Big Bang 2010: LAST CHILD, Chapter 9

[jackfan2]

Sam let the Impala roll to a stop in the middle of the road. The engine rumbled, shaking the car slightly as he looked straight ahead.

Just moments ago Brimmer's gold Sedan, had been right. There. Sam hadn't let more than a gentle rise in the road get between them, and even then, he'd had him in sight before the Impala crested.

Now, he wasn't so fortunate. An hour into their drive, a bend in the road and three rises later, and Brimmer's car was nowhere in sight.

"Dammit!" Sam slammed the palm of one hand hard against the steering wheel.

Like any tail, Sam had to keep enough distance between himself and his prey so that he wouldn’t tip him off, while never allowing for too much distance to settle between them. That had been the easy part. The difficulty had occurred when they’d left the city limits further and further behind.

Driving a car that wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, on a nearly deserted road, in the middle of the night, Sam had been forced to put more and more space between them. More than he was comfortable with.

Still he felt he'd maintained adequate distance and speed. They were making good time and nothing had seemed amiss. Brimmer had simply vanished.

Just as soon as Sam had realized he'd lost him, he’d backed up. Retraced his route. He'd taken it slow, scouring every break in the corn and wheat fields along the way. There were no turnoffs, no private drives, no nothing. Just... no Brimmer.

Just when Sam was ready to try retracing his steps one more time, a car swerved onto the road ahead. The back fishtailed from where it slid through loose gravel on the shoulder before finding purchase on the pavement.

"Huh." Sam accelerated, the Impala surging forward, her growl getting louder as her speed picked up. "Where are you going?"

Sam no sooner caught up with the vehicle when it turned off the road. Coming alongside that spot, Sam saw the lights before he saw the building. 'Kwik-e-Trip, Gas, Beer and Wine, Open 24-7'.

Careful not to attract too much attention to himself, Sam turned slowly into the gravel lot and let the car coast up to stop in front of the store, leaving some distance between him and the car he'd followed, now parked to the right.

It was a pickup, old model. The driver's side opened and a man of about twenty-five nearly fell out, a girl right behind him, tumbling clumsily to waver drunkenly next to him. Together they tripped and stumbled up the curb and the girl squealed when her ankle turned, but the sound soon turned into a fit of giggles.

The man laughed but held one finger over his lips, loudly shushing her. The girl mimicked his motions, though it was clear she didn't take it seriously, only offering a lopsided curtsey as he opened the door to let her in.

The man behind the counter, older, maybe in his late thirties, watched the couple move sloppily into the store; his face held a barely concealed annoyance at the pair's arrival.

Sam was coming up empty in his search for the farm, and the clock was ticking on Dean's life, he felt it to his core. While he'd rather not stir up the locals, his options to do otherwise, were quickly running low.

Making up his mind Sam pulled the door handle and hopped out of the Impala. In only a few long strides, he entered the store and approached the counter, ignoring the odd look from the clerk.

“Excuse me,” he stepped purposefully over to the employee. “I'm looking for the Brimmer farm. Ever heard of it?” Sam glanced at his name-tag, “Chet?”

The older man set down a box he'd been unloading and ambled over to the counter, rubbing his chin. Chet thought for a moment. “Brimmer ya say?”

There was an indelicate snort behind him and Sam turned. The drunken woman was giggling, eyeing both of them. "You mean the ol' haunted farmhouse out on 121? You lookin' t' get your freak on or something?"

The man who'd come in with her sidled up behind the girl, one arm hooking possessively around her waist, the other holding a twelve pack. “Wassup baby?”

She leaned into him, though Sam hazarded to guess that it was more to remain upright than it was a show of affection. "Guy's lookin’ fer that ol’ ghost house-the Brimmers’ place." Her eyes brightened with an idea. "Hey, Matt," and she turned in his arms, "let’s go with 'im. Let's find us a ghost."

Sam was just about to speak when Chet chimed in from behind the counter.

"No one's going ghost huntin', tonight or any other night." Chet cast a disparaging glace at the wobbling couple and sighed. "Go on home, Matt." He moved around the counter and took the case of beer. "I think you've had more'n enough for one night."

"Aw, c'mon, Chet," Matt huffed. "We was gonna go straight home and drink it there. I promise."

Chet sniffed the pair and stepped back, waving at the air. "Jesus, no you weren't. Both of ya, head to my office, I'll give you a ride home m'self."

"That ain't fair," Matt whined.

"Son, life ain't fair, but I own this store and I decide who I sell to and who I don't, now get," he finished giving Matt a lighthearted kick in the behind. "And stay back there 'til I can get someone in to take over. "Dumb-ass kids."

The couple offered no further argument, just shuffled-and Sam could swear he heard giggling and shushing-toward the back of the store before disappearing behind a swinging metal door.

Before Chet could turn to address him, Sam had his badge out and at eye-level of the store owner. "I'm with the FBI and I've got to find that farmhouse. It's a matter of life and death."

Chet's head rocked back a little as he stared at the badge. "Life or death?"

Sam nodded eagerly. "Please..."

"Son, what would the Feds want with some ol' run down farmhouse?" Chet asked a little shocked. "I mean, all those stories about ghosts out there, they're just stories. This place don't get a whole lot of excitement so I think the young'uns just like makin' stuff up half the time."

"Do you or don't you know where the farmhouse is?" Sam asked through gritted teeth.

In the face of Sam's apparent frustration and anger, Chet's eyes flared as he took a step back. "Well," he rubbed the back of his neck as he thought, "no one really knows where it is. No one really goes there, 'cept Billy, but that's only once a year."

"Has Billy been by here tonight?"
Sam turned, but Chet only shook his head. "Nope."

Sam sighed. This was beginning to fizzle out on him; his mind worked furiously. "The girl-"

"Abby."

"She said it's on 121?"

Chet huffed. "Mister, that's 121 right there," he said hooking a thumb out the store windows. "It runs for five counties, north and south. There's got to be over five hundred old farmhouses all around it. I'm sorry."

"A-actually?" A familiar voice started, hesitantly. "I've been there."

Sam spun. Matt, the same kid who'd wobbled in drunk moments ago, stood very straight, and looking not so drunk. Sam ignored the sound of Chet's cursing quietly behind him and stalked over to Matt to loom imposingly over him. "When?"

"Um well," Matt scratched his head, "that's the thing. It was at night. It was a year ago, and I'm really not from around here, so I'm-"

"And he's drunk," Chet reminded.

Sam ignored the reminder and grabbed the younger man's arms. "Think hard, Matt," he said, leaning in closer. Matt's head knocked back and his eyes widened. Faced with Sam's intimidating size, the man seemed to sober quickly. "One twenty one runs north and south from this store, so, can you at least remember if you went right or left?"

The younger man's eyes rolled upward and for a moment Sam wasn't sure if he was thinking or if he was going to pass out. "I'm pretty sure," he started again, "it was further south-"

Sam didn't wait for more. He was outside and at the Impala before he heard Matt call after him. He'd passed it. Somehow, he'd driven right past it.

Behind the driver's seat, Sam no sooner had the engine rumbling than he had it in reverse. Gravel flew as he punched the accelerator and backed away from the store. Hand on the gear to put it in drive when Matt came running toward the front of the car, arms waving. Annoyed but curious Sam rolled down the window.

"Listen," Matt breathed heavily, leaning his hands against the driver's side door, "I don't buy all that ghost hogwash, or at least, I didn't used to, but I've talked to folks-good folks-who've seen shit happen out at that farm."

"Then why'd you tell those others in there-"

"'Cause. The sooner that story dies, the better. Let the dead have that place."

“What dead?” Sam asked. As far as he could tell, no one had ever associated that place with the murdered kids. “What do you know about that place, Matt?”

The young man shuffled on his feet, hand to the back of his neck, looking nervously in between Sam and his girlfriend who stood, leaning her back against the store front window.

“Like I said… just rumors man.”

Sam gripped the steering wheel, stopping himself from snapping at the younger man. “That your car over there, Matt? The one whose zigs and zags I was following for half a mile?” he said, the menace in his voice clear enough for even the inebriate to understand.

Matt paled. Just like Sam thought. Not so drunk after all.

“Folks say that Billy’s old man and that hag mother of his are still around. You know…” Matt started, his voice dropping to a whisper that the Impala’s engine almost drowned. “Haunting the place.”

“I thought Margret died in a car accident.”

“Margret and Hal, her husband… yeah, that’s what Billy told everyone,” Matt confirmed, even if his face showed how little he bought the tale.

“But you didn’t believe him,” Sam said. A statement, one that he didn’t even need the young man to confirm. “What do you think really happened?”

Matt shook his head. “I don’t know man… this was all years ago,” he said, crouching lower to look Sam in the eyes. “But people talk, you know? 'Specially when neither Margret nor Hal knew how to drive… especially when no one ever saw their bodies.”

Sam felt the hairs at the back of his neck prickle. "Thanks Matt," he managed with a forced smile. “You were a real help… now, take Chet's advice and don’t get behind the wheel.”

Matt beamed, head bobbing up and down like a kid who’d just been offered candy, going back to his girlfriend.

"Shit," Sam hissed as soon as Matt was out of earshot. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal.

Dean had been right all along. This was their kind of gig. It just wasn't a shape shifter.




A muscle twitched in Dean's clenched jaw as he half padded, half limped quietly across the old wood floor. The odd sound and creepy-as-hell laugh had come from behind the closed door just off what he thought of as a sitting room to the right.

The sound, definitely female, lent credence to Jeremy's claim that not only was there a man - well, two men, thought Dean, barley considered Perv a man - and a woman in here. Bill's parents.

Dean's gaze skipped curiously around the interior, noting the dirt, dust, papers and layers of cobwebs. The place looked like a woman hadn’t set foot in it in ages. Then again, any woman who’d keep company with someone like Perv…

The fact that the kid was free and at this very moment on the other side of the front door, in relative safety, was enough for Dean to accept his escape story, enough to not doubt his claim that Bill’s dad had freed him. But a woman? Here? Seriously… what the hell was going on?

The gun, double palmed, safety off, pointing down but ready to use, was like an extension of his arms.

Not for the first time he wondered just how much of an excuse he would need to pull the trigger and put down one or all of these bastards. And wasn't that a thought; thinking of them as nothing more than a pack of rabid, raving dogs that needed 'putting down’.

In their combined years of hunting, the Winchesters had 'put down' many supernatural beings; ghosts, monsters, spirits and demons. Humans though? Despite the things these Brimmers had done, Dean wasn't so sure he'd be able to kill any of them in cold blood.

Once his boys had started hunting, John had instilled in them the sanctity of human life by way of their creed; hunting things, saving people. Emphasis on hunting 'things' and saving 'people' and while technically Bill and his psycho family were 'people,' Dean was willing to make an exception, see a little gray, where the Brimmers were concerned.

Yeah, Dean was pretty damn sure that whether he killed them or the cops took them, when this was over, he'd sleep just fine at night.

Dean shivered, but it wasn't from the cold. In fact, he could feel the rivulets of sweat pouring down his back and off the sides of his face, edging down his throat before disappearing under his collar.

If anything, he welcomed the absence of the outer layers. Jeremy had needed it far more than he. It was easy to tell given how his voice had stuttered in time with his constant trembles and how his teeth had clacked unceasingly.

The sound had been reminiscent of that time, in Flagstaff. It was the summer of '89 and Dean had 'borrowed' Riley Peters’ bike. Two clothes pins from Edna Picket’s line in the backyard and he'd clipped a playing card to the spokes on both the front and back tires then ridden as fast as he could. The faster he went, the louder the clacking. That had been awesome. Felt and sounded like he was on a real, honest-to-goodness motorcycle.

But no, despite being clothed only in jeans and the dual layered shirts, and despite the visual evidence of his own breath clouding out into the darkness indicating just how cold it was, Dean wasn't cold. Well, his toes, even with the socks, were a bit chilled.

Quiet or not, Dean still vowed that once this was over, he'd go back to the barn and look for those boots. They were new, goddammit, and no way he'd leave without them. Dean's watery brain snagged on an idea; the northwest corner of the barn... he hadn't had a chance to look there. He'd definitely look there afterward.

Dean rounded a corner to face the door from where the sounds had issued, but stumbled to a stop at the sight before him.

It took a moment for the sight of it to register, and for a moment he thought HE was hallucinating. Squinting he edged closer to the odd decoration strung across the corner of the room. Close enough to touch, he reached out with his free hand to strange little balls gazing blankly back at him.

'Gazing’ blankly back at him...

With an almost undignified yelp Dean snatched his hand back like it had been burned and retreated a step. Eyeballs. Strung up like tiny Christmas decorations adorning the corner.

Hundreds of them. Just... staring at him.

However they'd been preserved, Dean didn't know. Didn't want to know.

“Guh.” Dean wiped his hand on his jeans, feeling disgusted at the mere thought of having almost touched them, his left hand tingling with crawling flesh at the near miss. “’Kay, that’s just gross.”

Another creaking sound froze him to the spot. This time it was followed by the creepy-assed whisper of a woman’s voice. “How nice of you to come to me," she hissed. “We need to have us a little... talk.”

Dean felt a shiver up his spine that had nothing to do with temperature. “Sure, why don't you just come out here and we'll talk.” Dean gripped the gun tighter, raising it at the door. “Gotta warn you though, I have a gun, so don't go doing anything stupid." He glanced at the eyeballs and added, “-er.”

“He always did have a thing for their eyes,” a female voice sliced into the silence. Behind him.

Dean spun. He was already unsteady, and the movement left him dizzy and uncoordinated. He stumbled back until his outstretched hand hooked on the back of an old, dusty recliner and came to a halt. Wide-eyed he gazed now at the owner of the voice Jeremy had mentioned.

There was a show Sam always loved to watch when they happened to find it in whatever dump-heap hotel they stayed in. The Brady Bunch. The woman standing before Dean now looked like the mom from that show, Carol. Only more…demented.

This version was more like Carol’s evil twin, some twenty years out of place. White blond hair that didn’t appear to have seen a comb in ages, stuck out ratty and tattered in a macabre frame around her face; her dress was torn and filthy, with dark stains that, to Dean’s knowing eye, looked suspiciously like blood.

Dean swallowed. “Lemme guess. You’re… Margret, right?” She angled her head at him, eyes practically glowing. “As in, Momma Brimmer? As in, queen bitch?”

Margret sneered. “And you,” she continued, her voice needling and edgy, “you’re the bastard who’s been messing with my son’s mind.”

Dean choked out a laugh and hooked a thumb over his shoulder to the string of eyeballs. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure he was twisted up long before me, sister. In fact, I'm pretty sure you had first crack at that noggin' of his.”

“A momma’s bond with her son is sacred.” She stepped forward. Dean stepped back. “And you, you dare come between us?”

“Well, now, to be fa-” Dean’s heel caught on something and he stumbled, not daring to take his eyes from Bill’s psychotic parent. Using a nearby table, Dean pulled himself up. “Fair, I didn’t exactly come here willingly. So why don’t I just leave and let you two-”

“Oh no,” the demented Carol Brady said, blocking his path, head shaking. “You can’t leave now. Now, I clean up Billy’s mess. Again. Now,” she lowered her head, gazing at Dean through some creepy hooded gaze, “now you can finally die.”

Things happened so fast Dean had barely a chance to react.

Margret Brimmer, with only a tilt of her chin sent Dean flying backward. His feet dragged against the rotted floor until his spine collided with the nearest wall. The impact was lessened for lack of distance, but added pain to the torn flesh on his back and left him breathless.

“Son of a…,” Dean panted. Aside from everything else he’d been through, this realization left his mind spinning all the more. “You’re a gho-”

Before he could finish, Margret had thrown out one hand and the pressure increased. Air rushed from his lungs as he felt his sternum and ribs shift inward. Head back, Dean ground his teeth in agony. It felt like his chest was caving in.

“He’s my little Billy. Mine!” she shrieked. “You can’t have him!”

What the hell was she talking about? “Lady,” Dean gritted out, eyes mere slits as he fought off the pain, “I don’t want him.”

“You're not special,” she sneered as her eyes raked over him. “Oh no, you’re nothing special.” Drawing her hand back some, the pressure decreased but Dean still couldn't move. "Not good enough for my sweet William."

“What?” Dean panted. “Listen, lady I-”

“Like that boy he brought into our home," she screeched venomously. "He wasn’t special either. Had to kill him too, all those years ago. Like you, he tried turning Billy against me.”

Her hand surged forward again. This time harder; the wall and various old nails pressed agonizingly into his already torn back. While the aged drywall crumbled and gave in easily, it hurt like hell. “Shit… what the hell… are you… talking about?”

Margret quickly shifted her hand up. It felt like the floor dropped away, but Dean soon realized he was the one moving. The ragged, bumpy wall clawed at the open wounds on his back as he was dragged excruciatingly upward.

When Dean’s head hit the ceiling things finally stopped. He took that moment to blink the fuzzy swirls from his vision. The vertigo made his stomach lurch and he breathed out hard to reign it in. The wall crumbled and he felt himself rise some more, inching further upward.

For all the threats and bodily harm that Dean had ever faced in his life, it was this very position, this being trapped against the ceiling, pinned like a butterfly under some fugly's gaze, that never failed to set his heart racing. The image of his mother, pinned to the ceiling, in this same position, slammed into his brain. Mouth open, blood coating her nightgown.

The pressure never let up. It increased by increments. "Who..." Dean started but let out a pained gasp. He was shoved into the corner, high above the ground where the walls met the ceiling. The ceiling crumbled down in front of his face and he coughed. "Who tried to turn Bill against you?”

Margret snarled. Jerked her chin and he was pressed in and up higher. The ceiling was bearing down on his skull and he had to tilt to one side to take some of the pain off his head. It was a mistake. Margret took up the slack quickly and he was inched higher until his neck angled painfully between the wall and ceiling.

"L-lady..." Dean gritted.

“That faggot Frankie, that’s who!” Margret spit the name out like soured milk then moved closer, stopping within a few feet of Dean’s position and glared up at him, eyes radiating heat and venom. “He’d no business corrupting my sweet, little Billy. Such a sweet young boy, my Billy is…”

Dean blinked. Confused at her sudden loss of focus, and what was with this 'little' Billy crap?

Earlier, she’d seemed so… what was that word Sam had used with that ghost in California? Senchinent? Sentim- Sensu- fuckit. She’d seemed more ‘with-it,’ well, for a ghost that is. Now, the more she talked, the less sense she made. Maybe it was as Sam had theorized; those more grounded in life, manage to hold onto it longer, even as an angry spirit.

“How did he corrupt your ‘little’ Billy?” Jeeze, Dean wasn’t sure he was still talking about the same guy because Billy was anything but ‘little’; scrawny and short, sure, but little? Little implied innocence, implied young age… Whatever, so long as she talked and stopped trying to crush him, that was a-okay with him.

“I taught him how to love. I did!” she screamed, pounding on her own chest. “Night after night, I showed him! I warmed his bed first. I. Did!”

“Riiight.” Dean remembered all too well Billy’s declaration of the same thing back in the barn. “Lady, you give a whole new meaning to the term 'dysfunctional family.'”

“Frankie was a freak, a mockery of what love’s supposed to be. Of what my love's supposed to be.” She looked away, clearly lost in the unpleasant memory, hearing none of Dean’s words. “He threw himself at my son. Lied to him, said he loved him.” She glared up at Dean again. “Made him do things that not even animals will do. And I caught them.”

“Ah,” Dean grimaced because that was abundantly clear. “You prejudiced old prune… you killed the kid because he was wooing your precious son?”

“Killed him.” The words were so casual, with little more concern than someone taking out the garbage. “Because he took what is mine. Taught Billy a lesson too. Made sure he knew how much of an animal Frankie was.”

Dean shuddered. "God I'm going to hate myself for asking this," he murmured, but couldn’t help the question, “How?”

“Made him watch it,” she provided with a rotten smile. “Made him listen to Frank squealing like a pig as we filleted his skin from his mousy little body.”

Dean swallowed the bile in his throat. “And the other kids since?”

“For betraying his Momma’s love,” she growled, as if Dean should know all this. A slow twisted grin spread across her face. “Serves him well to remember every year why Frankie died. Why they must continue to die.” Her grin grew impossibly wider. “And their eyes... the eyes are lovely.”

Dean shook his head. It was a feeble attempt what with the being crushed to the wall and the ceiling. “But, why skin the bodies?” he asked breathlessly.

Margret sniffed and stared mockingly at him a moment. “Not overly bright are you?”

“Hey, sister,” Dean shot back, clearly affronted, “you try getting knocked out repeatedly, drugged, cut, electrocuted, and burned then tell me how ‘bright’ you are.”

“Winter,” she said simply.

Dean blinked back. Waited for more, but it appeared that crazy-ghost Margret was done. “What, is this like an inkblot test where I say the next thing that comes to my mind?”

Margret huffed, like he was the idiot. “Ground’s too frozen to dig graves and flesh stores far too much information, so, before dumping the body, we skinned them and burned the flesh to hide the evidence.” She grinned at a memory, “Just as we did with Frankie’s body. Me and Billy.”

This just never ceased to make Dean's stomach twist. “Well," he said through gritted teeth, "weren’t you just Den Mother of the Year.”

“Billy was sloppy at first.” Ignoring his comment, Margret looked toward the kitchen and said it almost as an afterthought. “Then he came to his senses and came here. To me. Running like a panicked rabbit back to Momma.”

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone'll ever accuse Billy of ‘coming to his senses,’ but you just keep on hoping.”

The smile that lighted her face sent another shiver down Dean’s spine. “I suggested he entomb the bodies in a false wall in the basement.” She applauded herself giddily, then added, “Then told Billy from now on, purge his guilt here, rather than in the city sewers.”

“Yeah,” Dean swallowed the bile that almost made an appearance. “Aren’t you just a proud momma.”

“Then you came along…,” her face grew dark. Murderous. “Turning him against his own Momma again.”

Dean felt dread creep back in, twist at his spine.

“Just like Frankie did.” She lifted her arm higher, ramming him into the seam between the ceiling and the wall. “Can’t have that again.”

As bad as being smashed against the wall had been, it was nothing compared to the out-of-control flight across the room he went on next. Airborne, the world rushed past as the hard wood of the staircase grew unfortunately closer.

Dean closed his eyes and braced for impact.




William Brimmer slowed to a near stop, then cutting the wheel to the right, accelerated carefully as he entered the private drive that would take him to his parents’ farm. Gravel crunched reassuringly beneath the tires of the old Crown Vic as the road began its slow tilt down, then angled right again.

In terms of privacy, the farm, with its sloping road that wound and twisted before one reached the homestead, was ideal. While it was a bitch in the winter, standing alone at the end of that dirt road, the house and barn, sitting at a lower elevation were as secluded as they came. The place was damn near impossible for the casual passerby to see, so unless you knew where to go, it was secluded.

Its location had been an ideal spot to purge his rage, appease his needs and right his thoughts before returning to the outside world.

The tiny glass vials clinked softly on the bumpy road but otherwise rested safely, tucked in the old shopping bag on the seat next to him. Soon, he'd have the company he wanted, too. Grown up company. Just like proper, normal people did.

The idea of this big man, the one with a face of a boy when he was asleep… this man - though was most definitely not a boy - freckles and full, lush mouth, all spread beneath him, bleeding under the edge of his knife, eyes glazing over from the combination of pain and the drug cocktail, left Billy with a sense of recklessness. Like that first kill...

Maybe this was what getting drunk was like. Or getting high. The image of what he had planned sent a twinge of both fear and excitement coursing through him. His foot pressed on the accelerator.

Billy cut a glance at the vital part of his plan; the drugs he'd swiped from the clinic. This big man would take a lot of drugs, he thought.

In his whole life he couldn't remember ever really wanting anything more. Well, that wasn't exactly true. He had wanted his Momma to stop touching him. He had wanted his drunken-ass father to sober up and stop her. Then at fourteen, he had wanted Frankie Jessup; kind, caring Frankie Jessup.

And he had wanted that night to have never, ever happened. The night his secrets had been laid bare, along with his heart. The night Momma had take Frankie away from him, and effectively the only person he had or ever would want.

Blame and longing; love and insanity. They melted, twisting into one until it had become all Frankie's. On the small side, Frankie should have been stronger. It was that weakness that had led Momma to force Billy into killing him.

This time would be different. This one was stronger. Billy would have something for himself this time. Momma would have to accept that and she would have to accept Dean, or Billy would go away, just as he had planned before and never come back. Only this time, he would have Dean. Take Dean with him.

The road banked sharp left and as it did, a light up ahead caught his attention. He slammed on the breaks.

It was more than one light; in fact, it was several. At this point in the road he could tell it was coming from the house. Lights, flashing intermittently, dancing from window to window, from top floor to the bottom, bouncing from window to window. Momma was mad.

“Shit." Billy sat back and gunned it.

The car flung gravel in every direction as it fishtailed around each bend, but he made it to the farmyard in record time, slamming on the brakes until the car slid several yards into the space between the barn and house before coming to a stop.

A feeling of unease gripped his chest as he flung open the car door and ran-first to the barn- a sick feeling churning the pit of his stomach. There was only one person that could make his momma act like that.

The pole where he'd left Dean was empty. Only bloody zip-ties and barbed wire remained.

Billy didn't miss a beat; he was across the yard and up the porch steps in record time. Grasping the knob he flung the door open and rushed inside, only then realizing that the earlier sounds of destruction and wrath had stopped.

Inside the door, Billy stood frozen.

The house was eerily quiet.

Bathed once again in shadows cast from the exterior light, Billy stared at the mess before him. “M-momma?"

The place was a shambles, more so than usual. Nearly all the remaining rungs on the stair rail were smashed, and the dilapidated walls were pock-marked with several human-sized dents and holes. There were chunks of drywall missing from arched entries into the kitchen, dining room and sitting room, several of which had dark wet spots-Billy was sure that was blood.

A low groan emanated from his left. It was short and soft but Billy had caused enough of them to recognize who it belonged to.

The old sofa next to the piano suddenly moved. Another groan and a hand appeared over the top. It wavered a moment then bloodied fingers gripped the top tightly. There was a moment’s hesitation and then old wood creaked as it bore the weight of the person behind it levering upward.

There was more grunting and Dean's head appeared next, bloody, cut, covered with dirt, crumpled drywall and dust. Billy moved toward him.

“I suppose I should be mad."

Billy spun. Margret caught his eye only a moment, then slid her gaze back to Dean.

“But, the truth is..." she sidled quietly forward until she stood next to Billy, her eyes never once leaving Dean, who was practically draped over the old sofa to keep himself upright. "I haven't had this much fun in ages.”

“Momma I-”

“Don’t worry, baby,” Margret purred, the sound almost maternal. “We’ll do this one together, just like we did Frankie.” A hand reached up toward Billy’s face. “Just you and me, like old times.”

“No!” Billy snapped. Margret’s hand withdrew quickly, before it could make contact. “I changed my mind. I’m keeping him, Momma.”

“Really?” A lofty expression on her face, she angled a look over at Dean. “Not much to keep; he's all bent out of shape.”

“I like him better that way. Just… stop messing him up.” Billy’s voice grew louder with each word, with each look at Dean who was now staring bleary-eyed back at him.

“Oh, I’ve just barely started," she grinned, moving away from him, back towards Dean. The malicious light in her eyes turned rabid as she thrust a hand out that sent the prone man colliding with the wall once more. "Watch baby, he hurts so good..."

Billy didn’t get a chance to blink before Margret’s hand flung up. Dean started dragging up the wall once again, until he was just high enough for Billy to see.

Dean started gasping for air. On instinct, his hands flew up and grabbed uselessly at his throat. Then his face turned a most sickening color of blue and Billy could see the skin around his throat push inward.

"Momma,” Billy made to get between them. “Stop!"

“Enough!” Margret screamed. She threw out her other arm. Billy was flung back, spine slamming against a far wall with a teeth-jarring impact.

It wasn't a hard enough blow to knock him out, but it was enough to send air rushing out from his lungs. Much as he fought he could not break free of this invisible barrier.

“You know this must be done,” Margret shrilled. “You… you should have done it already! But you’re weak! Pathetic!” With a macabre twist of her head, an angle far wider than any human neck could pull without breaking, she looked at Dean again. “Now, I’ll have to do it for you.”

A flick of her hand once again sent Dean sailing through the air, this time landing in the middle of the dining room, crashing to the rickety table. The force coupled with his weight shattered the aged wood and Dean was left in a heap amongst the timber.

In a fit of helpless rage, Billy watched, fists balled. The old chandelier swayed overhead, creaking against the rusted chain.

“Don’t you ever forget the reason for your shame.” Margret turned her back on Dean and sauntered over to stand before her son. “Always so naive... always so gullible, my little boy.”

“Stop it,” Billy growled back.

“You let yourself be fooled by a pretty boy once... I won't let it happen again. Never again!" The lights in the room started firing, on and off, randomly all over the house. "This one's pain... it's so beautiful... but that's all it is! Now, just imagine how beautiful his death will be.”

"M-Marge, my dear?"

Billy couldn't have been more surprised. His Dad stood just at the top of the stairs, his voice soft and imploring.

Not that he was surprised by the man's supplicating, whimpering tone, those were pretty much par for the course. But the very fact he'd sought out his mother… Since the day Billy had first returned to the farm, when his mother had appeared to show him just how pathetic he was, his father had never set foot in the same place as she was. Not even once.

Not much had changed in Hal Brimmer. He was just as much a loser and coward in death as he'd been in life. He'd spent the last few years avoiding her, never seeking her out.

Until today.

"Not now, I'm busy." Her back to him, Margret dismissed him with a wave of one hand. "You pathetic excuse for a man."

Before Margret could take more than a few steps, she was swiped off her feet in a jumbled mix of sound, wind and light. Hal, arms holding her in a vice-like grip, rushed by, feet leaving the ground and pushing her up, into the air as if the laws of gravity did not apply to him.

Confused and scared Billy shrank back, blinking at the dust that the fast moving light kicked up.

There was shouting and screaming, crashing and breaking and soon, it died away. The two forms of Margret and Hal Brimmer evaporated through the wall into another room.

The dust hadn't settled yet when the pressure holding Billy suddenly released. Still dazed, he went to his knees as his feet hit the floor and there he stayed trying to figure out what had just happened.

Dean groaned and muttered under his breath something that sounded a lot like ‘fucking ghosts.’

Billy walked cautiously over to the pile of groaning timber and Dean.




Sam scanned the side of the road carefully, looking for any sign of a gravel drive, private entry, anything that might smell remotely of the Brimmer farm. Mindful of the road, his gaze shifted to it every so often, the Impala grumbling beneath him as he kept driving slowly.

“C’mon,” Sam murmured to himself, thumbs drumming nervously on the steering wheel. “Got to be here somewhere.”

But it wasn’t. There was nothing there, and when there was enough light to see in the dark, all it lit up was even less than nothing. Empty fields as far as the eye could see. Even with the full moon.

Engrossed in his search of the distant fields for signs of life, Sam missed when the car drifted lower, until gravel bumped the undercarriage. A quick cut of the wheel and Sam righted the Impala to the road quickly. His gaze returned to the moonlit surroundings, forcing his eyes to see something that simply was not there. An afterthought reminder that he should keep an eye on the road as well was quickly cut off by Sam’s heart jumping to his mouth.

“Shit!” Sam punched both feet to the brake. Hard. The tires screeched, rubber burned and the car grabbed at the road, fishtailing as it careened forward.

In the path of the Impala, a small pale figure stood. Wide, panicked eyes stared back through the windshield, face whitewashed in the headlights. Child-sized hands shot out in a useless attempt to deflect four tons of speeding steel, legs wide apart, bracing for impact.

It was a near thing, but the Impala managed to skid to a stop just in time.

Relieved and confused, Sam sat and stared at what he now realized was a child.

Awash in the beam of the headlights, Sam guessed he couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen. Wide terrified eyes stared back at him, face pale and topped by dirty, disheveled blond hair. His small mouth hung open, agape, breath visible in the cold night air.

A heavy coat, far too large for his slight frame, nearly swallowed him whole. Even with that, the boy trembled violently.

“Help us!” he said breathlessly. He stumbled forward, until his hands poked out of the sleeves and rested, palms down on the hood. “P-please… call the cops. You g-gotta…”

Sam was out of the Impala before he finished the last word, one hand on the boy’s back. Even through the leather coat he felt him trembling and given the look on his face, it was either from cold or fear.

From that close, Sam fully recognized the jacket. “Where’d you get this?”

The boy jerked at his tone and if possible, his face went even whiter. “He-he gave it to me.”

Sam bent, grabbed the boy's shoulders and turned him so they were face to face. “Who? Was he a big guy, kinda like me but with short hair?"

“Yeah-I,” The boy's mouth opened and closed several times, eyes darting like he was thinking. Trying to remember. “You know Dean?"

Sam couldn't answer at first. He breathed out, ecstatic at the prospect of being one step closer to Dean. Finally. “How long ago?”

“W-what?” The boy started shaking his head. Clearly, he was frustrated at the questions and lack of attention to his insistence that Sam call the cops. "Mister, if you know Dean, pleeeeease, they're gonna k-k-kill him!"

“Okay, look,” Sam tried. He had to back off a little, try a different tack. “I’m gonna help, just-” He knelt in the road, trying for less imposing. “The guy who gave you this coat, Dean. He's my brother.”

Only after a moment of hesitation did the boy nod. “He-he said to run if anything went wrong. I...I didn’t run right away, when Billy came back. I hid. B-bu when the house started screaming-she started screaming and the lights were flashing, I could see from outside and-and the crashing....”

The words were rushing out like a dam that had burst and Sam’s brow furrowed at the content-lights flashing… her? Ghost. Margret’s ghost?

Hoping to get more details Sam took a hard look at the kid-and hesitated; tears were streaming down his cheeks, the trembling had increased and his lips were nearly blue. It was clear he was about to rattle to pieces or freeze to death, whichever came first.

“Whoa, okay, just...” Sam interrupted, not at all sure what instinct led him to do it but next thing he knew the kid was in his arms, clinging to the comfort he offered. "Just calm down.”

Eager as he was to get moving, Sam knew this boy's tenuous grasp on his emotions would mean the difference between life and death for Dean. He needed him functioning, firing on most of his cylinders.

Bearing that in mind, with the boy still pressed against him he asked, "What's your name?"

“Jeremy,” he sniffled, muffled against Sam's collar.

“Alright, Jeremy, let’s get you in the car, get warm and we'll work this thing out, okay?” The boy nodded, Sam felt it against his shoulder. “Can you walk or do I need to carry you?” Sam noticed he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

“I-I can w-walk.” It was more a whimper than a reply, but he pulled away, wet eyes anxious again. “But we gotta hurry. Or-or she’ll kill him. Or Billy will.”

“But he was alive when you left?” Billy nodded. “Alright, well, I know my brother; if I go in there without a plan, I’ll do more harm than good and he’ll end up kicking my ass for it. You get in the car and I’ll grab a blanket out of the trunk for you. Okay?”

Jeremy nodded again and Sam turned him gently, one hand to his shoulder in case he fell over or stumbled. The passenger side door creaked and the kid dropped with a sigh of exhausted relief into the seat. Sam had no sooner closed the door then he was sprinting to the trunk, grabbing a large old blanket, a bottle of water and a shotgun. Stuffing several salt rounds into his pocket, Sam slammed the trunk and moved to the driver's side.

Inside the car, he wrapped the boy in the blanket, gave him the water and watched as he drank it in nearly one swallow. Much as he wanted to push, Sam tamped down his own sense of urgency and waited for the kid to step a few notches back from going into shock.

“Feel better?” Sam asked when the bottle moved away from the boy’s mouth.

“Yeah.” Some kind of recognition flashed in Jeremy's eyes and he stared at Sam. “Dean said something about Sam climbing the walls… are you Sam?”

“Yeah, I’ve been searching for my brother since yesterday morning.” Sam gazed intensely at the boy. “Can you take me to the farm, Jeremy?”

The boy’s eyes trailed down to the shotgun in Sam’s lap. “Wh-what are you gonna do with that?”

“Whatever I have to.” Sam hadn't wanted to scare the boy, but he was anxious to get moving. “Now… in order to help him, I gotta find him first.”

“You? No cops?”

“I don't think there's time." Sam amped up the intensity, hoping the boy would connect. “But, I can't do this without you.”

The boy’s eyes widened. "No, I-"

"I just need you to help me find the farm. You don’t even have to get out of the car once we get there, okay? Can you do that?"

“I-I think...,” short for his age, Jeremy had to crane his neck high and lever his body up to see over the dash. “I think so...” Staring straight ahead a moment, he finally said, “Just--keep going, slow. I’ll tell you when to turn.”




Dean groaned, waking to a world of black and confusion. And pain. God, he was really getting tired of waking, and blackness, and confusion, and pain.

And floors. Dean was really beginning to hate floors. And maybe the ground.

It was warm, too warm and when Dean tried to move he understood why. A weight seemed to cover him, pressing him down and it wasn't just the weight. It was the air too. It was thick under the cocoon of heaviness, the air was laden with dust that filled his lungs, it tickled his throat and he couldn't hold back the coughs that erupted.

Then it hurt. Everywhere. Everything. It all hurt.

The coughing had been a spectacularly bad idea. Agony shot all along his ribcage. And as much as he wanted to just lay there and try to figure things out, something in his head was screaming him to get moving.

It hurt everywhere. Everything.

Still, that instinct, that damned voice wouldn't shut the fuck up. It warred with the little hammers beating in his skull and against his selfish desires he found himself obeying the voice and flipping the bird to the hammers.

Dean shoved forward, even if just that little movement left his back screaming in pain. But he was determined, and pushed one hand up, against the weight.

Dust clouded his lungs, made it hard to breath and when his coughed to relieve the weight of it, his ribs screamed in agony. Dirt and drywall, clouded his lungs. When he tried for a deeper breath it sent a coughing spasm echoing through his chest.

"You..." a familiar voice said. "You're alive?"

Dean wasn't sure why yet, but the sound of that voice sent a tremor of warning down his spine. Sent the voice screaming louder in his mind. Despite the fact that the owner of that voice was now pushing the rubble away from him, Dean dreaded the moment he would be free.

Lifting his head took more effort than it should have, but Dean managed. The owner of the familiar voice swam into view. Bill. Everything rushed back to him in startling clarity.

No," Dean reached up with one blood-covered hand and grabbed Bill's lapel and pulled him down. "No thanks to Momma," he said pushing up on the other hand and rolling to his side, jaw tight with pain.

"But…," the other man whispered. "She killed you, Frankie."

The words, as much as the tone, brought Dean's mind skittering to a halt. "Wha-," he started then stopped, brow furrowed in confusion. He took a good, long look at Perv.

In the barn, the guy had been cold, emotionless and hell-bent on introducing Dean to the variety of ways a man could know pain. The same 'Perv' or Bill, who had admitted to killing more than twelve kids without remorse, eyes glittering with pride at what he had done. The man before him now, wasn't that Perv, wasn't Bill.

This was Billy. Confused, barely a teen, lost, fearful and uncertain fourteen-year-old Billy. Something had flipped in him, maybe seeing Momma try to kill Dean - and getting damn close - and how it conflicted with his determination to have something for himself. Maybe in the same way he had wanted to keep Frankie...

Great, Dean thought, I get split-personality-psycho Sybil, who can't decide if he wants to cuddle or kill me, and a bat-shit crazy killing momma spirit. Like I don't got enough problems for one day.

Well, fine. Dean would play the role of Frankie for as long as it took to get him out of this house. After that, he'd be hard pressed not to kill Bill when he got the chance. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the fact that the simple action of breathing was leaving him dizzy and exhausted, Dean would have ended him right that second.

"She killed me?" Dean breathed out, grimacing at the pain in his side. "Well, guess we’re all just one big happy party of ghosts then."

That seemed to be explanation enough for Billy. "Momma's mad, Frankie," he whispered anxiously. "We gotta go. Now." Grabbing Dean's upper arm he pulled him quickly to a sitting position.

"Oh, shit...," Dean gasped painfully. Neither the motion nor the new orientation set well with Dean's condition and he nearly hurled from the pain of it. "Wait... wait. Just... a sec."

Billy reluctantly helped him sit back. "We don't have a second."

"Dude, she'll be on us before we get to the door," Dean explained, face pinched. Settled on his back and slightly elevated, the pressure on his ribs was nearly bearable. "So we better take a second and figure this out."

"You're right." Billy seemed to calm a moment but a crashing sound upstairs drew both of their gazes toward the staircase. The angry sounds were growing more and more frequent. "She knows; she always knows." The sound of defeat in his hollowed voice. "And she’s strong. Too strong for me."

That was the last thing Dean needed to hear: the sound of his only help giving up. Thinking fast, he realized, however, that this might be the inroad he needed.

It wasn't lost on Dean either that the sounds of Momma and Daddy's domestic supernatural dispute, were dying down. No matter who came out on top, and he was betting it would be Momma, they were running out of time.

"She's not strong, or powerful," Dean said anxiously. He grabbed Billy's collar and pulled him back to look at him. "She's evil and most important of all, she’s fucking dead! Now… you wanna help me or not?"

"I-I dunno..." Billy was letting fear take him over, back him up. "If I go against her, she'll be mad."

"Seriously?" Dean yanked on his collar. Hard. "She treats you like you're her property. Keeps you from what you want. You gonna let her? Sit back and do nothing like your daddy?"

Bill was quiet; then, something clicked in his eyes. Dean saw the hardness and for one moment he thought that just maybe he'd pushed too far.

"No," Billy growled back. "She doesn't own me." That trace of uncertainty crept back in. "But, how do we get out of here? Like you said, she'll be on us before we get a few steps."

"Which is why you gotta do exactly as I say, okay?" When Bill nodded, Dean continued throwing a searching gaze toward the kitchen. "Do you have any salt in the house?"

"What?" Bill cut his eyes at Dean. "Why?"

Dean heard the doubt in his words, saw it creeping into his face. One wrong word from Dean and the whole ruse could turn on him. Billy would be gone and Bill, the bastard bent on killing him, would be back.

"Salt. It's pure. It drives away evil," Dean explained hurriedly. It was getting hard to breathe and keep things in focus, to stay conscious. "Not... forever, but it'll get her off our asses long enough to get the hell outta here."

"But after-she'll come after us. Kill you again. Make me… do things with her."

"No. She can't." Shifting sent a whole new jagged line of pain up Dean's spine. "We’ll make sure that she can’t. Her body… do you know where her body is?"

Billy nodded and added dispassionately, "She’s under the stairs. Dad too."

Dean paused for a moment, taking in the implications of that fact. Damn! This was one fucked up family…

"She can't come after you, man. She and Daddy, their evil happened here, means they're tied to this house," Dean went on, reminding himself that he wasn’t comforting the son of a bitch who’d just spent a full day torturing him, the sick bastard that had every intention of keeping him around as a toy for the rest of Dean’s existence; no, Dean was comforting the little boy who had had one lousy pick of parents and had ended up killing them to survive. He was also comforting his only chance of getting out of there.

"That filthy bastard," Margret’s voice cut in. They couldn't see her but they could hear her and she was close. "Now where did I leave my boys...?"

Their time was up.

Dean shook Billy again. "Salt, Billy. Now!"

"Um... no, I-" Billy stammered back, confused. "There's none."

"Think," Dean said through gritted teeth. "Fucking Minnesota and there's no salt? Road salt? Any kind of fucking salt!"

A light seem to go on in Bill's eyes. "The barn. Ice-melting salt."

"That'll work," Dean whispered. Letting go of Billy's collar he slumped back, exhausted.

Margret walked around the corner, hands on her hips. "There you are." Her black lips drew back into a sneer.

Billy stood and turned to face her, hands clenched into fists. "No, Momma. You can't hurt him anymore. I won't let you." He jutted his chin out, feet apart, putting himself between her and Dean.

Margret canted her head at him in bemused confusion. "Ah, my poor, sweet confused William." She closed the distance between them freakishly fast. "That's where you're wrong, baby."

A quick tilt of her head to the left, and her eyes found Dean.

"Ah, hell," Dean groaned, knowing what was coming.

In short order, Dean found himself lifted and slammed into the wall behind him. The pain was just something he'd never get used to. It sent the air rushing from his lungs in a gasp. Then he was dropped to the ground, unceremoniously.

"Momma!" Billy was standing behind her, pulling at his own hair. There was hesitation and indecision in his eyes. In his voice. "No, please."

It was clear in the way Billy looked from Dean to the kitchen. The way his feet turned, even if his body didn't, that he had no idea what he should do. Billy was on the fence. Was ready to break. Then his shoulders twisted and he looked at Margret.

"Yes, sweet William. See, you've got to learn," her voice dripped with malevolence, "who you belong to." Then she looked at Dean, eyes squinted in some kind of freakish delight.

Dean was under no illusions. He knew this guy would just as soon kill him as look at him but there was something else at work here. A power struggle, an urgent need to break free of his momma's ghost, though Dean wondered if Billy knew she was really dead. Didn't matter, she'd been controlling him his whole life. Dean was sure Billy didn't see a difference if she were dead or alive.

There was something else there too and it gave Dean pause in just how far he pushed Billy. There was a possessive streak. It nagged at Dean's mind in that if this worked -and he didn't hold out much hope that it would--and Billy actually managed to get him out of there, just how would Dean keep the smitten psychopath from doing exactly what he'd threatened earlier to do to Dean. Keep him.

The thought would've made Dean grimace, but he was just too tired, weak and hurting. Instead he watched Billy look from his captive to the door. Saw him twist on the balls of his feet, toward the door. God, he was really going to do it. He was going to make a break for the door. Was going to help, in his own sick, twisted way...

Jaw clenched in pain, Dean pinned Bill with what he hoped was a strong sense of urgency. "Just... GO!" he said, giving his voice more strength than he felt. Time was running out for Dean.

"Go?" Margret threw here head back in a brief fit of laughter. "You don't decide that or anything else," she said. Apparently she'd thought the statement was meant for her. "I'm staying right here. It'll be a pleasure taking my time, ripping you apart."

Then Dean felt his body fly back. The contact was hard, unyielding, pain on top of pain.

Dazed, Dean watched the room gray until his eyes slammed shut. In his mind he struggled to maintain any tenuous hold he had on a snowball's chance that he'd survive this. In the darkness of his mind, he didn’t see Billy spin on one heel and run out of the room.




Chapter 8 x * * * >X< * * * x Chapter 10