Carry On... Episode 14: Tainted Trust Part 3

[kiscinca]

Here is the third part episode 14 of Carry On...



Episode 14: Tainted Trust

Original airdate: 2010.05.10

Summary:

Harvelle's Roadhouse is back in the business and Ellen invites the boys over. Shortly after their arrival hunters die in most gruesome ways, one by one, and the blame is quickly assigned to the Winchesters. All of a sudden they have to defend themselves against more than supernatural beings.
Excerpt:

“Sam!” Dean’s voice hissed in his ear, insistent and urgent. In his dream, Sam called out to Dean so he’d find him.

When a hand clapped over his mouth, Sam jerked awake, arms flailing, feet kicking. Another hand pressed down on his shoulder and a weight pushed down on Sam’s chest.

“Sam, shut up.”

“Humpft,” was all Sam could get out. Eyes opened wide, he scanned the room.

Dean, clad only in jeans, was crouched between the beds with one arm extended over Sam’s chest, the hand gripping his shoulder, keeping Sam in place. The hand that was over Sam’s mouth moved slowly to Dean’s lips, “Shhh.”

Sam heard shouting from outside, someone yelling that someone was dead, or about to be dead. He met Dean’s gaze and eased one elbow under him so he could sit up. Dean’s hand on his shoulder curled to a fist and pulled, helping Sam sit up further. Mouthing the words, “what’s going on?”

Written by: annj_g80  and mlebayre

Artist: thruterryseyes

PART THREE

Dean stared at his brother for a few seconds, fighting down the urge to slap him and shake him until he came back to his senses.

“Dude, you don't have to tell me this.” He hissed then started to pace up and down, up and down, all the while watching as two men neared the car to take care of the body or what was left of it. Sears was standing a few feet away, his gaze directed at Dean and Sam, his eyes squinted together so close that Dean wondered how he could see anything at all. His gun was plain visible in the waistband of his jeans. With a determined stride he came closer again, after throwing one last disgusted look at the car. Without thinking Dean put himself between Sam and the other man.

“He threatened me,” Sears growled and stared over Dean's shoulders at Sam. “Now look what happened. This can't be a coincidence.”

Ellen, who stood not far away either and observed the ongoings with a sharp eye, now burst out laughing. It sounded foreign and wrong but had a strangely calming effect on Dean.

"He threatened you?" She asked sarcastically. "You threatened him, Sears. Not the other way around, just to make things clear. What gives you the right to blame him for this?"

"Reason gives me every right I need."

"Bullshit!" Ellen replied and the few hunters who weren't busy cleaning up started mumbling in angry contradiction.

Dean knew they were outnumbered hopelessly. Counting seven men besides Sears they were at eight versus two. Three, if he counted Ellen to their side. It didn't look good and one glance at his younger brother and he knew, he couldn't really count on his brother either if the shit started to hit the fan. Sam looked almost dazed, staring alternately at the gruesomely mutilated Pritchard and Sears. The panic and guilt written all over his face didn't really help the situation.

It was late at night or early in the morning depending on how they looked at it. These men were even drunker than John Winchester at his worst and even though their balance wasn't the best in their condition, they still could point a gun and pull the trigger. Not necessarily with a good aim but Dean had no intention of seeing what happened if they did start a fight here and now. So, to his own surprise, he was the first one to lower his weapon.

Ellen walked closer putting herself next to him and this way shielding Sam from the men.

"Maybe we should calm down before you do something you're really going to regret," Dean said. "You know, do this grown up stuff like talking and such."

Sears huffed. "What's there to talk about? One of my men is dead. Another one! And you and your brother are right in the middle of it all. What the hell do you expect me to believe? This stinks like Winchester."

Dean could already hear Sam's teeth rattling and only then he realized the cold, adrenaline having rushed through his veins until then. It was a February night in Nevada, and he and Sam were only wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, which they had hastily flung over their heads, while Sears was clad in full outfit including a fur-lined vest and a pair of boots. If Sears didn't shoot them soon, he'd kill them with pneumonia.

"If you want to keep up your stupid game of 'blame-the-innocent' could we at least continue somewhere warm?" Dean’s breath was condensing in front of his mouth and he grabbed his brother's shoulder to steer him away from the car, ignoring the hostile glances being shot at them. He didn't care. Things were getting out of control and he and his brother were standing naked--figuratively --opposite a group of gung-ho hooligans with trigger happy fingers. Not what Dean had expected from their night off. The men were apparently dumbfounded enough by Dean's final words and his impromptu turn towards to the building that they even parted to let them pass.

The car they found the dead guy in was standing on the parking lot in front of the roadhouse and it took Dean only a few moments to enter the building, which was warm compared to the freezing temperatures outside.

"I'll get some blankets. Help yourself with the whiskey," Ellen said, almost making Dean jump. He hadn't even realized she had followed them inside.

The lights in the Roadhouse were still on, the bar not emptied of visitors. One look at the display of the ancient stereo told him it was 1:34 a.m. The radio was still turned on, the tables still occupied with half-filled beer glasses. The bar must have been full with hunters while Pritchard had been slaughtered only a few feet away. Strangely enough, the priest was still sitting in his booth, eyeing them with an almost hostile animosity that didn't fit into the image of a clergy man. He was still nursing the same glass in his hands, as if he hadn't come here to drink but merely stare at the alcohol. Dean tried to ignore him.

"Are you okay?" Dean bodily sat Sam on the same stool he had occupied before, sipping his own beer and Sam blinked at him. He was still cold and pale though it had more to do with the fact that he was being accused of such a gruesome murder than the temperature. "Sam, talk to me. Are you alright?" Dean repeated, putting his hand on the chilly skin at Sam’s neck and finally, Sam looked at him, recognition sparking.

"I didn't do it, Dean," he breathed, his face a mask of despair. "You gotta believe me!"

"I gotta...what?" Not sure he had heard right Dean took a small step backwards and leaned down, his eyes on the same height as Sam's. "I gotta believe you? Are you kidding me?" It came out harsh and Sam jerked under his touch, face tilting away as if in shame but Dean held his chin in place. "Listen to me, Sam! I don't have to believe. I know! You didn't do anything. You just didn't. Nothing--no one in this world could make me think something like that."

"But..." Sam trailed off when Ellen came back with some blankets, dropping them on the counter unceremoniously and turning away again to fill three tiny glasses with a clear liquid and putting them in front of each of them.

"Drink!" she ordered, staring at Sam with a stern expression that made Dean's heart swell with gratefulness.

"I don't..."

"Just do it!" Dean ordered, then turned to Ellen. "Thanks, Ellen."

"You're welcome," she grumbled, then looked through the window where Sears and his men were gathering, talking. "That is one dead man out there."

"You're saying?" Dean barked, his teeth grinding.

"Not saying anything, Dean," she tried in a soothing, calm tone. "I just think you should..."

"...get the hell away from here?" Dean finished.

"Yeah, something like that." Ellen sighed. "I'm sorry. I should've known something like this would happen."

"Why's that?" Dean wanted to know and managed a smirk. "Because we're cursed?"

"No, dumbass,” Ellen answered. "Because Sears and his men mean trouble. It doesn't even matter who they have trouble with. If there's no one they can poke with a stick, they find themselves a victim. Obviously they found you."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Couldn't they just torture a cat or something like everyone else?"

Sam gave him a disgusted glance and Dean was glad for a sign he was aware of his surroundings again.

"Dean, there's a dead-really, really dead--hunter out there, killed by some shadow." He almost choked on the last word and Dean sobered fast. "Something is going on here."

"I know that, Sherlock," Dean replied pointedly. "And I also know that you've nothing to do with it."

"But I'm afraid they don't know that," Ellen interjected, cocking her head to the side when the door opened and Sears entered again.

He strode towards Dean, slowly, measuredly.

"Now what, come to apologize?" Dean asked, cocky, and could hear Sam groan. That so was not helping and Dean knew it. He just couldn't resist it. Those jerks deserved his fist on their noses and if they kept threatening his brother, they deserved much worse.

"Hardly," Sears spat on the floor and took one step closer.

This was ridiculous. Dean was tired and pissed and the dead guy in the parking was neither his fault, nor his problem. He was about to forget about his anger, grab his brother and just leave when the lights started to fade in and out, leaving the Roadhouse in darkness for a few seconds before the light rose again, too bright to be coming from a normal light bulb.

It seemed to come from everywhere. Like the sun had suddenly decided to pop up in the middle of the Roadhouse. The brightness hurt Dean's eyes and he lifted one hand to shield them in the very same second when the light bulbs exploded, showering them all in tiny splinters. The temperature rose so rapidly that between two breaths, Dean felt the heat bristle on his skin. Seconds later, the light vanished so fast that it took Dean a few moments before he realized that the room was bathed in complete darkness again.

"What the hell?" Dean exclaimed and squinted in the direction he assumed Sam. It took him several seconds before he could make out the blurry outline of his brother who was wheezing and panting like he had run a marathon.

"It wasn't me," Sam swore and - of course - Dean believed him. This didn't feel like the earlier beer explosion. This felt different, heavier. There was a strange smell in the air and even though it held just the slightest hint of sulphur, it wasn't demonic. At least, not entirely. Besides the sulphur, Dean recognized the familiar scent of hairspray. He had smelled it on enough brunettes and blondes to know what it was: ozone.

He still had problems with his eyes and soon realized he wasn't the only one. He could see the moving blob that was Sears or one of his men--he wasn't sure--with arms stretched out as if feeling his way around the place.

"What did you do, you freak? Stop it!" Sears yelled, close to panicking and was about to attack when all a sudden pressure weighed on them like a heavy blanket. Where there was darkness before there was now a vacuum. Air seemed to have left the room and something pressed against Dean's skin. He felt like a car in one of Bobby's compacters. White dots were dancing in front of Dean's eyes and the temperature was falling again, a light breeze now spicing up the air around them. He crouched down, taking Sam with him, and felt his way around the counter where he hit something warm, human.

"Dean?" Ellen shrieked and Dean confirmed with a short "It's us. You okay?"

"What the hell is going on?" she hissed. What followed was a loud scream of pain, then a ripping sound, obscene in its clarity. A limb being ripped off a body. Still, the darkness was complete and it weighed so heavy, like a centrifugal force, on Dean that he swore he could feel its texture against his skin.

"I don't know!" Dean replied groping for Sam and finding his brother bent over on all fours and, according to the sounds, vomiting his guts out. "Sam!" Dean could feel the muscles on his brother's back constrict painfully and hear his laboured breathing. "Sammy!"

Soft threads of visibility slowly crawled back in Dean's sense of sight and never before was he so grateful to see the feeble remains of Sam's stomach contents on the floor. As long as he could see again.

Next to him, Ellen had gotten on her tiptoes, peeking over the top of the counter and she recoiled quickly, face so ashen in the darkness that it looked like the moon itself.

"What's going on there?" he asked.

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. Dean didn't miss the look she shot towards Sam. There was fear in it, doubt even, and his heartbeat quickened even more. "Ellen!" he barked. "What did you see?”

"Just a shadow," she answered. "Nothing but a big shadow. At least one man down, another one still standing."

Dean was about to crawl back around the corner when he was held back by Sam, whose fingers were wrapped tightly around his wrist.

"Don't!" Sam breathed. "I think, it'll be over soon."

“How do you...?” Dean hissed but before he could finish the sentence silence feel, almost more striking than the previous darkness. He got up slowly, not really wanting to see what had happened but looking nonetheless. He regretted it seconds later. What was left of Sears was lying in a pile of clothes and limbs. Dean could see a bloody foot next to a head with open eyes. Then the horrified faces of at least five of Sears’ men whose eyes where first glued to their mutilated fellow hunter, then to Dean.

"Go!" Ellen whispered next to him. "Get Sam out of here before they rip his head off with their bare hands."

"We can't leave you here, Ellen. This thing--shadow-- whatever, could come back."

"Dean, just get your ass out of here!" Ellen ground out between clenched teeth, already grabbing for the sawed-off that was hanging above next to empty glasses and full bottles of Jim Beam. Instincts kicked in and Dean looked down at Sam who was about to get back on his feet. He reached under Sam's armpits and hauled him on his feet, dragging him on and through the front door into the night.

The door to their room was still standing wide open when Dean reached it, closely followed by Sam.

"We have to go back, Dean!" Sam wheezed and after Dean made sure the door was closed firmly he took the time to look at Sam. His brother rummaged around in his duffel until he found what he was looking for: a sweater to fend of the chilly temperature.

"The hell we do. One of their men was killed in front of their eyes and you were in the room. And you want to go back and offer a peace treaty or what? Are you nuts?"

Sam looked hurt for a moment before his face fell. Maybe that had come out a little differently from what Dean had intended and he could see his brother swallow convulsively.

"You...you don't actually think that was me, do you?" Sam stood up, the warm shirt he was about to pull over his freezing body forgotten in his clenched fists.

"No!" Dean replied quickly. Maybe a little too quickly and he winced. "Of course I don't. But..."

"But what Dean?"

"You have to admit, this looks suspicious from an outsider point of view."

Yeah, Dean! Go on. Why don't you just rip your tongue out. This would make saying stupid things like this less a problem.

Sam stared at him, open mouthed. His eyes blinking sluggishly as if he was trying to decipher Dean's words.

"You do believe it was me!" It was not a question but a statement and Sam's betrayed face merely crushed Dean's heart.

"Sam," he began, taking a few steps into the room. Fortunately, Sam didn't seem to have the power to move away from him since he stumbled with the back of his knees against the edge of the bed and sank down.

Sitting across from him on his own bed, Dean wiped his face and sighed, exhausted. "I do not believe it was you!" he said and put every ounce of belief in his words that he could muster. Admittedly, the evidence was against his brother but Dean didn't give a shit about evidence when it came to Sam. He knew his brother. He knew Sam wouldn't--hell couldn't--do anything like that. There had to be an explanation and all they had to do was to find it and--well--convince about half a dozen hunters of it, who somehow were convinced to have found the Anti-Christ in Sam.

Cakewalk.

"You don't trust me, Dean," Sam sighed, shoulders slumping and added in a whisper, "and I'm not even sure I trust myself."

Dean gulped. "What are you talking about?"

Sighing, Sam leaned forwards on his elbows. "These powers, Dean. They're like...like a fire burning inside of me and I can't control it." He put his head in his hands and Dean could hear him take a deep breath. "There was something in the roadhouse, something bad. And... I could feel. It..." He trailed off, searching for words that would be explanation and apology enough.

"It wasn't you, Sam. That is all that counts." Dean reached out, touched his brother's shoulder. Could feel the muscles tense under his fingers. "This is not you." I promise! He wanted to add but felt foolish. How could he promise something like this? He wasn't ten anymore and Sam wasn't a six year old boy who only wanted to know if his father would be home for his birthday.

In his childhood and later in his youth, Dean had made a lot of promises to his brother and he had barely kept half of them. A promise was a flowery phrase to make Sam's pain ease and Dean’s own increase because this was another chance for him to mess things up. To offer hopeless assurance where all hope was long gone.

Sometimes he was the worst brother ever and this felt like such a moment.

"I'm sorry, Sam," and the younger man looked up, confused.

"Sorry? You're sorry? What have you got to be sorry for?" It sounded bitter.

Dean shrugged his shoulder. "Heck, where do I start? I told you that as long as you were with me, nothing would happen to you."

"I was five, Dean," Sam snorted.

“Hey, I tell you this at least once a week,” Dean said with just the hint of a smile. "And it doesn't matter how old you are. I promised I would take care of you and I'm doing a piss poor job, I gotta say."

"Dean..."

"No, Sam you listen! I'm sick of you carrying every burden you collect on your way. None of this is your fault and I want this to get in that stubborn head of yours. Taking care of you is my job, my responsibility and... " Memories of Sam being tortured in front of him flared up in his mind and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the images away.

Sam managed to chuckle. "You're such a hypocrite, Dean."

Glad that Sam at least managed a sad smile, Dean retorted with a mildly offended "Hey!" and Sam looked at him gratefully, face getting grave again.

"I don't want this, Dean. I want this to stop. I can't even trust myself. How can you possibly trust me?"

Ellen chose that moment to knock, yelling at them to open the door. She sounded more angry than panicked and Dean waited for Sam's nod before he went to open the door for their friend. The woman strode in with a snarl on her lips, her gaze all but wary directed at Sam. Something that made Dean want to kick her out of their room again immediately.

"Care to explain what the hell happened in there?" she barked in a bad mood. “I just had to collect bones from my bar like peanut shells.” Dean swore he could see Sam shrink under her stare.

"Ellen," He began. "you don't actually think we... Sam has got anything to do with this."

She took a deep calming breath and after one last look at the younger man, she rolled her eyes, beaten.

"No, of course I don't," she sighed. "But this doesn't mean others don't. We have a really big problem."
"Only one?" Dean joked.

Ellen didn't seem to think it was funny.

"You should be glad it was Sears who got ripped into pieces in my bar. Everyone else is running around like chickens with their heads chopped off. The remaining hunters aren't exactly organised," she informed them. "But I'm not sure how long this is going to last. They will eventually get around their panic and start shooting at the assumed source of it."

"Which would be me,” Sam finished her train of thought.

"Which is nonsense!" Dean flared up heatedly and Ellen rolled her eyes at him.

"Of course it is, Dean," she tried to calm him down. "We just need to convince them." She made a pointing gesture over her shoulder. "So, any idea what this thing was?"

Glad to have something else to think about, Dean tried to concentrate, recalling everything that had happened so far but even before he could put the things together, it was Sam who spoke up thoughtfully. "A daeva."

Ellen looked rather clueless. "Daeva?"

"Shadow demon," Dean answered promptly and then narrowed his eyes as realization hit him. "The darkness, the viciousness. It all makes sense."

"But usually they have to get summoned by someone before they kill. They don't kill on their own," Sam interjected, sounding a little more hopeful--if hopeful was the right word for their situation.

"So someone is freaking summoning demons? In my bar?" Ellen sounded personally insulted.

"Looks like it," Dean replied. "But the targeting is tricky at best." Only too well he could remember the last time they encountered a shadow demon. They had gotten out with more scratches and bruises than they could count and it had given them a taste too close to their own mortality as well as vulnerability. Back then, it had almost cost them their father's life. Now that Dean was thinking about it, it somehow felt like the lesser evil in relation to their current situation with their father. "Summoning shadow demons requires an altar or at least various magical supplies to keep them under control. And the person is somewhere close by."

"We need to take a look at the dead men," Sam insisted, looking like the implementation of his suggestion was the last thing on his mind.

“I will not have another look at the bloody pulp of Sears again,” Ellen mumbled. “I'll have nightmares as it is.”

Sam looked at her apologetically. “Sorry, Ellen.”

With something that sounded like pish she waved her hand at him. “Not your fault. So, what do you expect to find?”

"We should find either symbolic indications written in blood or something else that attracted the demon to its victim," Sam explained.

Ellen squinted. "Like a hexbag, you mean?"

"Possible."

"Fine!" she stated energetically and strode towards the door.

"Wait," Sam had gotten up. "Where are you going?"

"Looking for the evidence. You'll need it," She answered and Dean knew she was right. He didn't have to like her going alone, though.

"I should go with you," he offered and got an affirmative nod from his brother.

"No! You stay here! I'll have a look at the car first." She looked out the window, then went on, a little bit more insecure. "The car is within eyeshot. If something happens, come and save my ass, got it?"

Dean smirked, incredibly thankful for having Ellen at their side.

"Be careful!" Sam hollered after her but she was already gone.

Dean got in position next to the window that was covered with a curtain. Carefully, he squinted through a gap in the fabric out in the dark and followed Ellen's progess to the car where she walked around it a few times before opening the door. Even from the distance, he could see her reluctance and he knew he wouldn't feel any different. The insides of the car were a mess. Finding anything but puddles of blood and gore would be quite a challenge.

Startled, he turned around when he felt Sam's presence right behind him. He hadn't even heard him come closer.

"I feel like a coward," Sam murmured. "I can't believe we sent out Ellen to look for the evidences."

"She's a big girl and can take care of herself."

"So are we," Sam countered.

"We're big girls?" Dean smirked. "Speak for yourself, dude."

Sam scowled at him. "You know what I mean. We should be out there. It's what we do."

"Not with a bunch of trigger happy chickens in the roadhouse who just lost their alpha wolf and think you're the one who shot him, Elmer."

"Elmer?"

"Well, you know, the little bald guy with the rifle who wants to skin poor Bugs Bunny alive."

"You're weird," Sam exclaimed but Dean could hear the hint of humor in it and was satisfied. He preferred a bitchy Sam to the depressed one any day.

"Still, this feels wrong."

"I don't care if it feels wrong. For the moment, I just want you to be safe and far out of range of these jerks who couldn't find their own asses if they weren't attached to their bodies, let alone the truth."

Sam snorted. "You know you can't always protect me. Not like this."

Dean shrugged his shoulders and let the curtains fall back to their place when he saw Ellen jogging back towards them. "Maybe not. But I can try."

He opened the door and let Ellen in, whose face had the color of peeled onions. There were smudges of blood on her clothes, her hands, even her face but what took all of Dean's attention was the small bag in her right hand, small enough to be hidden in a pocket.

"I suppose that's what you've been looking for," she said grimly but her eyes sparkled with victory.

"Yes," Dean replied. "and now we only need to find out who this belongs to and..." He turned to his brother, punching a finger at his chest. "And keep you away from the wrong side of a muzzle. See? Cakewalk!"

END OF PART THREE