SPN fic: "Hickory Hill" 8/8+epilogue
Headers in Chapter 1.
Chapter 1| Chapter 2| Chapter 3| Chapter 4| Chapter 5| Chapter 6| Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Dean was beginning to hate this job more than any other they'd ever done, and that was saying a lot. The separated shoulder, he could deal with. The ache in his head was a minor annoyance. But sitting around in useless and utterly helpless vigil over Sam's unmoving body now topped the list of things he never, ever wanted to do again, thank you very much.
The poltergeist's head-banging had stopped abruptly once Dean had placed the last gris-gris bag in the wall beneath the window. Since then, the attic had been silent and still. Dean stayed in the circle anyway; to be safe, he told himself, but it was really because he was unwilling to be out of arm's reach of Sam. It made him feel better, for a very loose definition of "better," if he could just lean forward to check Sam's pulse every minute or so.
"Next time," he grumbled, "I get to go fuck around in Cloud Coo-coo Land and you can sit with you thumb up your ass and wonder if I'll wake up dead."
Sam made no response, the bastard.
Five minutes passed. Seven. Ten. Dean stood up, but the circle was too small to pace in, so he sat down again. God, he hated this. What if Sam had finished his fight and was sitting around somewhere waiting for Dean to bring him back? Or, fuck, what if he'd died out there, or got lost or something, and this pale, motionless shell with a smear of blood on the upper lip was all Dean was going to get left with?
"Fuck it," Dean said, "I'm bringing you back right now, Sammy, and you can bitch at me later." He reached for the board.
A pale shimmer at the edge of the circle halted him mid-motion. He turned, and found himself face to face with a trembling girl in a blood-soaked white dress.
Dean kept his eye on her as he picked up his shotgun with his left hand.
"Let me guess," he said. "Olivia."
She stared at him with a dazed, blank look on her face, then glanced down at Sam.
"Is he dead?" she asked.
"Hell, no." Dean stood and took a step toward her, holding the shotgun lowered near his hip. She didn't look threatening and couldn't enter the circle anyhow, but one never could tell with ghosts. And anyway, it made him feel better just to have the solid weight of a weapon in his hand. "Listen, did he --"
"He promised he'd find my baby," she said in a shaky voice. "Do you have it? Do you know where it is? Please, sir, I just want to hold it for a little while..."
"I'm sorry," Dean said, "I don't have it." He could feel the temperature dropping as Olivia's distress grew. His breath steamed in front of his face. "But listen, if Sam told you he'd find it then he will, okay? You just have to help him come back here. Now, did he give you a bunch of little bags, about this big, kind of smelly?"
He wasn't sure she understood him at first, but then her expression cleared and she nodded. The cold receded a little.
"He told me to put them in the walls," she said.
"Right. So did you?"
"Yes."
"All of them?"
"Do you have it?" And now there was actual frost creeping up the windowpane, painting snowflake patterns on the glass. "Do you know where it is? Is it alive, is it safe, is it--"
"Olivia!" Dean said sharply, but it was no use. She may have talked with Sam like a normal person out on the astral plane or wherever the fuck it was, but here she was like any other ghost, trapped in the loop of her dying obsession. Still, the fact that she was there at all meant that the poltergeist had lost its grip on her. That was a good sign, wasn't it? Good enough for him, anyway. Dean took a step toward the board and used the toe of his boot to move the planchette toward "goodbye."
Sam snapped back to life screaming and flailing, and knocked over two of the candles before Dean got him pinned down. Fortunately, both candles went out without igniting anything, since Dean really didn't think he was up to dragging Sam from yet another burning house with only one good arm. All he could do was straddle Sam's chest, pin one of his hands down, and dodge wild blows from the other hand until Sam stopped swinging, caught his breath, and muttered, "dude, get off me" while poking Dean in the ribs.
"Ow, quit it," Dean said, and climbed off. "So what happened, man? Are you all right? Did you get it?"
Sam stayed where he was, lying on his back and scrubbing at his face with one shaking hand. His nose was bleeding again, and he looked pale and twitchy and utterly wasted.
"I'm not sure," he said after a while.
"You're kidding." Dean fought down a sudden, overwhelming impulse to bang his head against the wall. Or somebody's head, anyway. He wasn't choosy. "After all this trouble, you're still not sure? What were you doing over there, playing pinochle?"
"Fuck you." Sam rubbed his face some more, which only served to smear the blood around. "I kind of passed out before you pulled me back, so I didn't see what happened at the very end, okay?" Sam's voice was a little higher than normal, Dean noticed, and his limbs were still twitching, though he was clearly making an effort to keep still.
"Hey, are you hurt? Do you need a hospital or something?"
"It won't help," Sam said, which wasn't at all what Dean wanted to hear. "Just give me a couple of minutes. It..." He stopped, closed his eyes, looked suddenly even more sick and exhausted than it had before. "It showed me Jessica. And the fire, back in Palo Alto."
Fuck. Of course it did. Sometimes Dean wondered if there was an instruction manual somewhere out there that every evil thing got a copy of before being released into the world. How to Fuck up Sam Winchester in One Easy Step.
"Sam..."
"I know. It wasn't real. I hurt it -- the poltergeist -- and it fought back the best way it knew how. By changing the illusion to something that would hurt me." Sam sighed and opened his eyes. "I think maybe that was a mistake on its part. I think the trapped spirits all got free when the illusion changed around them."
"Yeah," Dean said, "I think they did. At least, your friend Olivia did, because she's here. Or was here." He glanced around, but Olivia was nowhere in sight. The window was still covered in frost, though, and Dean suspected she was still around, doing whatever it was that ghosts did when they weren't actively manifesting. "If she got out, the others probably did, too."
"Good." Sam coughed a couple of times and finally sat up. "Can we get out of here now? Because I'm covered in freakin' lard, and I really want a shower."
They destroyed the Ouija board before they left, breaking it into seven pieces and sprinkling them with holy water before burying the pieces in the back yard. Sam had to do all the digging, and by the time he was finished, he looked ready to fall asleep on his feet. He shuffled back to the car, flat-footed and glassy-eyed like an old-school Romero zombie, and was snoring in the passenger seat by the time Dean turned on the ignition. He didn't even seem to fully wake up when Dean walked him across the parking lot and into their motel room.
"I thought you wanted a shower," Dean said.
"Urgh," Sam said, and collapsed face-forward onto the nearest bed.
Epilogue
Chapter 1| Chapter 2| Chapter 3| Chapter 4| Chapter 5| Chapter 6| Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Dean was beginning to hate this job more than any other they'd ever done, and that was saying a lot. The separated shoulder, he could deal with. The ache in his head was a minor annoyance. But sitting around in useless and utterly helpless vigil over Sam's unmoving body now topped the list of things he never, ever wanted to do again, thank you very much.
The poltergeist's head-banging had stopped abruptly once Dean had placed the last gris-gris bag in the wall beneath the window. Since then, the attic had been silent and still. Dean stayed in the circle anyway; to be safe, he told himself, but it was really because he was unwilling to be out of arm's reach of Sam. It made him feel better, for a very loose definition of "better," if he could just lean forward to check Sam's pulse every minute or so.
"Next time," he grumbled, "I get to go fuck around in Cloud Coo-coo Land and you can sit with you thumb up your ass and wonder if I'll wake up dead."
Sam made no response, the bastard.
Five minutes passed. Seven. Ten. Dean stood up, but the circle was too small to pace in, so he sat down again. God, he hated this. What if Sam had finished his fight and was sitting around somewhere waiting for Dean to bring him back? Or, fuck, what if he'd died out there, or got lost or something, and this pale, motionless shell with a smear of blood on the upper lip was all Dean was going to get left with?
"Fuck it," Dean said, "I'm bringing you back right now, Sammy, and you can bitch at me later." He reached for the board.
A pale shimmer at the edge of the circle halted him mid-motion. He turned, and found himself face to face with a trembling girl in a blood-soaked white dress.
Dean kept his eye on her as he picked up his shotgun with his left hand.
"Let me guess," he said. "Olivia."
She stared at him with a dazed, blank look on her face, then glanced down at Sam.
"Is he dead?" she asked.
"Hell, no." Dean stood and took a step toward her, holding the shotgun lowered near his hip. She didn't look threatening and couldn't enter the circle anyhow, but one never could tell with ghosts. And anyway, it made him feel better just to have the solid weight of a weapon in his hand. "Listen, did he --"
"He promised he'd find my baby," she said in a shaky voice. "Do you have it? Do you know where it is? Please, sir, I just want to hold it for a little while..."
"I'm sorry," Dean said, "I don't have it." He could feel the temperature dropping as Olivia's distress grew. His breath steamed in front of his face. "But listen, if Sam told you he'd find it then he will, okay? You just have to help him come back here. Now, did he give you a bunch of little bags, about this big, kind of smelly?"
He wasn't sure she understood him at first, but then her expression cleared and she nodded. The cold receded a little.
"He told me to put them in the walls," she said.
"Right. So did you?"
"Yes."
"All of them?"
"Do you have it?" And now there was actual frost creeping up the windowpane, painting snowflake patterns on the glass. "Do you know where it is? Is it alive, is it safe, is it--"
"Olivia!" Dean said sharply, but it was no use. She may have talked with Sam like a normal person out on the astral plane or wherever the fuck it was, but here she was like any other ghost, trapped in the loop of her dying obsession. Still, the fact that she was there at all meant that the poltergeist had lost its grip on her. That was a good sign, wasn't it? Good enough for him, anyway. Dean took a step toward the board and used the toe of his boot to move the planchette toward "goodbye."
Sam snapped back to life screaming and flailing, and knocked over two of the candles before Dean got him pinned down. Fortunately, both candles went out without igniting anything, since Dean really didn't think he was up to dragging Sam from yet another burning house with only one good arm. All he could do was straddle Sam's chest, pin one of his hands down, and dodge wild blows from the other hand until Sam stopped swinging, caught his breath, and muttered, "dude, get off me" while poking Dean in the ribs.
"Ow, quit it," Dean said, and climbed off. "So what happened, man? Are you all right? Did you get it?"
Sam stayed where he was, lying on his back and scrubbing at his face with one shaking hand. His nose was bleeding again, and he looked pale and twitchy and utterly wasted.
"I'm not sure," he said after a while.
"You're kidding." Dean fought down a sudden, overwhelming impulse to bang his head against the wall. Or somebody's head, anyway. He wasn't choosy. "After all this trouble, you're still not sure? What were you doing over there, playing pinochle?"
"Fuck you." Sam rubbed his face some more, which only served to smear the blood around. "I kind of passed out before you pulled me back, so I didn't see what happened at the very end, okay?" Sam's voice was a little higher than normal, Dean noticed, and his limbs were still twitching, though he was clearly making an effort to keep still.
"Hey, are you hurt? Do you need a hospital or something?"
"It won't help," Sam said, which wasn't at all what Dean wanted to hear. "Just give me a couple of minutes. It..." He stopped, closed his eyes, looked suddenly even more sick and exhausted than it had before. "It showed me Jessica. And the fire, back in Palo Alto."
Fuck. Of course it did. Sometimes Dean wondered if there was an instruction manual somewhere out there that every evil thing got a copy of before being released into the world. How to Fuck up Sam Winchester in One Easy Step.
"Sam..."
"I know. It wasn't real. I hurt it -- the poltergeist -- and it fought back the best way it knew how. By changing the illusion to something that would hurt me." Sam sighed and opened his eyes. "I think maybe that was a mistake on its part. I think the trapped spirits all got free when the illusion changed around them."
"Yeah," Dean said, "I think they did. At least, your friend Olivia did, because she's here. Or was here." He glanced around, but Olivia was nowhere in sight. The window was still covered in frost, though, and Dean suspected she was still around, doing whatever it was that ghosts did when they weren't actively manifesting. "If she got out, the others probably did, too."
"Good." Sam coughed a couple of times and finally sat up. "Can we get out of here now? Because I'm covered in freakin' lard, and I really want a shower."
They destroyed the Ouija board before they left, breaking it into seven pieces and sprinkling them with holy water before burying the pieces in the back yard. Sam had to do all the digging, and by the time he was finished, he looked ready to fall asleep on his feet. He shuffled back to the car, flat-footed and glassy-eyed like an old-school Romero zombie, and was snoring in the passenger seat by the time Dean turned on the ignition. He didn't even seem to fully wake up when Dean walked him across the parking lot and into their motel room.
"I thought you wanted a shower," Dean said.
"Urgh," Sam said, and collapsed face-forward onto the nearest bed.
Epilogue