Venom Part 1
Title: Venom
Author tifaching
Artist twisted-slinky
Pairing: Gen
Rating: Teen and up
Warnings: Show level gore.
Summary: Sam thinks hellhounds are Dean's greatest fear from hell, but they're not up here, not really. There's one horror from the pit that's always been here and always will.
Thank you so much to my brilliant artist and a big thank you to the mods for being patient while I screwed up their schedule. Thank you mods!
Art link Here
Sometimes in the night Dean feels them. Hoping Sam will turn on the light so see can see nothing’s there. Hoping Sam will turn on the light so he can defend himself. But mostly he hopes that Sam will leave the light off so he doesn’t have to know he’s going crazy. Hoping Sam will leave the light off so they can all just go about their business.
Dean’s okay, mostly, until Sam spots an article about a serious uptick in the mortality rate of an obscure religious group near Baton Rouge. There’s a picture accompanying the story in horrifyingly accurate color and Dean’s having none of it.
“Of course these morons are fucking dying, Sam! Why the hell wouldn’t they be?”
Sam, being Sam, has statistics and charts and graphs showing that while dying happens on occasion at events like these, it’s less common than people, meaning Dean, would think. Dean’s still not having it.
“I don’t care. If these nuts want to commit some insane form of suicide, who are we to stop them?”
Sam spins the laptop to face his brother, eyes narrowing as Dean’s gaze skitters everywhere but at the screen. “Since when do they bother you so much?”
Dean shrugs, face as blank as he can make it. “They don’t. I just don’t think this is our kind of gig. These rejects are just a step away from hunting humans and making sausage out of them. People are crazy, remember?”
“Yeah.” Sam remembers all right, Dean can see it in his face. But he’s not backing down. His index finger taps the screen in several places. “But kids, Dean. They crazy too?”
Dean just rolls his eyes because, yeah, he’s run into a few nut job children, but Sam knows his business. The adults in the picture are caught in a still life horror show but are wild with ecstasy. The kids are frozen in a tableau of utter terror.
*
Dean’s hands are steady as he puts the Impala in gear though his grip is white knuckled on the wheel. It’s a long way from the outskirts of Urbandale, Iowa (shifter, straight shot through the heart) to Assumption Parish Louisiana where he’ll get yet another chance to face down the fucking pit. The kids are camped in the forefront of his mind, curled in on themselves, eyes stark with fear that no child should ever have to suffer. Taking a deep breath, he compresses his lips and steps on the gas.
*
They stop for the night at the Arkansas border, pulling into the dust strewn parking lot of a one story motor inn just off the highway. Sam’s at the wheel now, Dean a coiled ball of exhaustion in the passenger seat.
“I’ll check us in.” Sam gives his brother a quick glance that Dean can’t quite read. “You look beat, dude.”
“I’m fine,” says Dean with what he hopes is a convincing smile.
“Yeah, okay.” Sam gives a soft snort and gets out of the car.
Dean watches Sam’s progress to the office as he picks his way through debris in the dimly lit parking lot. It’s too dark to see the ground clearly and his heart thuds in panic at what Sam could put his foot down on out there. He takes a long swig from the flask he pulls from his pocket. It’s the first shot he’s had all day and Christ does he need it.
Stop it, he scolds himself viciously. It’s all in your mind, all in your mind, all in your mind, you fucking coward.. Except it isn’t, not totally. There’s one torment from hell that’s right here on earth and always has been and it’s been camped right in the forefront of his mind since Sam showed him the damn pictures.
*
The door’s tight in its frame. The windows too. The ceiling is plaster, no loose tiles to provide any kind of access. Sam lays down salt lines and eyes Dean as he pulls out the furniture to inspect for cracks in the walls or holes in the baseboards. Everything’s solid and well put together and Dean doesn’t relax at all as he goes to check out the bathroom. He closes the drain in the shower and curls his lip at the toilet with its watery passage to the outside. Reaching out carefully from the side he flips the lid down and makes a plan to come back after Sam hits the hay to put the considerable weight of the weapons duffle on top of it.
“Everything check out?” Sam asks as Dean comes back to the bedroom. He’s stretched out on his bed, long legs crossed at the ankles. “Thought maybe you fell in or something.”
“I was in there, like, two minutes.” Dean fights the urge to kneel down and peek under the tattered camo bedspreads.
“Closer to forty-five, but okay. Hope you cracked a window or something.”
“Window’s painted shut,” Dean says, but he can’t stop his gaze from shooting to the closed bathroom door. What if the window came loose in its frame? What if there’s a gap? He balls his hand into a fist so tight his fingernails gouge half moon circles into his dirty palm. The window’s fine. He checked it twice. Maybe three times. Maybe ten. Shit. Had he really been in there forty five minutes?
“Hey.” Dean starts as Sam grips his elbow. He hadn’t even noticed his brother move. “You’re kind of freaking me out here.”
Dean tries to twist out of Sam’s grasp but the best he can manage is a shuddering twitch. Sam clamps his free hand across Dean’s sweat drenched forehead and grips it like a vise for a drawn out moment before releasing him.
“Will I live?” Dean means for it to be sarcastic but the best he can manage is a dull monotone. God, he’s tired.
“Maybe, if you get some sleep so you can drive tomorrow without running us off a cliff.” Sam steers Dean toward his bed, sighing in exasperation as Dean just stares at it blankly. “If you’re waiting for a maid to turn it down, you’ll be waiting a long time.”
Once Dean’s knife is safely ensconced under his pillow, case given a surreptitious shake while he’s at it, he settles down on top of the spread, fully clothed with his boots on. He hears Sam take a deep breath beside him, but his brother doesn’t speak. Spending his nights this way has been a habit since Hell. Sam has stopped asking and Dean’s not about to explain, so that’s working well.
“I’m going to keep researching for a bit,” Sam says quietly, an I’ve got watc h tone in his voice that’s not generally there when they’re not actively threatened and the room’s well warded. “Try and get some sleep.”
Dean peeks through slitted eyelids at the closed bathroom door, worried that he won’t be able to get in to make sure nothing comes crawling through the toilet pipes overnight, worried that Sam might wander in there unaware of what might be waiting. His teeth are clenched so tight it’s a miracle they don’t crack right off at the root. There’s a full bottle of Jack in his duffle but he’s going to have to wait until Sam’s asleep to dull the frantic whirling in his brain. It’s nothing new. Every night when he closes his eyes, drunk or sober, one of a million agonizing, humiliating scenarios plays out. It’s never fun to discover which one he’ll be reliving on any given night. Small even breaths do nothing to calm him and red blobs dance across the back of his eyelids from the light Sam still has on. Tonight shapes wend their way through his vision; long and thick, short and thin, dark, and bright and everything in between and eventually he loses himself under the suffocating crush of their weight, the rattle of chains an almost unnoticed noise in the background.
When he starts into consciousness, the room is grey with the light of dawn and Sam’s bed is empty, covers strewn across the bottom of the mattress. The sound of running water puts Sam in the shower and Dean slowly shifts his aching shoulders, trying to stretch out some of the tension of the night. Waking relaxed is not something he’s remotely familiar with any more. The clock on the nightstand reads eight-fifteen and he’s shocked at how late he slept. How late Sam let him sleep. He glances at the window again and grimaces at the slash of rain across the filthy surface. Not dawn, just dreary. Propping himself up on one elbow, he rubs one hand down his face and blows out a long breath before realizing that Sam’s in the shower.
“Shit,” he says, yesterday’s uncertain paranoia and last night’s vivid dreams colliding in queasy recollection. He quickly scans the floor before leaping out of bed and bolting through the bathroom door. “Sammy?”
“You were expecting Lindsey Lohan?” Sam sticks his head around the curtain with a grin. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Fine,” Dean says. “Reasonably rested.” It’s sort of true. He’s not as quite dead tired as he was last night so it’s all good. “Gotta take a leak.”
“Awesome, thanks for the update.” Sam vanishes back behind the curtain. “Don’t flush ‘til I’m done, okay?”
“Sure thing,” Dean says. He’s totally flushing. Except when he turns to the toilet the lid is down and he freezes. His bladder’s ready to bust straight through his abdominal wall but the lid is down. There’s nothing under there, he screams at himself but he takes the time to go back and grab his knife from under his pillow. Reaching out slowly he slides the blade under the lid and flips it open, stepping back immediately though he knows the speed and reach of many of the things that could be waiting to strike. Nothing’s in there but a few inches of clear water. Of course. Swallowing hard he relieves himself as quickly as he can and Sam exits the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist just as Dean flushes.
“Ha,” Sam says with a grin. “Timing is everything. “ He sniffs ostentatiously as he passes his brother and blocks Dean’s way out the door. “You next, dude. You stink. And you’re in luck because I did laundry while you were out tomcatting the other night and there’s clean underwear when you’re done.”
Sam leaves the door ajar as he leaves the room and Dean doesn’t close it though he does slam the toilet lid down as soon as his brother clears the room. He folds his clothes neatly on top of it as he strips and keeps the shower curtain open enough that he can keep an eye on it through his quick, efficient clean up. He’s toweling himself off when he notices a shadow through the curtain on the bathroom window. He watches for a moment as it waves sinuously before darting forward to pull the curtain aside, knife again at the ready. It’s a branch, thin and leafless, a brittle extension of a worn down husk of a tree, dying like everything dies. He drops the curtain with a shudder and goes to claim the clean underwear Sam promised.
*
The weather clears as they head south, skies brightening until the Impala’s traveling under full, punishing sunlight. By the time they hit the Louisiana border the heat is oppressive and they’re both dripping with sweat. It’s slow going after they leave the highway, thick trees hanging low along winding roads, gradually thinning out until they’re sparsely littered through mossy green pools of water. Dean’s driving slower than he needs to because if he speeds up at all, he’s likely to run them straight into the swamp in his rush to be out of it.
“You know you can pick up the pace a little,” Sam says.
Dean doesn’t press down one millimeter more on the accelerator. For all he doesn’t want to be in the swamp he doesn’t really want to get where they’re going either. Damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. Story of his fucking life.
Eventually they begin to pass signs of human habitation. There’s a boat tied to a dock extending out into the swamp. A small house on stilts sits next to it, a short suspension bridge connecting it to the dock. The swamp begins to recede as the land on either side of the road stretches further and further into it. A gas station appears around a corner and Dean pulls in. The ground is solid here, flat and paved and he presses his feet against it as he fills the Impala’s tank. He watches Sam’s back as he goes in to get snacks and information. When the nozzle clunks to a stop and Sam’s not back out, he moseys his way into the building, grimacing as a bell jangles over the door as he passes through it. Sam’s standing at the counter jawing with the burly man behind it. He’s got two bottles of Mountain Dew, a pack of barbecue beef jerky and a half dozen Mounds bars piled up in front of him.
“Put that with the gas.” Dean’s pulling a credit card out of his wallet when the man points a tattooed finger at a Cash Only sign. With a small sigh Dean yanks three twenties out of his wallet. Thankfully he’s flush with cash right now. What Sam thought of as wildcatting, Dean considered making money. If Sam thinks he was just getting laid and not also hustling pool, well, that’s his brother’s issue. “We close to Assumption Parish?” he asks, ducking his head to peer beneath the baseball cap pulled low over the station worker’s eyes.
“Just told him,” the man replied, nodding at Sam, his soft, thick drawl almost lost in the wild tangle of beard swallowing up the lower half of his face. “Bout half an hour down a’ways, take the right fork at Burnt Stump road and just keep going.”
“There’s a sign there, right?” Dean tries for a grin. “Not just a burnt stump?” The hat brim turns Dean’s way but the eyes remain hidden and Dean fights the urge to back up a step.
“You don’t look like a city fella,” the man says. “And that don’t look like no city fella’s vehicle out there. Not sure what you boys are doing here, but there’s things probably you don’t want to deal with. So watch your step. And yes. We have signs.”
“Sorry,” Sam says, giving the man his best smile. “Got lost a time or two is all. Thanks for the info.”
Dean shakes Sam’s grip off his arm as the bell jangles them out. “So, get any info?”
“Found us a place to sleep tonight.” Sam squints up at the rapidly darkening sky. “Don’t think we want to go snooping around strange swampland at night. Think his warning was just general things that will kill you in a swamp or something more specific?”
“I don’t know,” Dean says, but when he glances behind them there’s a dark shape at the garage’s door and he feels eyes on the back of his neck until they round the corner out of sight.
*
It’s almost full dark when they reach the outskirts of Assumption Parish and Sam directs Dean into the driveway of the second house on the left as they enter the town. Dean stares skeptically as he glides the Impala to a stop. The house is tiny but it has two stories, dormer windows crookedly protruding from the roof like carbuncles. White clapboard glistens in the glow of headlights and flower boxes crowd the railing of the porch wrapping around the front of the house.
“Swampy Adams send us here? Whose house is this?” The ground is dry and grassy with paths lined with barely visible white stones crisscrossing it. Stay on the path, or not, your choice. You can run faster but it still won’t save you Dean shakes that memory out of his head, the voice out of his head. “Is this some sort of Bed and Breakfast?”
Sam laughs at the almost horror in Dean’s voice. “More like a boarding house,” he says. “Might have a quilted pillow or two but they’re more likely to be flat and stained.”
“Kind of small to fit a lot of boarders in.” Dean’s stalling. If he talks long enough maybe he’ll never have to get out of the car. Sam takes the leave or stay decision out of his hands by opening the passenger side door and exiting the car with a groan.
The front door swings open and a woman walks out, letting the screen door slam behind her. She’s tall and slender wearing jeans tucked into calf high leather boots and a t-shirt with a design on it Dean can’t make out. A dirty blonde braid hangs over her shoulder, swaying as she gently tugs on it with one hand. She stops just far enough outside the bright halo of the porch light for her face to be in shadow but Dean can feel them getting a good looking over. Biting the bullet he gets out too, leaning one arm on the top of the car and staring back at her instead of at the ground at his feet.
“Grab your gear and come on in,” she says eventually. “Just time for you to clean up before dinner.”
Sam’s already got the trunk open and he tosses Dean his duffle before shouldering his own gear and the weapons bag. Dean takes a deep breath and follows him down the twisting path to the front porch. Sam stops when he reaches the steps and Dean’s about to step around to his side when the woman stops him with an outstretched hand.
“Stay on the path,” she says and Dean’s heart stutters. Stay on the path, stay on the path, stay on the path. With a slow smile she adds, “You’ll step all over my flowers otherwise.”
Dean looks down at the tightly packed blooms stretching off along the wooden crosslatches under the porch. There’s no breeze but several of the stalks are swaying and if Sam doesn’t get his ass up on the porch Dean’s going to pick him up and carry him there.
“I’m Sam. This is my brother, Dean.” Sam hold out his hand and the woman steps forward to take it.
“Leonie Hebert.” Her fingers are covered in carved ebony rings. She’s got a tight grip; Dean can see her knuckles blanch before they’re swallowed up in Sam’s gigantic paw. “Come on in, I’ve got supper on the stove.”
After a quick stop in the kitchen to stir a pot full of something giving off an amazing bubbling aroma, she leads them up a narrow stairway to a brightly lit hallway. “Decide between you who wants what,” she says, swinging open doors on either side of the hall. She reaches inside one then the other to flip the light switch. “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.
“Anyone else here?” Dean catches her sidelong, wary look. “I mean, for sharing the bathroom with.”
“Just you two for right now. I’m downstairs.” She turns to head back to the kitchen. “Towels in the cupboard in the bathroom, extra blankets in the closets. See you downstairs for dinner in fifteen.”
Sam raises an eyebrow at Dean and shrugs. “Any preference?”
Dean peers in one room, then the other. “Both look about the same. I’ll take the one in the front. Keep an eye on Baby.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Like anyone’s going to touch your car.” He tosses his duffle into the room, lays the weapons bag on the floor so gently that it doesn’t even rattle. “Dibs on the bathroom.”
“It’s all yours,” Dean says, but the door’s already closing behind his brother. With Sam out of sight, Dean feels a familiar twitch between his shoulder blades. He steps into his room, eyes darting like a cornered rabbit trying to see everywhere at once. It’s a small space, but homier than the average motel room, with dried flowers in vases on the dresser and what looks like a hand braided rug in bright shades of red, blue and yellow covering a few square feet of floor. The closet is empty and clean, blankets that have recently been stored in cedar folded neatly on the shelf. It’s a matter of moments to lay down salt lines at the windows and he leans deep into the well of the dormer to see if he can catch a glimpse of the Impala, settled in for the night. The porch light is out, though, and the darkness is absolute. Dean shivers as his vision invents movement even in the pitch black night. He’s still there, listening intently for something he can’t even define when Sam’s hand lands on his shoulder.
“C’mon, man. I’m starving.”
Dean is too, he realizes, and he follows his brother down the stairs.
*
The stew is rich with gravy and hot with tantalizing spices and even the multicolored array of vegetables doesn’t stop Dean from shoveling down one bowlful and steadily working his way through a second. Hot buttery biscuits fresh from the oven sop up the last bits from the bottom of his bowl and he leans back in his chair with a barely stifled belch as he casts a wistful glance toward the pot on the stovetop.
“There’s plenty,” Leonie says with a smile. “Food and drink are included in the price of your rooms.”
“You may come to regret that,” Sam says as Dean pops the cap off his third beer.
“Nah,” Leonie says. “Business has been slow and I’ve got plenty put up in the pantry and freezer.”
“Well, thank you, then.” Sam’s still working on his first beer, but he grabs another biscuit from the tray. “Are you the only game in town for lodging? I mean, this is a pretty small town and my research didn’t turn up a motel or restaurant.”
Leonie’s got her elbows on the table, chin resting on her folded hands as she stares at Sam. “Why on earth would you be researching Assumption Parish? It’s not exactly a vacation spot. Don’t get many strangers through here at all.”
“And yet you run a boarding house.” Dean cocks an eyebrow at her as he takes a swig of beer.
“Touche’,” she says with a small smile. “And not a terribly busy one as you can see.” She’s drinking coffee, black and steaming and she takes a sip with a shrug. “I don’t need a huge income because I mostly grow and hunt what I need. I get a few people coming through once in a very great while and locals show up on the regular for my cooking.”
“Can see why,” Sam says. “If you don’t mind my asking, what do the strangers passing through come here for?”
“What did you two come here for?”
Sam cuts a quick glance at Dean who sends back a non-committal shrug. “There’s a church in town…” He cuts off quickly as she stiffens and the smile drops from her face.
“That’s why most people come here.” Her gaze darts between the two of them. “I didn’t think- you two don’t seem the type to…”
“Oh, we’re not fixin’ to join up,” Dean says, gripping his beer bottle until his knuckles whiten. “We just happened to see something about it on the news and it seemed screwed up enough to check out for ourselves.”
“So, you see something weird on the news and what you do is come to a nothing town in the middle of nowhere to check it out?” Her fingernail makes a nervous tap tap tap on the tabletop. “And what news? Not like we get reporters through here either.”
“We see people who need help and we try to help them.” Sam leans forward and pins her with his gaze. “Even people in nothing towns in the middle of nowhere.”
“We’ve been at it a long time,” Dean says. “Kind of like the family business. And trust me, we’ve come across situations way more unlikely than this one.”
“I don’t know if you can help them,” Leonie whispers. “I don’t think they want to be helped.”
“What can you tell us about the church?” Dean’s fine letting Sam lead the questioning while he starts another beer. He’s tempted to go grab the whiskey from his duffle to get through the conversation but that would be a tell and he’s not giving this up to Sam if he can help it.
“It’s always been there, long as there’s been a town here. Just a normal church for most of that time. But lately it’s gone bad out there.”
“Yeah, we saw. They did their snake handling better back in the day.”
“Back in the day?” Leonie gets up and cuts slices from a pie tin on the counter with shaking hands. She puts plates in front of Sam and Dean before getting one for herself and settling back in her chair. “Sorry, she says with a grimace. “Comfort food, you know?”
Dean nods as he shovels a forkful into his mouth. “We do.”
“Sorry,” she repeats, plate untouched in front of her. “But not back in the day. Less than a year ago since she came and brought the creatures.” She shivers and looks down, biting her lip. “Most of the town stopped going then. It was too crazy. But some stayed and more came.”
Less than a year. Dean clenches his jaw. About the same amount of time he’s been walking the earth again. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know.” Leonie pulls a silver chain with a pentagram on it from under her shirt. She inclines her head toward a dream catcher in the window. “I never was a church goer and once it started to get bad no one who went out there ever came back. People I knew were out there. People who sat at this table.” Her gaze flicks from Sam to Dean and then back to the table top. “I was afraid.”
“It’s okay.” Sam reaches out and grips her hands in his.
“How did you know it was getting bad?” Dean scrapes the plate bare of pie and gets up to cut another piece.
“They used to come into town. To buy supplies. To eat. They’d tell us how wonderful it was, how the lady made them closer to God. Tried to get more people to go back with them. And some went. But eventually they stopped. Until one day a woman walked into town.” Leonie halts, takes a deep breath, and goes on. “She was carrying a child, about two years old. I wasn’t there, I didn’t see but they said the child’s limbs were black and swollen with poison. They tried to help her, to take the child, but she kept on walking. Her skin was covered in scars and her eyes- they were blank like she was a dead woman walking. She turned and walked right into the swamp water and something terrible swirled under the water and dragged her down until she was gone.”
“Something more terrible than an alligator? Because I’ve heard they do that.”
“They seemed to think so.” She gets up and begins to pile the dishes in the sink. “And we live with them here. Hunt them. They’d know if it was a gator.”
“Did you call the police?”
Leonie shrugs. “We’re not much for the law down here. But for a dead baby and her mama? We did. They were skeptical as you might imagine. But they went out. They didn’t come back. And no one ever came looking for them, weird as that was. We didn’t call again.” She carefully places the last plate in the dish drainer and wipes her hands before turning to somberly meet their eyes. “I never expected to be telling strangers that story over dinner. I think I’m ready to turn in now, though I’m not planning on sleeping at all.”
“Hey.” Dean stops her before she leaves the kitchen. “Dinner was really great, thank you. The chicken stew especially, I’ve never had anything like it.”
“Glad you liked it,” she says with a nod. “You boys have a good night, now.”
They don’t speak until they hear a door close down the hallway and Sam peeks around the corner to make sure it’s empty. “So what do you think?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” Dean says. “Demon? Witch? I mean, how did people know to come here to join up? How did the news get out?”
“And make its way to us.”
“And make its way to us. Trap?”
“Maybe it’s just a bunch of nutjobs who like to play with snakes.”
“Huh,” Sam says with a laugh. “Wouldn’t that be nice.”
*
Dean’s uncomfortably full when he finally turns in. Two more pieces of pie and another six pack have combined to almost bury his dread that threatens to consume him. He gives the room a final check- windows shut tight, salt lines undisturbed, closet empty. The bed is deceptively comfortable, the thin mattress molding to his body like it was made for him. The pillows are embroidered and he snickers lazily wondering if Sam got the flat, stained ones. Sleep comes quickly and he falls immediately into nightmares.
The path is never ending. It’s wide and narrow and flat and mountainous and surrounded by grassy fields and arid deserts and fetid pools of water. Dean runs. He always runs when he has the chance. There are chains rattling in his head but his wrists and ankles are free now, bearing only double punctures on each to show where the manacles had gripped him. It’s worth it, whatever happens, this time to himself; this time to run. That doesn’t staunch the terror pooled in his chest, the knowledge of what’s hunting him. He can leave the trail at any time. Might just before the end. Mostly, that’s worse, but not always.
He can hear it coming, when it’s hunting. The hiss like a steam engine, the splash of water, the waving of the grass or the fall of rock as a massive body slams its way through. When it’s waiting he never knows. Comes around a corner, drifts too close to a stream, finds it completely blocking the path…sometimes there’s running then too, but usually he’s caught, crushed, swallowed, carried back to the chamber where his chains wait. Tonight it’s waiting just over a rise, stretched out flat, body extending as far down the path as he can see. Dean skids to a stop, turning on his heel, but for something this size it moves like quicksilver. It’s coiled and striking before he makes it six feet. The air shifts behinds him and he throws himself sideways into the grass, but fangs skewer his thigh, dragging him back onto the path. Not alone, though. The grass is full of the monster’s smaller friends and they coil and hiss and strike over and over again. There’s pain and paralysis but no loss of awareness as coils the size of subway cars drape around him and begin to squeeze.
Dean wakes with a swallowed scream, chest heaving as he gasps for breath. He’d left the bedside lamp on and the room is bright against the oppressive darkness of the window. He scoots up the bed until his back is against the wall and tucks his knees against his chest. His wrists ache and he rubs one then the other absently, holding them up in front of his face as he notices double red indentations on .each side. They don’t break the skin, travel through flesh and bone, don’t provide a way to hold him in place, but they’re there. He stares down at his feet, willing himself to take off his boots and check for their matches on his ankles. In the end he doesn’t, just sits there, clenching his teeth and swallowing the bile that threatens to spew until the sun’s risen and the smell of coffee and bacon comes from downstairs.,p>
Leonie pours Dean a cup of coffee and shovels eggs and bacon onto his plate. “Sleep well?” she asks, peering into his face as she takes a seat opposite Sam.
“Like a baby,” Dean says, raising his coffee cup in salute. “You?”
“Same,” she says, with a twist of her lip. “That’s why we’ve got pits under our eyes.”
“Part of my devastating good looks. And your eyes look beautiful.” Dean kicks Sam under the table when his brother snorts and rolls his eyes. Then he takes another bite of bacon.
“Neither of you is hurting in that department.” Leonie looks at them and picks at her eggs. “You sure you want to go out to that crazy church? What’s going on out there isn’t natural.”
“You got that right,” Dean says with a barely suppressed shudder. “Who plays with snakes like that?”
“It’s more than that,” she says slowly.
“What is it?” Sam refills his coffee mug and gives her the full weight of his gaze.
“There’s a devil out there.” She looks at them defensively. “A demon. Something evil. You can feel it, even in town.”
“We’re going to take care of it,” Sam says, laying a hand on top of hers.
“Yes we are.” Dean’s had years of practice in his voice not shaking at all.
*
Leonie drives with them through town, down winding streets with the occasional pedestrian wandering the sidewalk. Most of the town is at work, she tells them. On boats that take them hunting in the swamp or working in the odd shop that processes their catch.
“I’d be out there myself if you two hadn’t showed up last night. Pull over here,” she says as they reach a narrow, one car bridge heading to what looks like an island across a couple of hundred feet of water. She gets out after Dean glides the Impala to a stop and leans against the bridge abutment as the brothers join her.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean breathes. “Because, of course.”“It’s not far,” Leonie says, pointing down the cracked pavement heading into a copse of trees. “Because the island’s not that big. About a quarter mile past those trees. The bridge isn’t great for cars because everyone used to walk.”
Sam pops the trunk and begins to pile weapons onto the back seat. Dean grabs a machete and his sawed off; checking that his revolver is securely tucked against his back. Sam tosses containers of salt and their entire supply of bullets into duffles that he throws into the car before sliding in and silently waiting for Dean.
“Be careful,” Leonie says and Dean just nods as he forces himself into the driver’s seat and steers carefully across the bridge.
The road is dry and solid beneath the Impala’s wheels and Dean breathes out a tiny sigh of relief that he doesn’t have to force her though swamp muck. Tree branches hang thickly around them blocking out the overcast sky. It’s not long before they reach an open square of concrete spread out in front of a church that had clearly seen better days. There’s no movement, no signs of life and as soon as they open the car doors the stench that hits them in the face tells them why that might be.
“Shit,” Sam says, grabbing the duffles and tossing one to Dean. The church is on risers, built to withstand flood waters and the filthy windows are too high for even Sam to get a glimpse in.
“Careful,” Dean says as they make their way up the rickety wooden steps, trying to force himself to breathe. “Snakes are sneaky fuckers.”
“Remember hunting rattlers with Bobby when we were kids?” Sam casts a worried look at Dean’s pale face. “After a couple of his dogs got bit?”
“Yeah.” Dean flexes his shoulders nervously, remembering hunting poisonous snakes at twelve, nervous but not almost paralyzed with fear like he is now. “Bobby got most of them, but we bagged a few.”
“We’re better now,” Sam says, reaching for the door handle. “I mean, how many can there be?”
“I guess we’ll find out.” Dean goes in first when Sam pulls the door open and skids to a halt three steps inside where the first body blocks his way.
“Ugh,” Sam groans moving up beside him, taking shallow whistling breaths through his mouth. The bodies cover most of the floor, swollen, black with poison and yellow green from decomposing in the Louisiana heat. There are snake corpses intertwined with human, open mouthed, fangs bared where they’re not sunk into the rotting flesh beside them. “Think this is all of them?”
Dean can’t answer, still staring at the carnage in front of them. Some of the bodies are small, tiny even and he wheels around to spew his breakfast over the porch railing. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand he goes back in, pulling his EMF detector out and flipping it on. There’s a faint buzz of static that bleeds into a whine and then nothing.
“Looks like they’ve been dead a while.” Sam picks his way through the bodies, clicking on his flashlight when the room gets dim away from the door.
“Suppose one of them’s the “Lady” Leonie told us about?” Dean shines his light on the altar where the name of the new congregation is etched. He shudders and gags again, light playing over the walls of the church. There’s nothing there. No sigils, no hexes, no crosses upside down or otherwise.
“Don’t know.” Sam straightens up and begins to speak the exorcism ritual, memorized now after so many uses. Nothing stirs, no black smoke spews from the bodies and he turns to his brother with a shrug. “No ID on any of the bodies. Could have been a demon. Could have been a witch. Might have just been a crazy cult. Whatever it was seems to be gone now. But whatever the reason, it’s unholy ground now.”
Dean follows Sam across the floor, splashing kerosene over the bodies Sam has covered with salt. He halts the flow a few feet short of the door and flips his lighter open. The bone dry wood of the church will go up in an inferno and he casts a nervous glance at the sun bleached stalks of grass surrounding the building and lining the road. Screw it, he thinks viciously, tossing the lighter as far into the church as he can. He’s about to run down the steps to make his escape when the bright light of the flames reveals a wide alcove behind the alter. As the flames rise, lighting more and more of it, Dean follows a stack of coils to almost the roof where a broad head rests. Eyes slit open and Dean’s heart stutters in his chest. Another figure outlined by shadows in writhing serpents sits astride the creature’s neck and Dean locks his teeth to keep from screaming.
“Come on!” Sam’s at his side, dragging him down the steps but before he turns he sees the figures waver and vanish into the smoke. Live snakes are pouring out from under the church, from the overhang of the roof and slithering at top speed through the tall grass desperate to keep ahead of fires lit by floating embers. Dean crushes hundreds beneath the Impala’s tires before he guns her back over the bridge, smoke turning the sky black behind him.
Leonie’s waiting, sitting on the sidewalk across the street and Dean wants to drive right past her, get the hell out of here, back on dry land, back on his territory, but he slows down with a screech of brakes and pulls in beside her. If what he saw back there was real and not a trick of the smoke there’s nowhere he can hide anyway.
“I’m sorry,” Dean says, watching Leonie’s pale face watch the approaching flames. “They were all gone. There was no saving them.”
“I think there never was any saving them,” she says quietly. “But fire, purifies, right?” She shifts her gaze along the island’s shore to where the water is roiling with snakes. “Whatever was out there is gone now?”
“We think so,” Sam says. Dean just clenches his jaw and nods as Sam hands her a slip of paper with their cell numbers scrawled on them. “But call us if you think it’s not.”
She nods, eyes still on the water. The snakes aren’t heading toward town but are swimming north en masse toward the one and only route out of town. “You should go, “ she says and Dean’s not about to argue. When they put Assumption Parish in their rear view mirror she’s still staring across the water at the fire.
Part 2