Carry On... Episode 10: Masquerading As A Man Part 3
Here is the third part of episode 10 of Carry On...
Episode 10: Masquerading As A Man
Original airdate: 2010.03.22
Summary:
Present and future come together taking the brothers on a whirlwind tour of what might become of their lives. Sam’s powers, Azazel and Dean’s future meld together in a bizarre way and with a definite Stephen King theme park feel. Is this their reality, or is this something created by an old adversary?
Excerpt:
Other-Dean stumbled into the center of the cavern waving a handgun. Sam squinted at it, it wasn’t just any gun, it was a Colt, the Colt. Babbling, image-Dean staggered, taking as many steps sideways as he did forward. “Made me chose…should never made me choose…can’t choose…can’t…can’t.”
Sam leaned closer to his brother, his real brother. “That’s what you were saying before, in the Impala.”
“That wasn’t me, Sam. It looked like me, but it wasn’t.”
“I know, but…the dream you was saying that.” Sam shrugged. Dean’s eyes were round and he was slightly pale and very freaked out which wasn’t helping Sam remain calm and cool. In fact, it was making him feel the exact opposite.
A flash of light and Azazel materialized out of thin air. He stalked a slow circle around image-Dean. “You know what you have to do.”
Image-Dean used the barrel of the Colt to scratch at his forehead, “Not choosing.”
Written by: mlebayre and sendintheklowns
Artist: kiscinca
PART THREE
“This is-”
“Ridiculous.” Dean spat out before Sam could finish his thought.
“Where are we?” Sam turned in circles.
They were standing on a sidewalk. The snow on the ground, the definite damp nip to the air and the obvious lack of ski lodge and Rocky Mountains made Sam think they weren’t in Colorado anymore.
The town had the small, quaint feeling to it. Older buildings were intermingled with the occasional newer one. Dean tapped his arm and nodded to their right, Starbucks. Sam was being steered through the door and inside the coffee shop before he could get much more of a look around.
“We’re going to have to find a library or somewhere I can get online. My laptop is still back in Colorado.”
“Yeah, one step at a time; lets figure out where we are and why first. Then we figure out how to get back to Colorado, and our car is there too.”
Sam nodded; he was trying not to remind Dean of that fact. The reality was, however, without the Impala they were stripped down to what they’d had on them. Their car wasn’t simply transportation, it was home and in it were their supplies, weapons and a great deal of resources they carried with them and used on a regular basis. Another absolute reality was Sam wanted the car back as much as Dean did.
Sliding up to a tall, round table, Dean rested both elbows on its surface, hooked one of the stools beside it with his foot and dragged it close enough to sit on. Sam slipped onto the other stool. There was a newspaper scattered over the table.
Using two fingers, Dean flipped through the paper, tapped on the top and twisted it to give Sam a better view.
“Ludlow, Maine?” Sam leaned in and whispered. “The Trickster said he liked the Stephen King theme.”
“Most of his books took place in Maine; I think he’s from there or something. We just left The Shining, what book did he write next?”
Tilting his head to one side, Sam sighed. “How should I know? There’s no guarantees the Trickster is going to use the books in the order written, or even use them at all. Just because he said he liked his theme doesn’t mean he’s really going to use it or was even telling the truth.”
“Good point.” Dean straightened and looked around the small coffee shop. “Well, we’re not going to learn much sitting on our asses in here.”
“You’re the one who shoved me in here. I was walking down the street minding my own business.”
Dean huffed and pushed off the stool. “I’m getting something to go, you want one or not? Then, I guess we’re hoofing it, since no wheels. We need to solve this, grab that asshole and end him and get back to the wheels.”
Sam trailed behind his brother to the counter. There was a short line so they stood quietly, Sam listening to the chatter of people around him. He knew Dean, while appearing to be focused intently on the menu, was doing the same thing. Dean always ordered the same coffee no matter what; the menu reading was a ruse for the other patrons.
Leaning to his left as Dean casually shuffled a half foot to the right, Sam stood and tried to blend into the background as much as a guy his height could.
A group of teenage girls were chattering about some upcoming winter dance, behind them were two men discussing what sounded like getting a group of kids to some hockey game…hardly Stephen King novel material.
Another group of kids, four boys, came in, but unlike the others they were quiet and somber. This group was younger than the obvious high-school girls, maybe early teens.
One boy looked as if he’d been crying. His head hung down, chin nearly brushing his chest, curly red hair cropped short so seeing his face even at that angle was easier. His freckled face was pale and splotchy pink. The kid was definitely upset by something and the others with him were definitely trying to cheer him up.
Another boy leaned in closer, putting a hand on the red-haired boy’s shoulder. “We’ll take her tonight to the cemetery. She’ll come back and won’t even remember she’d died.”
Sam’s gut twisted.
When you died, Sam…it wasn’t your time. You were ripped from this life and that left a tear on your spirit.
Dean was at the counter, ordering. He glanced back long enough to meet Sam’s gaze. He’d heard. Nodding and smiling to the man behind the counter, Dean took two large coffees and stepped closer to Sam, whispering, “Did I hear what I think I heard?”
But you got drug back.
Biting down on his lower lip, Sam took the offered cup and nodded. Dean pressed his elbow to Sam’s side and nudged him back from the group of boys. They were still close enough to hear, but Sam knew Dean inching between him and a group of harmless boys somehow made Dean think Sam was shielded from ugly memories and hurt feelings. Dean’s eyes narrowed and he focused on the grieving boy for a split second. More exactly, focused on his shirt.
Sam followed his brother’s gaze. The kid wore a t-shirt, the kind you had made from having one of your own pictures silk screened on the material. The same sad child they looked at now was smiling out from the picture. His arm was slung around a shaggy brown mutt with pointed ears, warm brown eyes and a black nose.
Blinking, Sam realized what the boy was grieving over was his dog. His recently deceased dog. He turned to Dean, mouth opening, but Dean beat him to the punch.
“Pet Semetery, they spelled cemetery wrong for a reason, but I can’t remember what.”
“Did you read that book too?”
Dean shook his head and made a face. “Are you nuts? Saw the movie though. In the story, local legend had it there was some old cemetery in the woods outside town that if you took a dead pet there and buried it, it’d come back. In the movie kids talked about it al lot.”
Fingers snagging in the material of Dean’s jacket, Sam headed toward the door, Dean in tow. Once safely outside Sam blurted out, “They’re going to take that kid’s dead dog to some place that brings it back?”
“Yeah, if this follows the story. The pets come back, but they’re…wrong and…gross. It was nothing but a made-up horror story, Sam.”
“Why would the Trickster pick a story about something being brought back from the dead wrong?” Sam’s voice as well as his hands shook.
“Because he’s messing with us.” Dean snapped. “It’s what he does.”
Sam nodded, wanting very much to believe Dean.
A woman holding a small boy’s hand sidestepped around them, smiling as she moved by. The little guy wore a baseball cap. The woman was talking to him. “Gage, we’ll go pick up your sister and meet daddy then go home.”
The boy, Gage, skipped along beside her.
A couple passing her from the other direction stopped and chatted. Sam distinctly heard her addressed as Rachael, her husband as Louis. Two minutes later she was heading farther away, her little son, Gage, still skipping happily at her side.
When Sam turned to look at Dean, his brother’s face had gone emotionless; his eyes were flat as he watched the woman’s form recede. “That’s the kid.”
They started walking. Sam sipped at his coffee as Dean gave him the highlights of the plot.
“In the movie, the kid, Gage, is run over by a truck near Rachael and Louis’s house. He’s dragged and his baseball cap he always wears-maybe Stephen King knows Bobby,” Dean shrugged and smiled at his own joke. “Anyway, the cap is filled with blood.”
Sam stumbled and choked on his coffee. “Dude, gross.”
“Yeah, I didn’t write it. Anyway, Louis, the father, he takes his son’s body to this pet cemetery he’s heard the locals talk about. In the story kids have been taking their dead pets there for centuries.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a Stephen King movie, Sam. You know master of the macabre, supreme horror guy…”
“What…happened?” Sam ground out, fingers tightening around his cup.
Dean swallowed and stopped, gaze still on the woman and boy. “The kid comes back alright, but all kinds of wrong and nasty. He goes on a killing spree, ripping, slashing, terrorizing, you know, Stephen King stuff.”
Sam felt the color drain out of his face. The tremble in his hands worked its way all through the rest of his body which felt suddenly cold and clammy.
“Aw, Sammy, it’s a movie, a book written by some guy who sits around and thinks up the worst stuff imaginable for a living. Dude scares me. It’s a piece of fiction meant to be scary, a horror movie, what did you expect him to write?”
“But what if the Trickster is trying to say that’s what I’ll become?”
“But nothing, Sam. You haven’t run wild killing anything in the grossest and most hideous way possible and you won’t.” Dean sighed, crumpled his coffee cup and flung it into a nearby trash can. “We’re in this story because the Trickster wants to mess with our heads.” Grabbing Sam’s arm, Dean turned him so he was forced to look directly at Dean. “Don’t let him or he wins.”
Nodding, Sam let Dean guide him down the street, following the woman. “They live outside of town somewhere. On a busy road.”
“With a lot of trucks?”
“Yep.”
“As soon as we figured out where we were he moved us here. So why are we here? Other than to freak me out about being brought back from the dead?”
Dean shrugged. “I don’t know.”
They decided their best course until they knew why they were in this particular story was to stick with Gage and his family. Sam wasn’t exactly excited about the prospect of watching even a fictional family lose their child, Dean even less so, he could tell. They didn’t have a lot of options. The only way to get free of the Trickster was to play along until they could get to him.
Finding the house wasn’t as much of a chore as they’d first thought, it seemed everyone knew everyone in this town and not knowing Louis and Rachael’s last name didn’t hinder them in the least.
It was a quaint older house, maybe a century home, on top of the gentle rise of a small hill. The property was slanted so the road was at the base of the hill, curving around it in such a way a driver’s view was very limited on that section.
They parked in the drive and started their hike up the hill toward the house. They’d gone about half the way when the little boy they’d seen in town, a girl of maybe eight and the young couple who were their parents came outside.
The drone of engines moving along the road rolled through the crisp air.
What exactly the family was doing Sam couldn’t tell, but he heard the louder engine of a large truck as it approached. The little boy, Gage, broke away from his parents, laughing and running.
He ran straight for the road.
Louis shouted then screamed for Gage to stop. Sam hollered at him. Dean broke into a run, charging toward the child. Gage slowed for a few seconds, glancing back over his shoulder. Giggling, he picked up momentum going down the hill.
Sam was running at him, as was Louis. Apparently a three-year-old was faster than three grown men.
A horn from the oncoming truck blared. Brakes ground and tires screeched against pavement. The little boy never stood a chance. He ran right into the truck and was dragged across the road. Sam tripped to a halt and stood watching. He couldn’t help focusing on the little boy’s baseball cap lying on the pavement. It was filled with bone and blood.
Dean stumbled to a halt a few yards from the road and dropped to his knees, gulping in huge breaths. His head hung down, but it didn’t matter. Sam knew too well the expression Dean wore.
Sam turned away, but movement near the road made him turn back. This time there was another little boy, running. Another boy, older by a few years was chasing him, screaming at him to stop. Sam may not have recognized himself, but he sure recognized Dean as a young boy.
Dean was still on his knees, but had straightened and Sam could tell by his posture he was watching the same scene.
Child Dean reached toddler Sam in a few more steps, grabbed him by the shirt collar and yanked back. Winding one arm around the toddler, Dean spun around and threw him to the ground then dropped beside him.
No one other than he and Dean seemed to notice the scene. Sobs and wails from parents losing their child faded into the background.
The toddler image of Sam was crying, sobbing and immediately scooped up and held tightly in Dean's lap.
Dean, the real Dean, climbed slowly to his feet and backed up until he was standing next to Sam. “You had just turned three. It was Memorial Day weekend.”
“What?” That had actually happened?
Turning to him Dean’s eyes were watery. “It was an ice cream truck. I…it was…I uh let go of your hand for just a second and off you…” His voice dropped off as he swallowed thickly. “If you’d gotten another few feet ahead…”
“I didn’t.” Sam let his hand rest on Dean’s shoulder, fingers curling around and gripping tightly. For Sam it was like grabbing an anchor.
“Scared the crap out of me. I never told Dad,” Dean shrugged one shoulder. “Actually, I never told him a lot of stuff.”
The truck driver walked up the hill to join Sam and his brother. “Such a shame. Cute little guy…well he was.”
Dean frowned and turned to face the truck driver. Sam sucked in a breath; he couldn’t have heard what he just heard.
“So, his father carries him through the woods to some patch of ground some ancient spirits inhabit and buries him there. Poor kid comes back seventeen different kinds of wrong.” The truck driver landed a hard stare on Sam.
What’s dead should stay dead.
“Bet he’s like the pets that come back. Wants to do nothing but kill. Wrong. Evil. Killer.”
“Pal, you’d better shut your mouth-” Dean snapped.
The driver melted away, replaced by the Trickster. “Let’s see.” The Trickster snickered and snapped his fingers together.
Immediately the scene changed and they were in a hospital morgue. Louis was pulling the body of his mangled son into his arms. He crept to the door and looked out.
“Don’t do it.” Sam stepped forward, and put one arm out, blocking the door. “It doesn’t work.”
Louis turned to Sam. “You sure about that, Sam?”
Jerking back a step, Sam sucked in a breath. Dean stepped between them and into Louis’s space. “He’s telling the truth. Whatever it is on that land that does this, it doesn’t work.”
“Oh, what’s good for Sam the rest of us don’t get?” Louis growled.
Dean’s shoulders squared even more. He pulled back, straightened and frowned. “That’s not-”
“The same thing, Dean?” In the blink of an eye Louis was the Trickster. “Tell me, how isn’t it the same thing?” He leaned around Dean to look Sam up and down.
“You listen to me.” Dean took a step forward, now squarely between Sam and the Trickster. He stabbed at the Trickster’s chest with one finger. His voice came out nasty and commanding. “There isn’t a damn thing wrong with Sam. He’s a good kid,” another step and another sharp jab, “he always was and he always will be. So back the hell off.”
The Trickster’s face split into a huge grin.
Sam was speechless. Dean often said these things to him, but rarely to anyone else. At least not that Sam ever heard. It felt good. No, great. Better in fact than the feeling of power that had coursed through him a short time ago in the Colorado ski lodge. Somehow hearing Dean validate him to someone else, even if that someone was a stupid, self-centered jackass of a demi-god, made Sam feel like everything they’d gone through was worthwhile. He didn’t give a rip what anyone else thought, but knowing his brother felt this way was the most important thing to Sam.
“Voices in your head making it a little hard to think straight, Dean?” The Trickster grabbed Dean’s hand and shoved it away from him.
“What’s the matter?” Sam spat. “Jealous you can’t do that too? Dean thinks just fine, he figured you out.”
“Humpphh. Let’s just see if we can take what we learned here and use it.” A snap of his fingers and the Trickster was gone.
“Now what?” Sam threw both hands in the air, frustrated. “He wants something, but what? He’s showing us certain novels for a reason. I can’t help thinking it’s for something other than screwing with us.”
“First of all we get out of this morgue.” Dean pulled the door open and motioned Sam ahead. “And find that creepy thing. Then I’m wringing it out of him.”
Stepping through, Sam stopped so fast his brother ran right into his back.
“Sam, what the-” Dean’s voice caught and died when the door swung shut behind them then vanished.
END OF PART THREE
Episode 10: Masquerading As A Man
Original airdate: 2010.03.22
Summary:
Present and future come together taking the brothers on a whirlwind tour of what might become of their lives. Sam’s powers, Azazel and Dean’s future meld together in a bizarre way and with a definite Stephen King theme park feel. Is this their reality, or is this something created by an old adversary?
Excerpt:
Other-Dean stumbled into the center of the cavern waving a handgun. Sam squinted at it, it wasn’t just any gun, it was a Colt, the Colt. Babbling, image-Dean staggered, taking as many steps sideways as he did forward. “Made me chose…should never made me choose…can’t choose…can’t…can’t.”
Sam leaned closer to his brother, his real brother. “That’s what you were saying before, in the Impala.”
“That wasn’t me, Sam. It looked like me, but it wasn’t.”
“I know, but…the dream you was saying that.” Sam shrugged. Dean’s eyes were round and he was slightly pale and very freaked out which wasn’t helping Sam remain calm and cool. In fact, it was making him feel the exact opposite.
A flash of light and Azazel materialized out of thin air. He stalked a slow circle around image-Dean. “You know what you have to do.”
Image-Dean used the barrel of the Colt to scratch at his forehead, “Not choosing.”
Written by: mlebayre and sendintheklowns
Artist: kiscinca
PART THREE
“This is-”
“Ridiculous.” Dean spat out before Sam could finish his thought.
“Where are we?” Sam turned in circles.
They were standing on a sidewalk. The snow on the ground, the definite damp nip to the air and the obvious lack of ski lodge and Rocky Mountains made Sam think they weren’t in Colorado anymore.
The town had the small, quaint feeling to it. Older buildings were intermingled with the occasional newer one. Dean tapped his arm and nodded to their right, Starbucks. Sam was being steered through the door and inside the coffee shop before he could get much more of a look around.
“We’re going to have to find a library or somewhere I can get online. My laptop is still back in Colorado.”
“Yeah, one step at a time; lets figure out where we are and why first. Then we figure out how to get back to Colorado, and our car is there too.”
Sam nodded; he was trying not to remind Dean of that fact. The reality was, however, without the Impala they were stripped down to what they’d had on them. Their car wasn’t simply transportation, it was home and in it were their supplies, weapons and a great deal of resources they carried with them and used on a regular basis. Another absolute reality was Sam wanted the car back as much as Dean did.
Sliding up to a tall, round table, Dean rested both elbows on its surface, hooked one of the stools beside it with his foot and dragged it close enough to sit on. Sam slipped onto the other stool. There was a newspaper scattered over the table.
Using two fingers, Dean flipped through the paper, tapped on the top and twisted it to give Sam a better view.
“Ludlow, Maine?” Sam leaned in and whispered. “The Trickster said he liked the Stephen King theme.”
“Most of his books took place in Maine; I think he’s from there or something. We just left The Shining, what book did he write next?”
Tilting his head to one side, Sam sighed. “How should I know? There’s no guarantees the Trickster is going to use the books in the order written, or even use them at all. Just because he said he liked his theme doesn’t mean he’s really going to use it or was even telling the truth.”
“Good point.” Dean straightened and looked around the small coffee shop. “Well, we’re not going to learn much sitting on our asses in here.”
“You’re the one who shoved me in here. I was walking down the street minding my own business.”
Dean huffed and pushed off the stool. “I’m getting something to go, you want one or not? Then, I guess we’re hoofing it, since no wheels. We need to solve this, grab that asshole and end him and get back to the wheels.”
Sam trailed behind his brother to the counter. There was a short line so they stood quietly, Sam listening to the chatter of people around him. He knew Dean, while appearing to be focused intently on the menu, was doing the same thing. Dean always ordered the same coffee no matter what; the menu reading was a ruse for the other patrons.
Leaning to his left as Dean casually shuffled a half foot to the right, Sam stood and tried to blend into the background as much as a guy his height could.
A group of teenage girls were chattering about some upcoming winter dance, behind them were two men discussing what sounded like getting a group of kids to some hockey game…hardly Stephen King novel material.
Another group of kids, four boys, came in, but unlike the others they were quiet and somber. This group was younger than the obvious high-school girls, maybe early teens.
One boy looked as if he’d been crying. His head hung down, chin nearly brushing his chest, curly red hair cropped short so seeing his face even at that angle was easier. His freckled face was pale and splotchy pink. The kid was definitely upset by something and the others with him were definitely trying to cheer him up.
Another boy leaned in closer, putting a hand on the red-haired boy’s shoulder. “We’ll take her tonight to the cemetery. She’ll come back and won’t even remember she’d died.”
Sam’s gut twisted.
When you died, Sam…it wasn’t your time. You were ripped from this life and that left a tear on your spirit.
Dean was at the counter, ordering. He glanced back long enough to meet Sam’s gaze. He’d heard. Nodding and smiling to the man behind the counter, Dean took two large coffees and stepped closer to Sam, whispering, “Did I hear what I think I heard?”
But you got drug back.
Biting down on his lower lip, Sam took the offered cup and nodded. Dean pressed his elbow to Sam’s side and nudged him back from the group of boys. They were still close enough to hear, but Sam knew Dean inching between him and a group of harmless boys somehow made Dean think Sam was shielded from ugly memories and hurt feelings. Dean’s eyes narrowed and he focused on the grieving boy for a split second. More exactly, focused on his shirt.
Sam followed his brother’s gaze. The kid wore a t-shirt, the kind you had made from having one of your own pictures silk screened on the material. The same sad child they looked at now was smiling out from the picture. His arm was slung around a shaggy brown mutt with pointed ears, warm brown eyes and a black nose.
Blinking, Sam realized what the boy was grieving over was his dog. His recently deceased dog. He turned to Dean, mouth opening, but Dean beat him to the punch.
“Pet Semetery, they spelled cemetery wrong for a reason, but I can’t remember what.”
“Did you read that book too?”
Dean shook his head and made a face. “Are you nuts? Saw the movie though. In the story, local legend had it there was some old cemetery in the woods outside town that if you took a dead pet there and buried it, it’d come back. In the movie kids talked about it al lot.”
Fingers snagging in the material of Dean’s jacket, Sam headed toward the door, Dean in tow. Once safely outside Sam blurted out, “They’re going to take that kid’s dead dog to some place that brings it back?”
“Yeah, if this follows the story. The pets come back, but they’re…wrong and…gross. It was nothing but a made-up horror story, Sam.”
“Why would the Trickster pick a story about something being brought back from the dead wrong?” Sam’s voice as well as his hands shook.
“Because he’s messing with us.” Dean snapped. “It’s what he does.”
Sam nodded, wanting very much to believe Dean.
A woman holding a small boy’s hand sidestepped around them, smiling as she moved by. The little guy wore a baseball cap. The woman was talking to him. “Gage, we’ll go pick up your sister and meet daddy then go home.”
The boy, Gage, skipped along beside her.
A couple passing her from the other direction stopped and chatted. Sam distinctly heard her addressed as Rachael, her husband as Louis. Two minutes later she was heading farther away, her little son, Gage, still skipping happily at her side.
When Sam turned to look at Dean, his brother’s face had gone emotionless; his eyes were flat as he watched the woman’s form recede. “That’s the kid.”
They started walking. Sam sipped at his coffee as Dean gave him the highlights of the plot.
“In the movie, the kid, Gage, is run over by a truck near Rachael and Louis’s house. He’s dragged and his baseball cap he always wears-maybe Stephen King knows Bobby,” Dean shrugged and smiled at his own joke. “Anyway, the cap is filled with blood.”
Sam stumbled and choked on his coffee. “Dude, gross.”
“Yeah, I didn’t write it. Anyway, Louis, the father, he takes his son’s body to this pet cemetery he’s heard the locals talk about. In the story kids have been taking their dead pets there for centuries.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a Stephen King movie, Sam. You know master of the macabre, supreme horror guy…”
“What…happened?” Sam ground out, fingers tightening around his cup.
Dean swallowed and stopped, gaze still on the woman and boy. “The kid comes back alright, but all kinds of wrong and nasty. He goes on a killing spree, ripping, slashing, terrorizing, you know, Stephen King stuff.”
Sam felt the color drain out of his face. The tremble in his hands worked its way all through the rest of his body which felt suddenly cold and clammy.
“Aw, Sammy, it’s a movie, a book written by some guy who sits around and thinks up the worst stuff imaginable for a living. Dude scares me. It’s a piece of fiction meant to be scary, a horror movie, what did you expect him to write?”
“But what if the Trickster is trying to say that’s what I’ll become?”
“But nothing, Sam. You haven’t run wild killing anything in the grossest and most hideous way possible and you won’t.” Dean sighed, crumpled his coffee cup and flung it into a nearby trash can. “We’re in this story because the Trickster wants to mess with our heads.” Grabbing Sam’s arm, Dean turned him so he was forced to look directly at Dean. “Don’t let him or he wins.”
Nodding, Sam let Dean guide him down the street, following the woman. “They live outside of town somewhere. On a busy road.”
“With a lot of trucks?”
“Yep.”
“As soon as we figured out where we were he moved us here. So why are we here? Other than to freak me out about being brought back from the dead?”
Dean shrugged. “I don’t know.”
They decided their best course until they knew why they were in this particular story was to stick with Gage and his family. Sam wasn’t exactly excited about the prospect of watching even a fictional family lose their child, Dean even less so, he could tell. They didn’t have a lot of options. The only way to get free of the Trickster was to play along until they could get to him.
Finding the house wasn’t as much of a chore as they’d first thought, it seemed everyone knew everyone in this town and not knowing Louis and Rachael’s last name didn’t hinder them in the least.
It was a quaint older house, maybe a century home, on top of the gentle rise of a small hill. The property was slanted so the road was at the base of the hill, curving around it in such a way a driver’s view was very limited on that section.
They parked in the drive and started their hike up the hill toward the house. They’d gone about half the way when the little boy they’d seen in town, a girl of maybe eight and the young couple who were their parents came outside.
The drone of engines moving along the road rolled through the crisp air.
What exactly the family was doing Sam couldn’t tell, but he heard the louder engine of a large truck as it approached. The little boy, Gage, broke away from his parents, laughing and running.
He ran straight for the road.
Louis shouted then screamed for Gage to stop. Sam hollered at him. Dean broke into a run, charging toward the child. Gage slowed for a few seconds, glancing back over his shoulder. Giggling, he picked up momentum going down the hill.
Sam was running at him, as was Louis. Apparently a three-year-old was faster than three grown men.
A horn from the oncoming truck blared. Brakes ground and tires screeched against pavement. The little boy never stood a chance. He ran right into the truck and was dragged across the road. Sam tripped to a halt and stood watching. He couldn’t help focusing on the little boy’s baseball cap lying on the pavement. It was filled with bone and blood.
Dean stumbled to a halt a few yards from the road and dropped to his knees, gulping in huge breaths. His head hung down, but it didn’t matter. Sam knew too well the expression Dean wore.
Sam turned away, but movement near the road made him turn back. This time there was another little boy, running. Another boy, older by a few years was chasing him, screaming at him to stop. Sam may not have recognized himself, but he sure recognized Dean as a young boy.
Dean was still on his knees, but had straightened and Sam could tell by his posture he was watching the same scene.
Child Dean reached toddler Sam in a few more steps, grabbed him by the shirt collar and yanked back. Winding one arm around the toddler, Dean spun around and threw him to the ground then dropped beside him.
No one other than he and Dean seemed to notice the scene. Sobs and wails from parents losing their child faded into the background.
The toddler image of Sam was crying, sobbing and immediately scooped up and held tightly in Dean's lap.
Dean, the real Dean, climbed slowly to his feet and backed up until he was standing next to Sam. “You had just turned three. It was Memorial Day weekend.”
“What?” That had actually happened?
Turning to him Dean’s eyes were watery. “It was an ice cream truck. I…it was…I uh let go of your hand for just a second and off you…” His voice dropped off as he swallowed thickly. “If you’d gotten another few feet ahead…”
“I didn’t.” Sam let his hand rest on Dean’s shoulder, fingers curling around and gripping tightly. For Sam it was like grabbing an anchor.
“Scared the crap out of me. I never told Dad,” Dean shrugged one shoulder. “Actually, I never told him a lot of stuff.”
The truck driver walked up the hill to join Sam and his brother. “Such a shame. Cute little guy…well he was.”
Dean frowned and turned to face the truck driver. Sam sucked in a breath; he couldn’t have heard what he just heard.
“So, his father carries him through the woods to some patch of ground some ancient spirits inhabit and buries him there. Poor kid comes back seventeen different kinds of wrong.” The truck driver landed a hard stare on Sam.
What’s dead should stay dead.
“Bet he’s like the pets that come back. Wants to do nothing but kill. Wrong. Evil. Killer.”
“Pal, you’d better shut your mouth-” Dean snapped.
The driver melted away, replaced by the Trickster. “Let’s see.” The Trickster snickered and snapped his fingers together.
Immediately the scene changed and they were in a hospital morgue. Louis was pulling the body of his mangled son into his arms. He crept to the door and looked out.
“Don’t do it.” Sam stepped forward, and put one arm out, blocking the door. “It doesn’t work.”
Louis turned to Sam. “You sure about that, Sam?”
Jerking back a step, Sam sucked in a breath. Dean stepped between them and into Louis’s space. “He’s telling the truth. Whatever it is on that land that does this, it doesn’t work.”
“Oh, what’s good for Sam the rest of us don’t get?” Louis growled.
Dean’s shoulders squared even more. He pulled back, straightened and frowned. “That’s not-”
“The same thing, Dean?” In the blink of an eye Louis was the Trickster. “Tell me, how isn’t it the same thing?” He leaned around Dean to look Sam up and down.
“You listen to me.” Dean took a step forward, now squarely between Sam and the Trickster. He stabbed at the Trickster’s chest with one finger. His voice came out nasty and commanding. “There isn’t a damn thing wrong with Sam. He’s a good kid,” another step and another sharp jab, “he always was and he always will be. So back the hell off.”
The Trickster’s face split into a huge grin.
Sam was speechless. Dean often said these things to him, but rarely to anyone else. At least not that Sam ever heard. It felt good. No, great. Better in fact than the feeling of power that had coursed through him a short time ago in the Colorado ski lodge. Somehow hearing Dean validate him to someone else, even if that someone was a stupid, self-centered jackass of a demi-god, made Sam feel like everything they’d gone through was worthwhile. He didn’t give a rip what anyone else thought, but knowing his brother felt this way was the most important thing to Sam.
“Voices in your head making it a little hard to think straight, Dean?” The Trickster grabbed Dean’s hand and shoved it away from him.
“What’s the matter?” Sam spat. “Jealous you can’t do that too? Dean thinks just fine, he figured you out.”
“Humpphh. Let’s just see if we can take what we learned here and use it.” A snap of his fingers and the Trickster was gone.
“Now what?” Sam threw both hands in the air, frustrated. “He wants something, but what? He’s showing us certain novels for a reason. I can’t help thinking it’s for something other than screwing with us.”
“First of all we get out of this morgue.” Dean pulled the door open and motioned Sam ahead. “And find that creepy thing. Then I’m wringing it out of him.”
Stepping through, Sam stopped so fast his brother ran right into his back.
“Sam, what the-” Dean’s voice caught and died when the door swung shut behind them then vanished.
END OF PART THREE