next few hours preparing themselves for what they were about to do, with Sam and Bobby doing as much research as they could while Dean alternated between pacing around the room, pretending to watch television, and showering. Sam ordered burgers and fries from a little local place down the road from the motel in the hopes that Dean would eat something. He wasn't really surprised when he didn't, and Sam didn't press the issue.
They waited until dark to head back to Johnston, for no real reason other than they wanted to put it off as long as possible. But they had a job to do, and they were going to do it, no matter how much none of them really wanted to.
It was silent in the Impala as Sam drove through the darkness. For once, Dean hadn't argued about the driving arrangements and he sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at nothing. Neither of them really wanted to talk, particularly Dean, but Sam knew that they needed to. He waited until they were halfway there, not far from where Dean had woken up on the way out, to break the stillness.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
Dean's answer was a sigh and a humorless chuckle.
"Why?" he asked again.
"Why would I?" Dean said. He didn't move, didn't turn away from the window. "It's not exactly something to go shouting from the rooftops, ya know. Besides, not telling you was kinda the point, since you weren't ever supposed to know."
"But what happened to you ..."
"Nothing happened to me," Dean insisted, placing emphasis on the word 'nothing.' "I keep saying that, but you don't seem to be hearing it. Nothing happened to me."
"Damn it, Dean, stop it!"
Dean shook his head and leaned back against the seat. He turned his head slowly, pulling himself away from the darkness and looking at Sam.
"You're terrified of this guy. Why don't you just admit what he ..."
"It wasn't real," Dean said. "None of it. It never happened anywhere but in my head."
Sam shook his head vehemently and gnashed his teeth together.
"The real stuff wasn't that bad. The guy got a little handsy, okay? You saw that. So he kissed me, so what? I woke up, I had a couple of bruises, I ..."
"Tried to kill Bobby."
Dean closed his eyes and turned away again. "I was a little confused."
"You thought it was real."
"I got over it."
"Did you?" Sam couldn't contain his anger anymore. He wasn't mad at Dean for what happened, far from it, but he was livid about the way Dean was treating it so casually, like it didn't matter in the slightest. Like the fact that it had only happened in his head meant it hadn't happened at all. "How many showers have you taken in the last twenty-four hours?"
"Shut up, Sam," Dean said tiredly.
"No." Sam knew that if they weren't driving down the road at seventy miles an hour, Dean would have already been gone. As it was, his brother was wound like a coiled spring, ready to jump the second he saw a chance. "You need to deal with this. You're about to walk right back into it, offer yourself up again, and you need to ..."
"Deal with what?" Dean asked angrily, pushing himself up in the seat and turning back around. "It's all a big mindfuck, Sam! Literally, yeah. But that's all it ever was, and all it's ever been. What the hell do you expect me to 'deal with' in the next hour that I haven't already dealt with in the past eight years?"
Sam stared out the windshield, watching the night fly past. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the muscles in his hands ached, and his jaw hurt from how tightly he pressed his teeth together.
"You want to know why I didn't tell you? It was because I didn't want this to happen."
"What to happen?" Sam demanded. "Me to know the truth? Me to understand what you gave up for me?"
"You to blow it all out of proportion and make a big deal out of. I know what it was, Sam. I know what happened. I was there!"
"And you thought it was real!" Sam shot back. "You didn't know the difference, not at first. You said so yourself."
"He fucked with my head, Sam."
"Fucked more than that."
He regretted the words the second they passed his lips, but he couldn't take them back. He hadn't meant to say it, hadn't even really wanted to think it, but there was nothing he could do about it. He risked a sideways glance at Dean, expecting to see anger, narrow eyes and clenched fists. He fully expected to be hit for what he'd said, because it was crude and thoughtless as hell, and he deserved it.
But instead of glaring at him, Dean was staring past him, out the windshield and into the darkness again. He hadn't moved, and in the dim glow of a passing streetlight, Sam could see how pale he was. His eyes were wide, his hands were open, and there was no anger in Dean's expression.
There was shame.
"Shit, Dean ... I don't ... that was ..." Sam took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry."
Dean rubbed his forehead with his hand, closed his eyes, and shook his head. Then he slowly turned away and sank back down in his seat until his forehead was pressed against the window.
"Dean, please. I didn't mean that."
There was no answer. And Sam knew there never would be.
1998
Sam had never really liked this part of the job.
He'd never really been allowed to go hunting with his father, even when Dean was. The most he'd ever done was sit in the car and wait for them to finish. But most of the time, he either stayed at whatever motel they were calling home that week or, for the longer hunts, stayed with Bobby or Pastor Jim. And he'd always preferred that, because the stories he heard them all tell were more than enough to convince him that he didn't want any part of it.
He knew it was necessary. He understood why it had to be done and how it worked. But the thought of digging up a grave and setting fire to decomposed or decomposing human remains still disgusted him. He'd never thought it possible for him to gain the same satisfaction from it that his dad and Dean did. Just the smell that clung to them when they came back from a cemetery - the acrid stench of burning hair and melting skin - made him sick to his stomach.
But standing in that Des Moines cemetery at midnight, with a light snow falling around him, manning the shotgun as his father shoveled away the dirt that filled Coy Holman's grave, Sam thought there was nothing else in the world more important than what he and his father were about to do.
It had taken almost three hours for John to dig as deep as he had, and Sam figured that he had to be getting close to the coffin. It was a quick dig, and Sam knew it. He thought it just might be the fastest his father had ever dug a grave. John was as wet from sweat as he was from the snow that had melted on his skin, red-faced from the exertion and cold, panting out frosted breaths as he pushed himself to dig even faster.
Because the three hours it had taken them so far were three hours that Dean was under the control of the thing that had attacked him. And that was three hours too long.
Sam had tried off and on for the past three hours to get his father to talk to him, to give him some indication of what was happening to Dean, but John had been reluctant to answer. All he would say was that Dean was in trouble and that they were going to fix it. The not knowing what that thing was doing to his brother was driving Sam crazy.
"Do you know what it's ...?"
"No, I don't," John answered with a huff, as he threw out another shovelful of dirt. "We've already been over this, Sam. I don't know exactly what it does."
Sam couldn't quite shake the feeling that John was lying about that, but he didn't dwell on it for long. "Uncle Bobby kicked it out, though, right? It can't get back in?"
"Not physically, no." Another mound of dirt flew out of the hole. "He's been banished and salted out. But if he's got some sort of connection with Dean, then ..."
"What, like he's in Dean's head?"
"I got it!" he heard his father shout. Then he heard a grunt, a few hard thumping noises, and wood splintering. "Got you now, you sick son of a bitch. Heads up, Sam!"
The shovel flew out of the hole and landed atop the pile of snow-dusted earth next to the open grave. Then John himself appeared, holding his arm up.
Sam held the shotgun loosely in his left hand and reached for his father with his right, helping him up and out of the grave without slipping on the slick grass even once.
As soon as he was out of the hole, John started digging through the duffel bag he'd carried from the car. It was only a few seconds before he stood again, with a canister of salt in one hand and a bottle of lighter fluid in the other.
"The snow is gonna make this harder," he said. "So we have to make extra sure that we get the bastard the first time." He handed the lighter fluid to Sam to hold and turned back to the grave.
Sam stayed at his side as he peered down into the splintered coffin for the first time. It was Coy Holman, all right. He hadn't been in the ground long enough to become that badly decayed or disfigured, and Sam recognized him immediately. John had broken the coffin all the way to his waist, but Sam couldn't see anything but the face of the thing he'd seen in his motel room three hours earlier. The thing he'd seen attack his brother. The thing that he and his father were going to kill.
Sam would never forget that face as long as he lived.
John turned the salt canister upside down and dumped a liberal amount of salt on Holman's face and chest. When he righted it again and started to close the lid, Sam grabbed his hand.
"More, Dad," Sam said.
"What?"
"You said make extra sure, right?" Sam turned away from his father to glare back down at the monster in the coffin. "Use the whole damn thing."
John nodded wordlessly, opened the lid completely, and emptied the canister onto the remains below. Sam smiled as he watched it fall.
"When this is over," John said, "you and I need to have a talk about that mouth of yours."
"Whatever," Sam said. He flipped open the lid on the lighter fluid and started to turn it over in his hands, but John grabbed it away from him.
"I'll do it, Sam. You can watch if you want, but you're not doing this yourself."
"Why not?" Sam asked as John starting dousing the corpse. "You'd let Dean."
"Dean's older than you," John pointed out. He glanced up at the sky, at the dark clouds drifting in front of the moon and the snow that still fell from them, and instead of putting the lighter fluid away as he normally would, he kept squeezing.
"And I'm more involved in this hunt than he's ever been," Sam insisted. "This isn't just some random spirit that's hurting other people, Dad. This one's hurting Dean."
"I know that," John said tightly. He capped the lighter fluid and tossed it back at the duffel bag, then pulled a box of matches from his pocket.
"He's my brother."
"And he's my son."
Sam felt the flush of shame rise in his cheeks. He knew his dad was right. This wasn't a fight that Sam could win, and it wasn't one they should be having at that moment, anyway.
"I'm sorry, Dad. I just ... I can't just stand here. That thing, it was ... Dad, you don't know. What it said, what it ... what it did ... and when he screamed ..."
John turned toward him, and Sam could see the understanding in his eyes, see the pain and desperation that he knew were in his own.
"Dad, please."
John held the matches out to him, slowly and hesitantly. But when Sam reached for them, he pulled them back slightly.
"You don't have to do this, Sam. I think I'd feel better if you didn't."
"I know," Sam said. "But I need to be the one to do this, Dad. I really do."
John nodded and handed the matches over. If there was one thing that Sam knew his father understood, it was the need for revenge. Sam pulled one match out of the box and struck it against the side.
"Your brother, he can't ... he doesn't ever need to know about this, Sam."
Sam dropped the lit match into the box, held it for a few seconds and watched the other tips ignite, then dropped it into the grave.
"No," he said, as the flames burst to life around Holman's corpse. Sam stared at them, transfixed, as they ate away the skin and muscle and bone of the monster in the coffin.
"He won't."
Dean came up off the bed without warning, and Bobby didn't have time to duck the fist that flew at his face.
"Get off me!"
It should have knocked Bobby off the bed, and he knew that. A punch from Dean Winchester, thrown with as much hatred as Bobby saw in his eyes, should have damn near broken his jaw. But it was so weak that it barely registered as a hit at all.
"Dean, hey," Bobby said, quietly. "Dean! Look at me, boy."
Dean scrambled back on the bed, pushing himself against the headboard as his eyes darted around the room frantically.
"No no no," he muttered. "Sammy!"
"Dean!" Bobby reached for him, but Dean knocked his hands away.
"Don't you fuckin' ... don't touch me!" Dean's left hand shot under his pillow, and when he pulled it back up, it was wrapped around the handle of a wicked-looking hunting knife. "Touch me again, I'll fuckin' kill you. Swear to God!"
"Dean." Bobby kept his voice calm but firm and held his hands up, palms out. "I'm not gonna hurt you, boy. Just look at me."
"Where's Sam!" Dean demanded. "If you hurt him, if you ... no ..." Dean closed his eyes and his head fell forward. Bobby tried to move closer to him, but Dean's head snapped back up and he brandished the knife. "Stay the fuck back!"
Dean's eyes were wild, unfocused, and filled with fear. He reminded Bobby of a wounded animal, one that knew it was dying and was striking out in a desperate effort to save itself. He really had no idea where he was, couldn't yet tell the difference between the motel and wherever he'd been before.
And the things he was saying, the way he was acting ... he was all but confirming Bobby's theories - and John's deepest fears - about Coy Holman.
"Dean," Bobby tried again. "You're safe, and Sam's fine." Dean was looking around frantically, searching for Sam. "He's not here, but he's with your daddy, and he's fine. It's all okay now, but I need you to look at me."
Dean's breathing grew ragged, and he blinked rapidly. His eyes still darted around the room in a panic, but more and more often, they lighted on Bobby.
Bobby didn't move, just sat on the side of the bed with his hands raised.
It didn't take long, just a few more minutes, for Dean's breathing to slow down, for him to look around the room and see where he really was. For him to look at Bobby and actually - finally - see him.
"Unc ... Uncle Bobby?"
Bobby didn't speak, only nodded his head.
"Help me."
Bobby caught him as he crumbled, pulled him into his arms and tight against his chest. Dean was crying, sobbing in a way that Bobby hadn't heard since Dean was a child, and he couldn't stop the tears that sprang into his own eyes. He felt Dean's hand grasping at his shirt, reaching desperately for something he could hold on to, something real, and Bobby held him tighter.
"It's all right, Dean," he whispered. "I gotcha. It's gonna be okay now." He kissed the top of Dean's head, then rested his cheek against it. The boy in his arms was beyond broken. Bobby couldn't even begin to imagine what Dean had been through, what that sick bastard had done to him. But he did know that he had to do something to keep Dean from slipping away completely, and he had to do it fast.
Dean needed to move past this, needed a way to climb out of whatever hell Holman had put him through. He needed someone to throw him a line he could grab and hold on to, and there was only one thing Bobby could think to do.
"It wasn't real, Dean. Do you hear me? It was just a nightmare. You're fine. Nothing happened. It was all in your head, son. Just a dream."
He held Dean until the boy's sobs had abated, repeating the words, "It wasn't real. It didn't happen," until his tears had run dry and his breaths were even. Then he put a steadying hand behind his head and lowered him back down to his pillow. "You just rest, now," he said. "Your Daddy killed that spirit that was messin' with your head. Him and Sam'll be back real soon. And then we'll get outta here."
Bobby tucked the knife back under the pillow and wasn't surprised when Dean's right hand went after it and curled around the handle. Then he reached for the blanket Dean had thrown off. As he straightened it out, he heard Dean's voice, so soft and young behind him.
"Wasn't real ... didn't happen?"
"You've got a few bruises on ya," Bobby answered. "Nothing else. Anything else you're rememberin' is just your mind playin' tricks on you." He pulled the blanket up and over him again, all the way to his shoulders. The green eyes that stared up at him, so open and trusting in a way they hadn't been in years, almost made him reconsider telling him the truth.
But open and trusting was better than the wild, shattered, and desperate creature Dean had been when he'd first woken up. Dean was making it through this, no matter what Bobby had to do. If it meant denying what had happened, taking advantage of Dean's trust to make him believe it wasn't real, well then, Bobby was prepared to live with that.
"Spirits can mess with your head, make you remember things that didn't happen. You know that. And this one you just tangled with was a real nasty son of a bitch. Don't you pay it no mind."
"But I don't ... if it wasn't, then ... why does it hurt so much?"
Bobby didn't have an answer for that. At least, not one that he was prepared to give.
He placed his left hand against the side of Dean's face, then gently brushed his hair out of the boy's eyes. "You just rest now, Dean. Everything'll be okay when you wake up."
2006
It had been a split-second rash decision made in the heat of the moment, a desperate effort to bring Dean back to the real world before the one he'd been trapped in drove him mad. But Bobby had always wondered if maybe it had done more harm than good.
He told himself that it had been the only way, that what Dean had been through had been too much for his mind to process, so terrible that he was on the edge of not coming back from it at all. And Dean had come back, had only taken a few weeks to work through his memories and decide which ones were real and which ones weren't. He'd stopped jumping at sudden noises in just a day or two, and the nightmares had faded in just a little over a week. The constant showering thing had lasted another week after that, but he'd eventually gotten past that, too.
But even though it might have saved Dean then, it sure as hell wasn't doing him any favors now.
Everyone involved in that hunt had gotten their chance at closure - everyone except the one person that needed it most. Sam had been the one to send Holman's ass up in flames and straight to Hell. John had burned Dean's clothes and all of their research in a trashcan not far from Sioux Falls. And Bobby had made a detour through the west side of town and burned Holman's damn house to the ground.
But Dean? All he'd ever been allowed to do was pretend none of it bothered him, because it wasn't real and nothing had happened to him.
Bobby had decided on the drive down that he was going to tell Dean what he'd done in that motel room eight years earlier. He was going to tell him that it had happened, that it had been real, and that he had been wrong to tell him it wasn't. Dean needed to admit to himself that he was scared of Holman and that it wasn't a weakness or an overreaction to nothing.
Dean needed to own up to his fear if he was going to control it. Because if he couldn't control it, he'd be walking right back into Holman's hell unarmed and with no hope of getting back out.
The Impala turned into the motel parking lot, and Bobby followed, pulling up and parking right next to it. He sat for a few seconds, looking out the windshield at the motel. He remembered everything that had happened in this place, everything they'd almost lost there. It was a flash of movement in front of him, the moving curtain in the window of the room next to the one the boys had rented, that pulled Bobby's attention back to present day. He sighed and climbed out of his car.
He walked around behind both cars, stopping when he reached Sam's side at the trunk.
"How's he doin' with this?" he asked.
Sam shook his head and shrugged. "I don't know. We had a fight on the way here, and he hasn't said a word to me since." Sam slung the duffel bag he'd just filled with weapons across his shoulder. "Shit, Bobby ..."
"He's not talking?" Bobby felt a sudden jump in apprehension and he walked past Sam and toward Dean's door quickly. "At all?"
Sam sighed. "Yeah, but he's been doing that off and on for the past two days."
Bobby looked through the window at Dean, and the apprehension he'd felt became full-blown panic. "He's already asleep!" he called out as he reached for the door handle.
"What?" Sam's voice cracked on the word, and he slammed the trunk shut. "No. No, he can't be. We weren't ready. He wasn't ready!"
Sam was jogging toward them when Bobby pulled the door open.
They both jumped to catch him when he toppled out of the car, but Sam got there first. Dean fell into his arms bonelessly, and Sam struggled to keep from dropping him. He let the bag of weapons slide off his shoulder and fall to the ground.
"Bobby!" he called out in a panic.
But Bobby was already there, stepping between the boys and the open door. He leaned forward and pressed his hand against Dean's chest, both sure of and terrified by what he was going to learn.
"He's not breathing."
Bobby grabbed the door key out of Sam's hand and ran for the room. He fumbled a bit before finally pushing it open. Sam was muttering to himself as he reached into the car, pulled Dean out, and stood up. He turned toward the open motel room door and crossed the parking lot as fast as he could.
Bobby ran back, picked up the bag of weapons and slammed the car door. He pretended not to notice the way Dean flopped around in Sam's arms as he passed them. Just because the boy wasn't breathing, it didn't mean he was dead. And yes, this was what they'd come here to do, but they needed more time. Dean needed more time. Damn it, they weren't ready.
Sam was just settling Dean down on the bed furthest from the door when Bobby ran in and closed the door behind him. He glanced up at Bobby, eyes wide in fear.
"This can't happen," Sam said. "He wasn't ready. We ... I said something ... God, Bobby, the last thing I said to him ..."
Bobby had to take charge of the situation, because it was obvious that Sam was in no position to do it. Bobby couldn't blame him for that, but Dean still wasn't breathing, and until they got that fixed, everything else would have to wait.
"Outta the way, Sam," Bobby said as he pushed him away from Dean's side. "Get the shotgun and look sharp. Because ready or not, here it comes."
Part Five
Chapter Seven
2006
Bobby leaned back in the chair and raised his arms above his head, stretching out his sore and tired muscles. He'd been sitting in that chair, leaning over the books he'd brought with him from Sioux Falls, for six hours. Between those books and Sam's laptop, which he'd inherited from Sam three hours earlier, he'd managed to fill half a notebook with things that might have a chance of killing Coy Holman.
But the dozens of phone calls he'd made to as many hunters all over the country told him that everything he'd studied was bogus. They all agreed that the only way to be absolutely sure that you'd gotten rid of an angry spirit with unfinished business - not just weakened it, but actually killed it - was to let it finish whatever it was wanting to do. You could control the outcome, they said, and make sure that the damage done wasn't too substantial, but if you had nothing you could burn to destroy the thing with, there really wasn't anything else you could do.
Bobby sighed as he pushed himself to his feet. Keeping the damage to a minimum wasn't even possible, and hadn't been for a long time.
"But I don't ... if it wasn't, then ... why does it hurt so much?"
Bobby rubbed his forehead with his hand and walked over to stand between the beds where the boys were sleeping.
Sam was sprawled out on his stomach, arms and legs sticking out every which way. His feet, as usual, were hanging off the end of the bed, but since he hadn't bothered to take his shoes off before collapsing on the mattress, maybe that was for the best. His face was mostly buried in the pillow, but it was turned toward the other bed, the one occupied by his brother. He was in the same place and position he'd been in when he fell asleep, because he'd been watching Dean sleep until he'd finally given up himself.
Bobby couldn't even imagine what all of this was doing to Sam. It was hard enough to find out that someone you loved had been through something so horrible in the first place; finding out that they'd only gone through it to keep it from happening to you had to be damn near impossible. Add to that the fact that Dean hadn't been having the best luck waking up when he did sleep, and the fact that Sam had spent an entire week - alone, damn that John Winchester - thinking that one day soon Dean just wasn't going to wake up at all ... He didn't know how the kid was holding himself together at all.
He bent down to untie Sam's shoes, carefully pulling them off and dropping them to the floor. At least he'd be able to sleep a bit more comfortably like that.
Then he turned to face the other bed.
Dean had been the first to drop, not more than an hour after Bobby had gotten there. He was still wearing Sam's clothes, which Bobby thought looked absolutely ridiculous on him. But all the same, he couldn't help but smile. Curled up on his right side, facing the window with his right hand under his pillow, face relaxed and peaceful, in a baggy shirt, rolled up jeans and bare feet, Dean actually looked at peace. But Bobby knew that it was an illusion.
If this hunt was tearing Sam apart, what did it have to be doing to Dean? He didn't know the exact details of what had gone on with Holman, and he didn't really want to. He knew it was pretty damn bad, and that was more than enough. He didn't ever want to see Dean in a state like he had been that night again.
Bobby shook his head, pulled the spare blanket from the foot of the bed and spread it all the way to Dean's shoulders, then turned and walked back to the chair, lowering himself into it carefully. He glanced at the boys one more time before turning back to his book.
He didn't think he'd ever felt so damned old.
1998
John burst through the door only seconds later. He hadn't bothered pulling the key out of his pocket, and he hadn't bothered to check if it was open. He didn't even come to a complete stop. He just lifted his foot and, with one powerful thrust of his leg, broke it loose from the locks and kicked it open. Then he was inside the room, looking for Sam. He found him immediately, curled up against the wall next to the dresser.
"Sam? You okay?" he asked.
"Dean ..."
John spun away from Sam quickly and stormed toward the door between the two rooms.
Bobby was right behind him, and made it into the room just in time to watch John fail to bust that door open. He kicked it just as he had the other one, but it held fast. It didn't even look like it shook.
"Dean!" John was screaming at the closed door as he pounded on it with his fists. "Can you hear me?! Dean!"
"Holman's holding it closed," Bobby pointed out, and he wasn't at all surprised or affected by the glare John shot him across his shoulder.
"Fuck that," John said. He pulled a handful of salt from the pocket of his coat and flung it at the door, loosening the spirit's hold just long enough to deliver another giant kick that almost broke it off its hinges. John had his shotgun raised and was in the room almost before Bobby even realized that it had worked.
Dean was pinned to the wall, just like Sam had said he was, and he wasn't alone.
Coy Holman was standing there, entirely too close to Dean, who looked like he'd passed out. The boy's head hung forward limply, his chin against his chest and his eyes closed. There was no muscle resistance in his arms or legs, and Holman's hands around his wrists seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright.
"Get the fuck away from my son."
John's voice was low, cold and deadly. Bobby had never been on the receiving end of that particular tone of voice, and he was grateful for that. Everything he'd ever seen that had been was dead now.
"Uh oh. Daddy's home."
Bobby ran in behind John and was immediately flung across the room, only stopping because he slammed into the wall behind the beds. He pulled against it out of instinct, even though he knew it was pointless.
John took advantage of the spirit's second of distraction, stepped forward far enough to press the barrel of his shotgun against the side of its head and pulled the trigger.
The result was instantaneous. Coy Holman disappeared with a pained shriek, and Dean's limp body crashed to the floor.
"Sam!" John called out. He fell to his knees at Dean's side and pressed his fingers against his son's neck. "Make sure that damn salt line is broken and prop the door open. Bobby, you know any kinda chant that can control that thing?"
"I can banish it from the rooms," Bobby answered.
"Then get that fucking thing outta here!" John, satisfied that the pulse he'd located meant that his oldest child was still among the living, glanced up and through the door into the other room. He saw Sam scuffing the salt with his foot as he wedged the door open with a chair. The kid was holding it together really well out there now, despite the condition he'd been in when John had kicked the door in.
Maybe he had what it took to be a hunter after all.
Bobby had started his banishing spell, and Sam had finished clearing the door, so Coy Holman's spirit was on its way out. That left John free to attend to Dean, who was still lying in a heap against the wall. John put one hand behind his head and the other behind his back, pulling him up gently until his forehead was resting against John's chest.
"Dean?" he said softly, shaking Dean's shoulders lightly. "Come on, Dean. It's time to wake up now."
Bobby was still working his magic, and Sam was hovering in the door between the rooms, ready to put the salt line back as soon as Bobby gave him the signal. John blocked them both out. All of his attention, every last ounce of it, was focused on Dean, who hadn't responded to him at all.
"Dean!" John shook him harder. The only change was that Dean's head fell away from John's chest and flopped back across his arm. John jumped in surprise and what he might admit, one day in the distant future, was a healthy dose of fear.
"Bobby!"
Bobby appeared behind him and knelt at his side quickly. "Sam's fixing the salt and wedging the door shut," he said. Then he looked down at Dean's closed eyes and lax face, and he knew what had John so frantic. "Too late?"
John looked up, his eyes wider than Bobby thought he'd ever seen them. "He's got him," he said, keeping his voice low in an obvious effort to keep Sam from hearing either the words or the panic behind them. "We're too late. He's just like all the others."
"We still have time, John. We don't know how long ..." Bobby let his words trail off when he saw the anger growing again in John's eyes. "Let's get him on the bed," he said, moving around to Dean's head to help John lift him. "Then we'll figure out what to do next."
"I got him," John said. He shifted his arms so that one went under Dean's arms and across his back and the other went under his knees. He used his legs to slowly push himself to his feet, taking a few seconds to adjust Dean's weight in his arms, ignoring the way his head fell back over his arm. "I got ya, Dean," he whispered. "It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna fix this; I promise. You just hold on."
"Dad."
The voice floated in from behind him as he and Bobby settled Dean down on his bed. John took a few moments to check Dean over for any other injuries, taking in the bruises on his throat and around his wrists, watching as Bobby pulled up his shirt and revealed the circle of bruises in the middle of his chest, right above his heart. John massaged his eyes with his fingers before pressing his hand against his mouth.
"Dad?"
John closed his eyes for a second, using the time to push down everything he was feeling. The fear was gone from his expression when he turned toward Sam, who'd moved further into the room but was still standing back away from the bed.
"Is he okay?" If ever there had been a moment when Sam actually looked as young as he really was, that was it. "Is he awake? Is he all right? He was screaming ..."
John took one step toward his youngest and put a hand on his shoulder, heading off the panic that both he and Bobby heard creeping back into his voice.
"Calm down, Sam," John commanded gently. "Last thing I need right now is you passing out on me."
Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Bobby watched Sam's hand come up to rest on top of John's, and he had to wonder if the boy really was pulling strength from that connection. It wouldn't have surprised him to find out he was - these Winchesters were a unique breed. It only took a few seconds for Sam to get himself back under control, and once he did, he opened his eyes and nodded at John.
"Physically, he's fine. Just some bruises. But, no, he's not awake." John paused, licking his lips as he considered whether or not to tell Sam the truth about what was happening. Neither John nor Bobby could even guess at exactly what Sam had seen before Holman had locked him out, but it was probably safe to assume that he'd seen enough to not be surprised by anything they could say.
The problem was that Sam was still just a kid. And even though John had made a few questionable parenting decisions through the years, Bobby had no doubt that this particular spirit's proclivities were something John didn't want Sam knowing about just yet. Especially in light of the fact that it had Dean under its control.
John glanced across at Bobby quickly, asking his opinion without speaking. Bobby shrugged as he reached for the blanket at the end of the bed and started pulling it up across Dean.
"Okay, Sam, here's the thing. Coy Holman is a ... well, he's a killer, son. Real evil son of a bitch. He killed six teenage boys from all over Iowa while he was alive, and he's killed six more here in Johnston."
"As a spirit?"
John nodded. "We don't know how he does it, because ... well, we just don't." Bobby agreed with John not telling Sam that part. The boy didn't need to hear that they had no witnesses to interview because none of them had survived. "He does something to them, puts them in some sort of a coma, and they just don't wake up from it."
Sam's eyes went impossibly wide at that, all the color drained from his face, and he swallowed hard. "So he's gonna ... Dean's gonna die?"
"No!" John bellowed, but he calmed himself back down quickly. "No, Sammy. Your brother is not going to die. Me and Bobby, we're gonna fix this."
"We already might've weakened him," Bobby put in from where he sat on the bed at Dean's side. "We don't know what he does to them. Us breakin' in on him might be enough."
"Yeah, but it might not," Sam pointed out. He turned back to John again.
"Just give us a few minutes, Sam," John said. "We'll figure out how to get Dean back, and he'll be fine, okay? Just give us a chance to figure out how to fix it."
John didn't really need time to figure out what to do, because he already knew, and Bobby knew it, too. What they needed was a few more minutes to get Sam calmed down, to make sure he'd be able to see to Dean while they were gone, and then they'd be on their way to the cemetery. They'd already burned the body of the victim they'd found in the woods behind the motel, so there was nothing else to hold him here.
Lighting Coy Holman's ass up was going to be a distinct pleasure.
But as certain as Bobby was of what he and John were going to do, he also knew that John was a bit more careful talking about things like that in front of Sam. Sam seemed to have a bit of a problem with the concept of killing things that looked or had been human. It was an understandable problem to have; Dean had had some issues with it, too, when he was younger. Werewolves and black dogs and wendigos were one thing. Humans were entirely different.
"I already know how to fix it," Sam said, with more hatred and determination in his voice than Bobby had ever heard.
"What's that?" John asked, with another sideways glance at Bobby. Neither one of them could have imagined the words that would come out of Sam's mouth next.
"We can dig the bastard up, salt and burn his worthless ass, and send him straight to Hell."
2006
Bobby grabbed his ringing cell phone up from the table and flipped it open as fast as he could, checking quickly to make sure that the boys hadn't stirred. "Just a sec," he said into the phone. He quietly pushed himself away from the desk once more, crossed the room, and was out the door in a matter of seconds.
"Yeah?" he said.
"You got them, Bobby? How are they?"
Bobby leaned against the wall next to the door, blinking against the early afternoon sun. He'd kept the curtains pulled in the room so the boys could sleep better, and his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness.
"Yeah, I got 'em. They're sleepin' right now."
"But how are they?"
Bobby sighed. "'Bout as good as you'd expect, I reckon. Sam's a mess. He said he's been distracted ever since they got there yesterday. Can't think straight. But he managed to figure out what Dean did that night. I walked in on the end of that conversation, and it wasn't pretty."
"And Dean?"
Bobby adjusted the bill of his hat and looked back at the door to their room. "He's dealin', I guess. Good as he ever does, anyway. Pretendin' he's fine, sayin' it don't bother him. Truth is, boy's scared shitless, and it shows." The only answer was a deep sigh. "You comin'?"
"You know I can't."
Bobby pushed away from the door and walked around the corner of the motel, getting as far from the door and the possibility of the boys overhearing him as possible. How he'd ever expected this man to be reasonable about this ...
"Oh, I know that, do I? You know what else I know? I know that they're here alone, Sam's falling apart, Coy Holman's not dead, he's set after Dean again, and they damn well need you! That's what I know!"
"They've got you. You'll look out for them, won't you?"
"Who the hell you think you're talkin' to? Of course I'm lookin' out for 'em, but damn it, John, it's not me they're needin' right now."
"Have you figured out how to get rid of him?"
Bobby sighed and slumped back against the building. "Dean did. Neither Sam or me either one like it, but there's nothin' else we can be sure'll work. I've spent the whole damn day lookin' for another way, but it don't look like there is one." There was no response. "Are you even gonna ask what it is?"
"Am I going to like it?"
"Hell, no," Bobby answered hotly. "Might get you to bring your worthless ass out here and stop him."
"That's why I'm not asking."
"So you'll just stay wherever you are, wait until you get the next message from Sam, tellin' you that Dean's actually died this time? Or maybe from Dean, beggin' you to help him save Sam? You went a whole week not knowing if your oldest was alive or dead, John! How the hell do you ...?"
"I knew, Bobby. The same way I knew they were okay in Lawrence. The same way I'll know they're still okay tomorrow."
"Fuck you, John Winchester."
There was silence on the other end of the phone, and Bobby was starting to think maybe John had hung up on him. "If we'd just burned Holman first that night ..."
"It wouldn't'a done a damn bit of good, because he'd've still been tied to that boy in the woods," Bobby pointed out. "And now's not the time to go questionin' what we did. We did everything we knew to do. It just went sideways on us."
"No," John said. "It went sideways on my kids."
As was too often the case with John Winchester, Bobby couldn't disagree.
"Take care of my boys for me, Bobby," John said. "Get them out of this. And this time, make sure the son of a bitch suffers."
Chapter Eight
2006
Bobby let them both sleep until they woke up on their own. For Sam, that was just after noon. Dean slept until almost four. They spent the next few hours preparing themselves for what they were about to do, with Sam and Bobby doing as much research as they could while Dean alternated between pacing around the room, pretending to watch television, and showering. Sam ordered burgers and fries from a little local place down the road from the motel in the hopes that Dean would eat something. He wasn't really surprised when he didn't, and Sam didn't press the issue.
They waited until dark to head back to Johnston, for no real reason other than they wanted to put it off as long as possible. But they had a job to do, and they were going to do it, no matter how much none of them really wanted to.
It was silent in the Impala as Sam drove through the darkness. For once, Dean hadn't argued about the driving arrangements and he sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at nothing. Neither of them really wanted to talk, particularly Dean, but Sam knew that they needed to. He waited until they were halfway there, not far from where Dean had woken up on the way out, to break the stillness.
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
Dean's answer was a sigh and a humorless chuckle.
"Why?" he asked again.
"Why would I?" Dean said. He didn't move, didn't turn away from the window. "It's not exactly something to go shouting from the rooftops, ya know. Besides, not telling you was kinda the point, since you weren't ever supposed to know."
"But what happened to you ..."
"Nothing happened to me," Dean insisted, placing emphasis on the word 'nothing.' "I keep saying that, but you don't seem to be hearing it. Nothing happened to me."
"Damn it, Dean, stop it!"
Dean shook his head and leaned back against the seat. He turned his head slowly, pulling himself away from the darkness and looking at Sam.
"You're terrified of this guy. Why don't you just admit what he ..."
"It wasn't real," Dean said. "None of it. It never happened anywhere but in my head."
Sam shook his head vehemently and gnashed his teeth together.
"The real stuff wasn't that bad. The guy got a little handsy, okay? You saw that. So he kissed me, so what? I woke up, I had a couple of bruises, I ..."
"Tried to kill Bobby."
Dean closed his eyes and turned away again. "I was a little confused."
"You thought it was real."
"I got over it."
"Did you?" Sam couldn't contain his anger anymore. He wasn't mad at Dean for what happened, far from it, but he was livid about the way Dean was treating it so casually, like it didn't matter in the slightest. Like the fact that it had only happened in his head meant it hadn't happened at all. "How many showers have you taken in the last twenty-four hours?"
"Shut up, Sam," Dean said tiredly.
"No." Sam knew that if they weren't driving down the road at seventy miles an hour, Dean would have already been gone. As it was, his brother was wound like a coiled spring, ready to jump the second he saw a chance. "You need to deal with this. You're about to walk right back into it, offer yourself up again, and you need to ..."
"Deal with what?" Dean asked angrily, pushing himself up in the seat and turning back around. "It's all a big mindfuck, Sam! Literally, yeah. But that's all it ever was, and all it's ever been. What the hell do you expect me to 'deal with' in the next hour that I haven't already dealt with in the past eight years?"
Sam stared out the windshield, watching the night fly past. His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the muscles in his hands ached, and his jaw hurt from how tightly he pressed his teeth together.
"You want to know why I didn't tell you? It was because I didn't want this to happen."
"What to happen?" Sam demanded. "Me to know the truth? Me to understand what you gave up for me?"
"You to blow it all out of proportion and make a big deal out of. I know what it was, Sam. I know what happened. I was there!"
"And you thought it was real!" Sam shot back. "You didn't know the difference, not at first. You said so yourself."
"He fucked with my head, Sam."
"Fucked more than that."
He regretted the words the second they passed his lips, but he couldn't take them back. He hadn't meant to say it, hadn't even really wanted to think it, but there was nothing he could do about it. He risked a sideways glance at Dean, expecting to see anger, narrow eyes and clenched fists. He fully expected to be hit for what he'd said, because it was crude and thoughtless as hell, and he deserved it.
But instead of glaring at him, Dean was staring past him, out the windshield and into the darkness again. He hadn't moved, and in the dim glow of a passing streetlight, Sam could see how pale he was. His eyes were wide, his hands were open, and there was no anger in Dean's expression.
There was shame.
"Shit, Dean ... I don't ... that was ..." Sam took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry."
Dean rubbed his forehead with his hand, closed his eyes, and shook his head. Then he slowly turned away and sank back down in his seat until his forehead was pressed against the window.
"Dean, please. I didn't mean that."
There was no answer. And Sam knew there never would be.
1998
Sam had never really liked this part of the job.
He'd never really been allowed to go hunting with his father, even when Dean was. The most he'd ever done was sit in the car and wait for them to finish. But most of the time, he either stayed at whatever motel they were calling home that week or, for the longer hunts, stayed with Bobby or Pastor Jim. And he'd always preferred that, because the stories he heard them all tell were more than enough to convince him that he didn't want any part of it.
He knew it was necessary. He understood why it had to be done and how it worked. But the thought of digging up a grave and setting fire to decomposed or decomposing human remains still disgusted him. He'd never thought it possible for him to gain the same satisfaction from it that his dad and Dean did. Just the smell that clung to them when they came back from a cemetery - the acrid stench of burning hair and melting skin - made him sick to his stomach.
But standing in that Des Moines cemetery at midnight, with a light snow falling around him, manning the shotgun as his father shoveled away the dirt that filled Coy Holman's grave, Sam thought there was nothing else in the world more important than what he and his father were about to do.
It had taken almost three hours for John to dig as deep as he had, and Sam figured that he had to be getting close to the coffin. It was a quick dig, and Sam knew it. He thought it just might be the fastest his father had ever dug a grave. John was as wet from sweat as he was from the snow that had melted on his skin, red-faced from the exertion and cold, panting out frosted breaths as he pushed himself to dig even faster.
Because the three hours it had taken them so far were three hours that Dean was under the control of the thing that had attacked him. And that was three hours too long.
Sam had tried off and on for the past three hours to get his father to talk to him, to give him some indication of what was happening to Dean, but John had been reluctant to answer. All he would say was that Dean was in trouble and that they were going to fix it. The not knowing what that thing was doing to his brother was driving Sam crazy.
"Do you know what it's ...?"
"No, I don't," John answered with a huff, as he threw out another shovelful of dirt. "We've already been over this, Sam. I don't know exactly what it does."
Sam couldn't quite shake the feeling that John was lying about that, but he didn't dwell on it for long. "Uncle Bobby kicked it out, though, right? It can't get back in?"
"Not physically, no." Another mound of dirt flew out of the hole. "He's been banished and salted out. But if he's got some sort of connection with Dean, then ..."
"What, like he's in Dean's head?"
"I got it!" he heard his father shout. Then he heard a grunt, a few hard thumping noises, and wood splintering. "Got you now, you sick son of a bitch. Heads up, Sam!"
The shovel flew out of the hole and landed atop the pile of snow-dusted earth next to the open grave. Then John himself appeared, holding his arm up.
Sam held the shotgun loosely in his left hand and reached for his father with his right, helping him up and out of the grave without slipping on the slick grass even once.
As soon as he was out of the hole, John started digging through the duffel bag he'd carried from the car. It was only a few seconds before he stood again, with a canister of salt in one hand and a bottle of lighter fluid in the other.
"The snow is gonna make this harder," he said. "So we have to make extra sure that we get the bastard the first time." He handed the lighter fluid to Sam to hold and turned back to the grave.
Sam stayed at his side as he peered down into the splintered coffin for the first time. It was Coy Holman, all right. He hadn't been in the ground long enough to become that badly decayed or disfigured, and Sam recognized him immediately. John had broken the coffin all the way to his waist, but Sam couldn't see anything but the face of the thing he'd seen in his motel room three hours earlier. The thing he'd seen attack his brother. The thing that he and his father were going to kill.
Sam would never forget that face as long as he lived.
John turned the salt canister upside down and dumped a liberal amount of salt on Holman's face and chest. When he righted it again and started to close the lid, Sam grabbed his hand.
"More, Dad," Sam said.
"What?"
"You said make extra sure, right?" Sam turned away from his father to glare back down at the monster in the coffin. "Use the whole damn thing."
John nodded wordlessly, opened the lid completely, and emptied the canister onto the remains below. Sam smiled as he watched it fall.
"When this is over," John said, "you and I need to have a talk about that mouth of yours."
"Whatever," Sam said. He flipped open the lid on the lighter fluid and started to turn it over in his hands, but John grabbed it away from him.
"I'll do it, Sam. You can watch if you want, but you're not doing this yourself."
"Why not?" Sam asked as John starting dousing the corpse. "You'd let Dean."
"Dean's older than you," John pointed out. He glanced up at the sky, at the dark clouds drifting in front of the moon and the snow that still fell from them, and instead of putting the lighter fluid away as he normally would, he kept squeezing.
"And I'm more involved in this hunt than he's ever been," Sam insisted. "This isn't just some random spirit that's hurting other people, Dad. This one's hurting Dean."
"I know that," John said tightly. He capped the lighter fluid and tossed it back at the duffel bag, then pulled a box of matches from his pocket.
"He's my brother."
"And he's my son."
Sam felt the flush of shame rise in his cheeks. He knew his dad was right. This wasn't a fight that Sam could win, and it wasn't one they should be having at that moment, anyway.
"I'm sorry, Dad. I just ... I can't just stand here. That thing, it was ... Dad, you don't know. What it said, what it ... what it did ... and when he screamed ..."
John turned toward him, and Sam could see the understanding in his eyes, see the pain and desperation that he knew were in his own.
"Dad, please."
John held the matches out to him, slowly and hesitantly. But when Sam reached for them, he pulled them back slightly.
"You don't have to do this, Sam. I think I'd feel better if you didn't."
"I know," Sam said. "But I need to be the one to do this, Dad. I really do."
John nodded and handed the matches over. If there was one thing that Sam knew his father understood, it was the need for revenge. Sam pulled one match out of the box and struck it against the side.
"Your brother, he can't ... he doesn't ever need to know about this, Sam."
Sam dropped the lit match into the box, held it for a few seconds and watched the other tips ignite, then dropped it into the grave.
"No," he said, as the flames burst to life around Holman's corpse. Sam stared at them, transfixed, as they ate away the skin and muscle and bone of the monster in the coffin.
"He won't."
Dean came up off the bed without warning, and Bobby didn't have time to duck the fist that flew at his face.
"Get off me!"
It should have knocked Bobby off the bed, and he knew that. A punch from Dean Winchester, thrown with as much hatred as Bobby saw in his eyes, should have damn near broken his jaw. But it was so weak that it barely registered as a hit at all.
"Dean, hey," Bobby said, quietly. "Dean! Look at me, boy."
Dean scrambled back on the bed, pushing himself against the headboard as his eyes darted around the room frantically.
"No no no," he muttered. "Sammy!"
"Dean!" Bobby reached for him, but Dean knocked his hands away.
"Don't you fuckin' ... don't touch me!" Dean's left hand shot under his pillow, and when he pulled it back up, it was wrapped around the handle of a wicked-looking hunting knife. "Touch me again, I'll fuckin' kill you. Swear to God!"
"Dean." Bobby kept his voice calm but firm and held his hands up, palms out. "I'm not gonna hurt you, boy. Just look at me."
"Where's Sam!" Dean demanded. "If you hurt him, if you ... no ..." Dean closed his eyes and his head fell forward. Bobby tried to move closer to him, but Dean's head snapped back up and he brandished the knife. "Stay the fuck back!"
Dean's eyes were wild, unfocused, and filled with fear. He reminded Bobby of a wounded animal, one that knew it was dying and was striking out in a desperate effort to save itself. He really had no idea where he was, couldn't yet tell the difference between the motel and wherever he'd been before.
And the things he was saying, the way he was acting ... he was all but confirming Bobby's theories - and John's deepest fears - about Coy Holman.
"Dean," Bobby tried again. "You're safe, and Sam's fine." Dean was looking around frantically, searching for Sam. "He's not here, but he's with your daddy, and he's fine. It's all okay now, but I need you to look at me."
Dean's breathing grew ragged, and he blinked rapidly. His eyes still darted around the room in a panic, but more and more often, they lighted on Bobby.
Bobby didn't move, just sat on the side of the bed with his hands raised.
It didn't take long, just a few more minutes, for Dean's breathing to slow down, for him to look around the room and see where he really was. For him to look at Bobby and actually - finally - see him.
"Unc ... Uncle Bobby?"
Bobby didn't speak, only nodded his head.
"Help me."
Bobby caught him as he crumbled, pulled him into his arms and tight against his chest. Dean was crying, sobbing in a way that Bobby hadn't heard since Dean was a child, and he couldn't stop the tears that sprang into his own eyes. He felt Dean's hand grasping at his shirt, reaching desperately for something he could hold on to, something real, and Bobby held him tighter.
"It's all right, Dean," he whispered. "I gotcha. It's gonna be okay now." He kissed the top of Dean's head, then rested his cheek against it. The boy in his arms was beyond broken. Bobby couldn't even begin to imagine what Dean had been through, what that sick bastard had done to him. But he did know that he had to do something to keep Dean from slipping away completely, and he had to do it fast.
Dean needed to move past this, needed a way to climb out of whatever hell Holman had put him through. He needed someone to throw him a line he could grab and hold on to, and there was only one thing Bobby could think to do.
"It wasn't real, Dean. Do you hear me? It was just a nightmare. You're fine. Nothing happened. It was all in your head, son. Just a dream."
He held Dean until the boy's sobs had abated, repeating the words, "It wasn't real. It didn't happen," until his tears had run dry and his breaths were even. Then he put a steadying hand behind his head and lowered him back down to his pillow. "You just rest, now," he said. "Your Daddy killed that spirit that was messin' with your head. Him and Sam'll be back real soon. And then we'll get outta here."
Bobby tucked the knife back under the pillow and wasn't surprised when Dean's right hand went after it and curled around the handle. Then he reached for the blanket Dean had thrown off. As he straightened it out, he heard Dean's voice, so soft and young behind him.
"Wasn't real ... didn't happen?"
"You've got a few bruises on ya," Bobby answered. "Nothing else. Anything else you're rememberin' is just your mind playin' tricks on you." He pulled the blanket up and over him again, all the way to his shoulders. The green eyes that stared up at him, so open and trusting in a way they hadn't been in years, almost made him reconsider telling him the truth.
But open and trusting was better than the wild, shattered, and desperate creature Dean had been when he'd first woken up. Dean was making it through this, no matter what Bobby had to do. If it meant denying what had happened, taking advantage of Dean's trust to make him believe it wasn't real, well then, Bobby was prepared to live with that.
"Spirits can mess with your head, make you remember things that didn't happen. You know that. And this one you just tangled with was a real nasty son of a bitch. Don't you pay it no mind."
"But I don't ... if it wasn't, then ... why does it hurt so much?"
Bobby didn't have an answer for that. At least, not one that he was prepared to give.
He placed his left hand against the side of Dean's face, then gently brushed his hair out of the boy's eyes. "You just rest now, Dean. Everything'll be okay when you wake up."
2006
It had been a split-second rash decision made in the heat of the moment, a desperate effort to bring Dean back to the real world before the one he'd been trapped in drove him mad. But Bobby had always wondered if maybe it had done more harm than good.
He told himself that it had been the only way, that what Dean had been through had been too much for his mind to process, so terrible that he was on the edge of not coming back from it at all. And Dean had come back, had only taken a few weeks to work through his memories and decide which ones were real and which ones weren't. He'd stopped jumping at sudden noises in just a day or two, and the nightmares had faded in just a little over a week. The constant showering thing had lasted another week after that, but he'd eventually gotten past that, too.
But even though it might have saved Dean then, it sure as hell wasn't doing him any favors now.
Everyone involved in that hunt had gotten their chance at closure - everyone except the one person that needed it most. Sam had been the one to send Holman's ass up in flames and straight to Hell. John had burned Dean's clothes and all of their research in a trashcan not far from Sioux Falls. And Bobby had made a detour through the west side of town and burned Holman's damn house to the ground.
But Dean? All he'd ever been allowed to do was pretend none of it bothered him, because it wasn't real and nothing had happened to him.
Bobby had decided on the drive down that he was going to tell Dean what he'd done in that motel room eight years earlier. He was going to tell him that it had happened, that it had been real, and that he had been wrong to tell him it wasn't. Dean needed to admit to himself that he was scared of Holman and that it wasn't a weakness or an overreaction to nothing.
Dean needed to own up to his fear if he was going to control it. Because if he couldn't control it, he'd be walking right back into Holman's hell unarmed and with no hope of getting back out.
The Impala turned into the motel parking lot, and Bobby followed, pulling up and parking right next to it. He sat for a few seconds, looking out the windshield at the motel. He remembered everything that had happened in this place, everything they'd almost lost there. It was a flash of movement in front of him, the moving curtain in the window of the room next to the one the boys had rented, that pulled Bobby's attention back to present day. He sighed and climbed out of his car.
He walked around behind both cars, stopping when he reached Sam's side at the trunk.
"How's he doin' with this?" he asked.
Sam shook his head and shrugged. "I don't know. We had a fight on the way here, and he hasn't said a word to me since." Sam slung the duffel bag he'd just filled with weapons across his shoulder. "Shit, Bobby ..."
"He's not talking?" Bobby felt a sudden jump in apprehension and he walked past Sam and toward Dean's door quickly. "At all?"
Sam sighed. "Yeah, but he's been doing that off and on for the past two days."
Bobby looked through the window at Dean, and the apprehension he'd felt became full-blown panic. "He's already asleep!" he called out as he reached for the door handle.
"What?" Sam's voice cracked on the word, and he slammed the trunk shut. "No. No, he can't be. We weren't ready. He wasn't ready!"
Sam was jogging toward them when Bobby pulled the door open.
They both jumped to catch him when he toppled out of the car, but Sam got there first. Dean fell into his arms bonelessly, and Sam struggled to keep from dropping him. He let the bag of weapons slide off his shoulder and fall to the ground.
"Bobby!" he called out in a panic.
But Bobby was already there, stepping between the boys and the open door. He leaned forward and pressed his hand against Dean's chest, both sure of and terrified by what he was going to learn.
"He's not breathing."
Bobby grabbed the door key out of Sam's hand and ran for the room. He fumbled a bit before finally pushing it open. Sam was muttering to himself as he reached into the car, pulled Dean out, and stood up. He turned toward the open motel room door and crossed the parking lot as fast as he could.
Bobby ran back, picked up the bag of weapons and slammed the car door. He pretended not to notice the way Dean flopped around in Sam's arms as he passed them. Just because the boy wasn't breathing, it didn't mean he was dead. And yes, this was what they'd come here to do, but they needed more time. Dean needed more time. Damn it, they weren't ready.
Sam was just settling Dean down on the bed furthest from the door when Bobby ran in and closed the door behind him. He glanced up at Bobby, eyes wide in fear.
"This can't happen," Sam said. "He wasn't ready. We ... I said something ... God, Bobby, the last thing I said to him ..."
Bobby had to take charge of the situation, because it was obvious that Sam was in no position to do it. Bobby couldn't blame him for that, but Dean still wasn't breathing, and until they got that fixed, everything else would have to wait.
"Outta the way, Sam," Bobby said as he pushed him away from Dean's side. "Get the shotgun and look sharp. Because ready or not, here it comes."
Part Five