SPN gen fic: Sweet Caroline 6/11
Sep. 30th, 2008 07:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
superbadgirlTitle: Sweet Caroline
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
superbadgirl
Category: Horror/Mystery, A/A, H/C, Case Fic
Season/Spoiler: mid to late S1
Rating: R
Word Count: 5,550 this chapter/57,900, all told
Summary: Dean and Sam head to a small Minnesota town to investigate the mysterious death of a college student. They struggle to put together the pieces and end the hunt before anyone else gets hurt or killed.
Author's Notes: My thanks toldyanne for the alpha and encouragement, and to meg_tdj for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: Not mine and all that, though I really think someone oughta convince Kripke to set up an SPN library.
Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four
The cops drove by the cemetery every thirteen and a half minutes. Dean had frozen his fingers off for the past hour, as he staked out the graveyard in soggy underbrush lining the illustrious College Avenue. So far, the local LEOs hadn’t broken pattern and Dean was beyond ready to call it confirmed. Thirteen minutes gave he and Sam plenty of time to get things done and get out, undetected. They didn’t need to lug much equipment, which would speed their time. The second the cruiser vanished around the corner for the fifth time, Dean started making his way back to the Impala, parked a good three blocks away. With any luck, Sam had completed his task and was already there.
Dean pulled his jacket tighter, thinking he was going to have to hone up on his computer skills so next time they could flip a coin for the cushy job. Sam had secured the indoor – warm – assignment of clearing their “school records” without contest. It wasn’t like it was a job Dean could do half as well as Sam. That whole thing could have waited until after they dispatched Caroline Sellke, but it wasn’t something Dean wanted forgotten in an unforeseen rush out of town. Besides, to make up for Sam being the lucky one now Dean planned on making him do the brunt of the work in the graveyard. To even things up. At the very least, Sam was going to play pack mule.
His brother wasn’t at the car when Dean arrived. He contemplated calling Sam to bug him about being so damned slow, and rag on him for the snow jinx while he was at it. Dean was no meteorologist, but it smelled like snow was in the air. If he had anything to do with it, they’d be southbound twenty minutes after Sam made it back to the car. A fast in-and-out job was in order. He climbed in, cracked a window and started the car up. No sense trying to demolish a statue with numb hands.
Once warmed up, Dean again considered calling his brother. He wasn’t quite sure where Sam had gone on the ride from campus to the motel earlier because he hadn’t asked, but he was certain the mental road trip hadn’t been fun. Sam had stayed in a funk for a good hour, the kind Dean knew he couldn’t fix with antics or food or anything at all. He was still out of touch with Sam, but not so much he didn’t understand some things needed to work themselves out.
Especially if the funk was induced by what Dean suspected it was. The list of things likely to bother Sam had one item on it, and was titled “Jessica.” Even if it was more immediately about someone or something else, it was always about Jessica in the end. And that wasn’t a subject Dean felt qualified to talk to his brother about. It sucked, because if Dean closed his eyes he was once again hit with a memory of Sam at six, looking to him to answer every question and fix every little thing. Of course, thinking about that only reminded him that back then he hadn’t told Sam everything, not by a long shot, and he sure as hell hadn’t been able to fix everything. Their lives would never be uncomplicated.
He slumped down in the seat. If Sam didn’t hurry up, Dean would be the one too distracted for the job. He had to stop thinking of his brother as if he were childlike, because Sam had stopped being that a long time ago. It only did harm to dwell on things that could not ever be again, that probably never had been in the first place.
The passenger door creaked open the second he thought that. Excellent timing. Having one of them mopey nearly 24/7 was enough.
“What took you?”
“You were right. We shouldn’t have even bothered enrolling. I don't know why I...never mind. It was just more work than it was worth,” Sam said. “I had to crosscheck a bunch of different systems.”
“I figured we’d be here longer,” Dean said, though that wasn’t why he’d gone ahead with Sam’s stupid plan at all.
“Yeah. Me, too.” It looked like Sam regretted more than just enrolling them as students, eliminating any urge Dean might have had to say I told you so. Sam held his hands out to the heater. “So what’d you find out?”
“The cops are out, but they’ve got light coverage.” Dean sat up, checking his watch. They’d have to wait for the next circuit of the police cruiser to start. “Only one car. It passes the cemetery every thirteen minutes or so. We’ve got about seven more before he’s due by again.”
“That should give us plenty of time.”
They’d gone over all the information they (Sam) had uncovered regarding this urban legend and established that in most cases it was just a legend. No new facts came to light on how to deal with a real, live killing statue on online sources or in Dad’s journal. Sam had gone over it four times, Dean twice. After all that, they both decided the spirit was somehow bound to the statue itself rather than remains, so demolishing it should take care of the problem. Dean felt a small amount of relief for that – the ground was probably still winter-hard. Under no conditions ever could he dig a grave in less than fifteen minutes.
“We should get over there. Let’s go smash this bitch,” Dean said with a grin.
“Dude.” Sam looked mildly alarmed by Dean’s enthusiasm. “You’re actually looking forward to this, aren’t you?”
What could Dean say – smashing things was fun. He’d never outgrown that. It wasn’t his fault Sam didn’t hold the same childish delights to heart. Sometimes he thought Sam should embrace his inner child; they’d both be better off for it. But then Dean remembered Sam hadn’t liked smashing things when he was a little kid. He’d preferred to burn stuff with a magnifying glass and the sun. Dean frowned, disturbed at that image. That wasn’t something Sam would turn to for enjoyment, and explained why Dean so often got stuck with the salt and burn. It might be a while before fire was just another part of the job to Sam.
“I love the sound of concrete breaking in the still of the night.”
“You’re messed up.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. C’mon. Grab the sledgehammers from the trunk, will you?” Dean shut off the car, handed Sam the keys and rolled up his window. He peered at the dark houses, certain he saw a curtain fall back into place. He locked the passenger door and got out, joining Sam at the rear of the car. “I wonder if we should move the car. I think the friendlies might be not so friendly anymore.”
“That might just draw more attention,” Sam said after a moment. He held both hammers as inconspicuously as he could. “The car doesn’t exactly purr.”
Pulling the keys out of the lock, Dean shut the trunk lid quietly. Sam made a good point, the Impala growled like the beast she was and made people stare. But having their car investigated or towed due to suspicious townsfolk would put a crimp in his departure plans. It would also be nice to have it a little bit closer to the cemetery, in case they needed extra supplies.
“I think the folks in house number 1395 have already noticed us sitting here awhile. I’m gonna move it,” Dean said.
“Okay, if you think it’s necessary it probably is.” Sam lifted the sledgehammers slightly. “I wish you would have thought of it before I got these things out of the trunk, though.”
“Too heavy for you, Nelly?”
“No. Shut up, man.” Sam left Dean by the trunk, glaring back at him when he reached the passenger door. He stood for a minute, expression growing ever darker.
Dean smiled.
“Are you going to get the door for me, or what?”
It amused Dean when Sam was such an obvious girl. He walked to the driver’s side, smiling all the while.
Sam gaped at him, shaking his head in disbelief. He set the sledgehammers down, frowning when he discovered the passenger door locked.
“Dean.”
“Hey, I’ll meet you there. We’ve lost another two minutes. You can start while I find a good place to park.”
“Dean,” Sam growled this time.
“See ya, Sammy,” Dean said.
Sam grumbled something about denting the roof of the car, but the threat was empty. The guy only gave him another death glare before slipping off into the night.
Dean opened the creaky car door and slid in, watching Sam stalk away in the rearview mirror. The sledgehammers made it look like he had giant blocks for hands, and he hunched slightly from their weight. He glanced at house 1395 quickly, realizing Sam’s shadowed figure would probably look like something out of a horror movie to anyone who didn’t know him. The curtain was still down. He shrugged, started the car and pulled away from the curb. He’d spotted a good place to park earlier, so it only took him a few minutes and then he was silently moving through the bushes. He found Sam hidden at the gate, waiting for the patrol to go by.
“They should be here any second now,” Dean said as he hunkered down next to his brother.
Before the cop made his inevitable slow drive by the cemetery, though, disruption came from another place – Sam’s pocket, as his cell began to buzz. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam fumble for the device. He was about to tell his brother to ignore whoever it was when he saw his brother’s face in the bright LED light. Confusion and uneasiness were predominant, with a fair touch of dread. Never a good combination.
“It’s Iris,” Sam whispered, looking over at him with a worried frown.
What the hell? Miss Never-gonna-talk-to-you-again had sure changed her tune real quick like. Dean didn’t have time to shake his head. Sam already had the phone up to his ear. Great. They hadn’t even set foot in the boneyard and this was fouled up. On cue, the cop drove by slowly. He tugged at Sam’s sleeve. His brother pulled away, disregarding him. Dean shifted, trying to decide if he should leave his bleeding-heart brother out there while he went in to take care of business.
“What? Iris, slow down.” Sam’s voice sounded hushed and panicky, drawing Dean’s attention back. “What do you mean? You’re where?”
That’s when Dean heard a voice. A female voice. And it wasn’t coming from Sam’s phone. Oh, hell no. This night couldn’t possibly get worse.
“I followed her out to the cemetery. She said she wanted to prove you were a whack job. Sam, she won’t answer her phone. I didn’t know what else to do. Even if you're crazy, you...oh, shit, I don't know what I was thinking.”
In the pale, frosty glow of the quarter moon, Dean saw Iris, her hair gleaming faintly copper as she walked directly for the cemetery gates. Well, she was either stupid or really stupid for coming out here after her friend…wait, followed who now? If someone was already in the cemetery and alone, that was inviting disaster. The spirit seemed to go for lone people, but once it got going anything was fair game. He eyed Iris. Dean figured it wasn’t a good plan to leap out of the bushes and grab her, but at this point there weren’t many options. Sam beat him to it, hurriedly telling Iris to turn around and go back home as he rustled through the brush.
“But Gwen,” Iris said, trailing off with a startled squeak at Sam’s sudden appearance. She took two steps backwards, dropping her phone. “What…?”
Dean picked up the sledgehammers and followed Sam, keeping himself behind his brother so Iris wouldn’t freak out. Freak out more. Her eyes were huge, her face so white it almost glowed. His attention wandered to the cemetery, eyes searching for the equally stupid friend. They were at the far gate, away from the road. The statue was on the other side of the graveyard, closer to a side gate too visible for them to use in their quickly turning unstealthy plan. Dean couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything. But then, if sweet, sweet murdering Caroline had the other girl already, she’d be suffocating right about now.
“Sam,” he said, “Not to break up the party, but we have to get on this. Clock’s ticking.”
“I want you to go back to campus, Iris,” Sam said, grasping the girl by the arms and pivoting her back the direction she’d come.
“But Gwen’s out here somewhere.”
“We’ll find her. We’ll get her home, don’t worry.”
“I’m not leaving without her.”
They did not have time to stand around talking.
“For crying out –” A shrill cry tore through the night as if in response, cutting off Dean’s frustrated words.
Sam let go of the girl, turning to him.
Dean tossed his brother a hammer, and they ran without pausing or thinking, calling back simultaneously, “Stay here.” He glanced back to make sure Iris heeded the warning, thankful it looked as though she was rooted to the spot. It slowed him down, but Sam would always outdistance him anyway. He collided with his brother when Sam suddenly stopped short and started swiveling his head around like he was looking for something. Then Dean saw the object of their disaffection was not where it should be. Neither was the other girl.
Another cry, and Dean knew where to go. The girl had run for the closest escape. He slapped Sam on the sleeve, taking up pursuit again. Dean saw a massive black shape ahead, somehow much bigger than the statue actually was. He didn’t have time to think. The girl was on the ground, her face twisted in terror that he could not allow to become her death mask. She was too close, the thing was right on top of her. The risk of injury by falling debris was one she’d thank him for later. It beat the hell out of the alternative. Dean locked his legs, raised the sledgehammer and prepared to swing.
What he hadn’t taken into consideration was a moving target. Sledgehammers were effective tools, but they required exertion and balance. That wasn’t easy to come by in a fight. The hammer was halfway down when the statue turned. It swung back at him, clipping the right side of his face. He faltered and then fell, gravity pulling him down with the sledgehammer which had come nowhere near its mark.
“Dean,” Sam said faintly, and, “The girl. The statue.”
He blinked at his brother, seeing Sam’s face contort in a shout, not whisper. His ears were ringing, must be, because Sam was talking more than Dean was hearing. Somehow it sounded like a disco song and also the thunk of concrete hitting dirt at the same time. Sammy swinging the hammer, the girl screaming. Dean scrambled to his feet, reclaiming his own sledgehammer. Everything did a loop. Must have hit his head harder than he thought. The statue moved to him again, unfazed by the blows raining on it. Someone – him? Sam? – connected a substantial blow, shattering its right arm. Not the left, though. The left hit Sam, sent him flying. Dean’s brain cleared almost instantly.
“Sonuvabitch,” he growled, not sparing Sam the look he wanted to.
He aimed for the goddamn bonneted head, smashing it into a billion pieces. That should have killed the possessed statue, but the thing kept coming at him. Headless. It was all so fucking ridiculous. Before Dean could raise the hammer for another swing, the statue flung its still-intact arm at him. The punch was more than glancing this time. As he flew across the cemetery, the disco bells came back, sounding an awful lot like a young woman wailing.
Dean saw it coming but couldn’t do anything to stop. He hit a big pine tree headlong. He’d held onto the sledgehammer the whole time, though he had a crazy, sudden thought it would have done him a world of good to let go of the thing before. In any case, he felt it fly from his fingers, hitting the cemetery fence with a loud clang.
Or then again, maybe that sound was actually his head.
~~!~~
“Dean, you okay?” Sam yelled at his brother, felled by the attacking spirit. Then he added stupidly, “We have to get the girl away from the statue.”
Dean blinked at him, too dazed for more of a response than that as he picked himself up. Sam winced at the blood running down Dean’s face. They should have expected the spirit wouldn’t go down without a fight, with or without the added complication of Gwen’s presence. Sam hadn’t anticipated a statue would move around, though, let alone how fast this one did. A walking slab of rock shouldn’t be able to fly around like this.
As Dean straightened, the statue focused on him again, and away from Gwen. At least that much was going for them, not that it was much comfort. There was no way Sam could let his brother take another blow. He rushed forward, sparing the girl a look he hoped conveyed an unspoken order for her to get the hell out of there. It must have worked. Gwen finally stopped screaming, scooting backward with clumsy, scrabbling movements. He couldn’t take the time to haul her away himself, not with Caroline gunning for Dean. Her instinct would kick in even more, and take care of getting her to safety.
Swinging with all of his strength, Sam obliterated the statue’s right arm. His effort barely slowed the thing down. He didn’t see it in time when its other arm came up and landed a blow strong enough to make him tumble away. He lost his grip on the sledgehammer, heard it scuttle across the narrow cemetery road. Tucking and rolling to avoid serious injury, Sam didn’t manage to completely avoid slamming into a large headstone. The worst of the impact was to his right shoulder. The pain was intense, locking his muscles up. He had to breathe through it for several long seconds. Sam shook his head to clear it, but the night was filled with Gwen’s cries again and he just wanted her to shut up already. By the time he pushed himself upright, it was only to see Dean catapult through the air headfirst into a tree and slide down in a crumpled heap.
“Dean!” he shouted. His brother didn’t move, and the statue was an indistinct block of darkness edging ever closer to Dean. Sam didn’t think about being unarmed, calling out, “Hey, over here!”
It was a successful distraction. Dean must have gotten a swing in when he had been down. The statue turned to face him, headless. Except, no, Sam saw a filmy, wavering dark outline where the head would have been, and one where he’d shattered the arm. He started getting a very bad feeling. Belatedly, he searched for his sledgehammer, lunging for it the second he caught sight of it several feet away. His right shoulder protested. It felt like it had been stabbed with an ice pick and made him fumble when he couldn’t afford to. He came back up gritting his teeth, finding the statue was somehow practically on top of him already. Startled, he slipped, falling to the ground with a pained grunt. Once down, Sam found he couldn’t do more than slide on his back through the cold, damp grass while the statue loomed above.
Sam stared up in horror at the undulating ghostly visage, surprised when he didn’t see malevolence gazing back at him, but sadness. It almost looked like it was crying. Confused, he froze, giving it enough time to trap him. Heaviness weighted first his legs and then crept up his body. He struggled for breath, at once trying to shuffle away and pick up the hammer again. Anything for some kind of defense, but neither worked for him. The more Sam gasped, the less air he seemed to get. The pressure on his chest grew unbearable, he felt his limbs going numb. Blood rushed in his ears, his heart pumping as if he’d just run five miles. Oh shit, I’m dying, he thought, and tried to call out for Dean to wake the hell up. Nothing came out but a pitiful rasp.
“No,” he wheezed over and over, the string of words sounding like a bagpipe losing air. Dean would never forgive him for letting a freaking headless, one-armed statue kill him.
Every utterance served only to tax his lungs faster. Sam’s vision blurred and darkened around the edges. Through the buzzing in his ears he swore he heard a woman’s voice speaking to him in soothing if garbled tones. Death wasn’t what he thought it would be and so sorry, Dean. Jess. Lassitude washed over him. His eyes closed and he exhaled one last time, too tired to even try inhaling.
The terrible calm vanished with a sharp crack, followed by a plaintive howl. Rain, sharp like glass, fell from the sky, cutting nicks into Sam’s arms and face. The pressure increased on his right shoulder for one second, then lifted. Sam choked and coughed as oxygen suddenly rushed into his lungs, instinctively trying to curl over onto his side. He flopped as if he was still partly immobile, struggling with something that should have been easy. On his left side at last, all he could do was heave, grappling for air. It took him that long to realize he could move and breathe, and that wasn’t quite right. Was it? Black spots slid across his vision, somehow malevolent. His brain relived the last few minutes in images. He saw Iris and Gwen and the relentless vengeful spirit and then Dean.
“Dean,” he croaked, “Good timing, man.”
Sam rolled onto his back, trying to get his breathing under control. The night air tasted like a cold glass of water, shocking to his system and strong with the threat of a late snow. Maybe he had to thank the cold; his bruised shoulder was numbed now. Rustling footsteps grew closer, a face appearing above him. He blinked a couple of times. The creamy tan face didn’t belong to Dean.
“Is it over?” Gwen said, her expression manic. She was as breathless as Sam was. Her eyes shifted from him to multiple other points, never landing on one place for more than half a second. “What the hell was that thing? Ohmygod, ohmygod. Are you okay?”
Sam sat up too fast, making his vision swim. Not important. He took in his surroundings quickly. The statue was in pieces, fragments large and small scattered all around, some on him. Gwen bent over as if winded, holding the handle of his sledgehammer, its head on the ground. She was still talking, but Sam couldn’t hear her. He found no sign of…no, there, Dean was over by the tree, motionless and face down.
“Dean,” he said, ignoring Gwen’s frenzied questions.
He stood and stumbled to his brother’s side. Sam fell to his knees, leaning down to roll Dean onto his back. Much to Sam’s relief, Dean immediately groaned and began stirring. A survey of his brother revealed a nasty cut and swelling on his right cheekbone – they’d have nearly mirror-imaged bruises – but nothing else obvious. Checking for other injuries didn’t need Dean’s direct involvement, so he let his brother stay semi-conscious. Sam started patting his brother down, searching for any sign of broken bone or internal injury. His right arm wasn’t cooperating with him well, so he relied on his left. He’d made it to the right side of Dean’s rib cage when his brother pushed at him.
“Hey,” Sam said. “It’s okay, it’s just me.”
“Didja get it?” Dean grumbled, his eyes squeezed shut, then when Sam’s fingers found a tender spot, “Owwww.”
Sam slumped, deeming the question not worth answering. He didn’t stop his examination, though Dean’s hissing and squirming hindered things. He heard Gwen walk up behind him. He continued ignoring her, simply not having the energy to spare for her yet. As long as she was safe, she didn’t matter right now. His concern for Dean coupled with a lingering memory of his last breaths being squeezed out of him were both higher on his list.
“Hold still,” he said, coughing when the cold air hit his lungs. “You broken anywhere?”
“I don’t think so.” Dean didn’t seem to have the energy to even open his eyes, but tried to sit up anyway. He groaned and slumped back down. “Just bruised, I think. Or cracked, maybe.”
Sam moved to Dean’s arms and legs. His brother stopped fishing around altogether and, to Sam’s surprise, submitted to the treatment without whining. Actually, all that meant to Sam was that his brother was hurting and he hated that. A simple smash and run had turned on them…mostly Dean. It didn’t take much to determine his brother’s limbs weren’t busted. Resting on his haunches, Sam was caught off guard when Dean muttered a loud curse, and sat up as if completely uninjured. Sam reeled back, almost falling.
“Damnit, Sam,” Dean said, pressing forward into Sam’s space. His brother caught and held his forearms in a tight grip.
Dean looked pale and shaken, but also grim. Sam frowned, trying to dislodge from Dean’s grasp. He’d spent enough time tonight unable to control his own limbs. His right shoulder gave a twinge. For having been tossed around like a beanbag and completely out of it a few minutes ago, Dean’s hold was strong, though, and Sam couldn’t go anywhere but where his brother maneuvered him – into a seated position. Worriedly, Sam wondered if the blow to Dean’s head had done some damage.
“I’m fine, Dean. What…?”
“What happened?” Dean asked, but not of him. His eyes were riveted up and behind Sam.
Sam was so confused.
“Same shit, different cemetery,” he answered anyway.
Dean pursed his lips, looking unhappy. Wrong thing to say, apparently.
Sam guessed again, “Nothing happened?”
“It didn’t look like he was breathing. He wasn’t moving and that thing was standing above him,” Gwen said, her words tumbling over themselves. She sounded far away, or maybe weak.
Sam thought maybe he should have checked to make sure she was okay.
“So I hit it with the hammer. That’s what you guys were doing. I’m sorry, was that wrong? I’m sorry. Is he all right?”
“Don’t be sorry. You did the right thing. He’ll be fine.” But Dean scowled at him, eyes narrowing as if he were deliberating.
Sam just wanted someone to tell him what the hell was going on. He wouldn’t be fine because he already was fine. Dean was the one who’d been beaten up. Sam blinked, the world looping a little when his eyes opened again. His brother’s face rippled. Odd. Both his arms started feeling heavy, like his bones were made of Jell-o.
“We don’t have much time, but I really think you should lie down, Sam. Just for a minute.” Dean transferred his hold to Sam’s shoulders, gently easing him down.
“Why?” Sam fought to stay upright, suddenly scared as well as confused.
“You’ve got a big chunk of rock in your shoulder,” Dean said, giving Sam a bleak smile. “You’re bleedin’ all over the place, man.”
His first impulse was to deny it. He’d remember getting impaled. That wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to a person without his knowledge. Instead, Sam peered down at himself. The angle was uncomfortable, but he could see a sizeable gray mass sticking out of his jacket, just below his collarbone. The material surrounding it was dark, almost black. The moonlight gave it sheen. He knew it was blood, but it didn’t really look like it.
“Huh,” he said.
The world phased into slow motion. Sam sagged, falling out of Dean’s hold on him and flat onto his back with a jarring thump. It was as if a switch had been thrown. Pain kicked in, and icy hotness tickled over his whole body. His thoughts jumbled together in his head. Though he’d seen the wound for himself, he was still very, very confused. He heard Dean saying something, but it sounded like his brother was speaking into a paper towel tube. Or like the adults always sounded on Charlie Brown cartoons. Wah-wah-wahwah-wah-wah-wah. That was how Dad always sounded to him. Sam smiled. Then he gagged, because the stars above were swirling crazily. It looked and felt like they were falling down on him.
“The sky is falling,” Sam said.
“Stay with me here, Chicken Little,” Dean said, face appearing above Sam. Well, at least his brother wasn’t speaking cartoon language anymore. Dean pressed his lips together, leaning down. A hand was on Sam’s cheek, concerned eyes scrutinizing him. “It doesn’t look that bad, but there could be shit in there I can’t see. I think you’re just shocky.”
The back of Sam’s throat burned with sickness. He couldn’t move his body no matter how much he needed to. He coughed, turning his head to spit. The hand withdrew from his face, Dean easing him onto his side. Pain rocketed through him, as the motion made him sicker and he couldn’t keep from retching in earnest. Sam still didn’t understand how he’d gone from okay to feeling like total crap in less than a minute. When he felt better again, he was going to be embarrassed about that. For now, he was grateful Dean was there. Sam couldn’t even save Dean without needing saving himself. Dean was probably tired of saving him all the time. Dean probably had a frigging red cape somewhere in his wardrobe.
“Don’t be stupid, Sam.”
“What?”
“You’re saying things you wouldn’t if you weren’t in shock,” Dean said, guiding Sam onto his back again. “But I suppose that’s better than not talking. So actually go ahead, keep telling me how awesome I am.”
Sam didn’t realize he’d been saying anything out loud. He stopped. It was too cold, anyway. Something heavy and warm draped over him. Sam shivered, blinking slowly. He smelled leather and gun oil. The stars were still falling on him. They didn’t hurt, though, so it was okay. They were just cold and wet.
“It’s snowing. I told you, you jinxed us, dude.” Dean hovered over him, blocking the moisture. The gash on his brother’s face bled moderately. “We need to get you out of here. You think you can walk?”
“Shouldn’t we call for help?” Someone else’s voice came from nowhere, really perplexing Sam. “I think we should call for an ambulance.”
“No, it’s done now. He’ll be okay,” Dean said, turning to speak to that other person Sam thought he should remember but didn’t…oh, that was right, Gwen.
Sam closed his eyes, fading a little bit.
“He’s had worse.”
“But, you, but,” Gwen said. It sounded to Sam like she was as confused as he was. “But you’re hurt, too. You’re bleeding.”
“It’s a scratch.” A cool hand on Sam’s cheek, jostling. “C’mon, Sam, let’s get you on your feet.”
The reminder Dean was injured woke Sam up. Not much, but enough. He opened his eyes as Dean tugged on one shoulder, grunting softly from the exertion and probably the aggravation to sore ribs. Sam propped himself up on his good arm, shuffling to lend his brother at least some help. The pain from his own injury was there, but had luckily started numbing again.
“I’m good,” Sam said. “I’m up.”
“Not quite, but we’re getting there,” Dean said directly into his ear, an exhaled gust tickling. Dean had his arms around Sam’s shoulders now, close by necessity. “Give me a hand here.”
“I’m trying.” Dean was so bossy sometimes.
“I wasn’t talking to you, Sammy.” But who else…oh, Gwen was there. Sam knew that. “Just kind of boost him up. I’ll do the heavy lifting.”
Except Dean had cracked ribs, and Gwen was small. Sam didn’t want his brother to exacerbate his injuries by helping him to his feet. He tensed his legs, bicycling them in an attempt to get them under him. With Gwen at his left side and Dean on his right, they pushed, pulled and prayed Sam to his feet after only a minute of careful trying. The world looped again, but Sam glanced over at Dean and grinned at their success.
“Frankenstein lives,” Dean said.
Frankenstein might be living, Sam thought, but he wasn’t quite ready to walk. His legs were unsteady, making him list to the left where there was less support. Tucked under his arm like a buttress, Gwen reacted the only way she could, shifting her body weight and reaching up to steady him. Her hand slapped down somewhere on the right side of his chest. Sam wasn’t sure where exactly. All he was aware of was renewed agony, an intense bright light consuming everything, and then finally he was aware of absolutely nothing at all.
~~!~~
to Chapter Six
(Dun-dun-dunnnnn)
Author:
superbadgirlCategory: Horror/Mystery, A/A, H/C, Case Fic
Season/Spoiler: mid to late S1
Rating: R
Word Count: 5,550 this chapter/57,900, all told
Summary: Dean and Sam head to a small Minnesota town to investigate the mysterious death of a college student. They struggle to put together the pieces and end the hunt before anyone else gets hurt or killed.
Author's Notes: My thanks to
ldyanne for the alpha and encouragement, and to meg_tdj for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine. Disclaimer: Not mine and all that, though I really think someone oughta convince Kripke to set up an SPN library.
Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four
The cops drove by the cemetery every thirteen and a half minutes. Dean had frozen his fingers off for the past hour, as he staked out the graveyard in soggy underbrush lining the illustrious College Avenue. So far, the local LEOs hadn’t broken pattern and Dean was beyond ready to call it confirmed. Thirteen minutes gave he and Sam plenty of time to get things done and get out, undetected. They didn’t need to lug much equipment, which would speed their time. The second the cruiser vanished around the corner for the fifth time, Dean started making his way back to the Impala, parked a good three blocks away. With any luck, Sam had completed his task and was already there.
Dean pulled his jacket tighter, thinking he was going to have to hone up on his computer skills so next time they could flip a coin for the cushy job. Sam had secured the indoor – warm – assignment of clearing their “school records” without contest. It wasn’t like it was a job Dean could do half as well as Sam. That whole thing could have waited until after they dispatched Caroline Sellke, but it wasn’t something Dean wanted forgotten in an unforeseen rush out of town. Besides, to make up for Sam being the lucky one now Dean planned on making him do the brunt of the work in the graveyard. To even things up. At the very least, Sam was going to play pack mule.
His brother wasn’t at the car when Dean arrived. He contemplated calling Sam to bug him about being so damned slow, and rag on him for the snow jinx while he was at it. Dean was no meteorologist, but it smelled like snow was in the air. If he had anything to do with it, they’d be southbound twenty minutes after Sam made it back to the car. A fast in-and-out job was in order. He climbed in, cracked a window and started the car up. No sense trying to demolish a statue with numb hands.
Once warmed up, Dean again considered calling his brother. He wasn’t quite sure where Sam had gone on the ride from campus to the motel earlier because he hadn’t asked, but he was certain the mental road trip hadn’t been fun. Sam had stayed in a funk for a good hour, the kind Dean knew he couldn’t fix with antics or food or anything at all. He was still out of touch with Sam, but not so much he didn’t understand some things needed to work themselves out.
Especially if the funk was induced by what Dean suspected it was. The list of things likely to bother Sam had one item on it, and was titled “Jessica.” Even if it was more immediately about someone or something else, it was always about Jessica in the end. And that wasn’t a subject Dean felt qualified to talk to his brother about. It sucked, because if Dean closed his eyes he was once again hit with a memory of Sam at six, looking to him to answer every question and fix every little thing. Of course, thinking about that only reminded him that back then he hadn’t told Sam everything, not by a long shot, and he sure as hell hadn’t been able to fix everything. Their lives would never be uncomplicated.
He slumped down in the seat. If Sam didn’t hurry up, Dean would be the one too distracted for the job. He had to stop thinking of his brother as if he were childlike, because Sam had stopped being that a long time ago. It only did harm to dwell on things that could not ever be again, that probably never had been in the first place.
The passenger door creaked open the second he thought that. Excellent timing. Having one of them mopey nearly 24/7 was enough.
“What took you?”
“You were right. We shouldn’t have even bothered enrolling. I don't know why I...never mind. It was just more work than it was worth,” Sam said. “I had to crosscheck a bunch of different systems.”
“I figured we’d be here longer,” Dean said, though that wasn’t why he’d gone ahead with Sam’s stupid plan at all.
“Yeah. Me, too.” It looked like Sam regretted more than just enrolling them as students, eliminating any urge Dean might have had to say I told you so. Sam held his hands out to the heater. “So what’d you find out?”
“The cops are out, but they’ve got light coverage.” Dean sat up, checking his watch. They’d have to wait for the next circuit of the police cruiser to start. “Only one car. It passes the cemetery every thirteen minutes or so. We’ve got about seven more before he’s due by again.”
“That should give us plenty of time.”
They’d gone over all the information they (Sam) had uncovered regarding this urban legend and established that in most cases it was just a legend. No new facts came to light on how to deal with a real, live killing statue on online sources or in Dad’s journal. Sam had gone over it four times, Dean twice. After all that, they both decided the spirit was somehow bound to the statue itself rather than remains, so demolishing it should take care of the problem. Dean felt a small amount of relief for that – the ground was probably still winter-hard. Under no conditions ever could he dig a grave in less than fifteen minutes.
“We should get over there. Let’s go smash this bitch,” Dean said with a grin.
“Dude.” Sam looked mildly alarmed by Dean’s enthusiasm. “You’re actually looking forward to this, aren’t you?”
What could Dean say – smashing things was fun. He’d never outgrown that. It wasn’t his fault Sam didn’t hold the same childish delights to heart. Sometimes he thought Sam should embrace his inner child; they’d both be better off for it. But then Dean remembered Sam hadn’t liked smashing things when he was a little kid. He’d preferred to burn stuff with a magnifying glass and the sun. Dean frowned, disturbed at that image. That wasn’t something Sam would turn to for enjoyment, and explained why Dean so often got stuck with the salt and burn. It might be a while before fire was just another part of the job to Sam.
“I love the sound of concrete breaking in the still of the night.”
“You’re messed up.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. C’mon. Grab the sledgehammers from the trunk, will you?” Dean shut off the car, handed Sam the keys and rolled up his window. He peered at the dark houses, certain he saw a curtain fall back into place. He locked the passenger door and got out, joining Sam at the rear of the car. “I wonder if we should move the car. I think the friendlies might be not so friendly anymore.”
“That might just draw more attention,” Sam said after a moment. He held both hammers as inconspicuously as he could. “The car doesn’t exactly purr.”
Pulling the keys out of the lock, Dean shut the trunk lid quietly. Sam made a good point, the Impala growled like the beast she was and made people stare. But having their car investigated or towed due to suspicious townsfolk would put a crimp in his departure plans. It would also be nice to have it a little bit closer to the cemetery, in case they needed extra supplies.
“I think the folks in house number 1395 have already noticed us sitting here awhile. I’m gonna move it,” Dean said.
“Okay, if you think it’s necessary it probably is.” Sam lifted the sledgehammers slightly. “I wish you would have thought of it before I got these things out of the trunk, though.”
“Too heavy for you, Nelly?”
“No. Shut up, man.” Sam left Dean by the trunk, glaring back at him when he reached the passenger door. He stood for a minute, expression growing ever darker.
Dean smiled.
“Are you going to get the door for me, or what?”
It amused Dean when Sam was such an obvious girl. He walked to the driver’s side, smiling all the while.
Sam gaped at him, shaking his head in disbelief. He set the sledgehammers down, frowning when he discovered the passenger door locked.
“Dean.”
“Hey, I’ll meet you there. We’ve lost another two minutes. You can start while I find a good place to park.”
“Dean,” Sam growled this time.
“See ya, Sammy,” Dean said.
Sam grumbled something about denting the roof of the car, but the threat was empty. The guy only gave him another death glare before slipping off into the night.
Dean opened the creaky car door and slid in, watching Sam stalk away in the rearview mirror. The sledgehammers made it look like he had giant blocks for hands, and he hunched slightly from their weight. He glanced at house 1395 quickly, realizing Sam’s shadowed figure would probably look like something out of a horror movie to anyone who didn’t know him. The curtain was still down. He shrugged, started the car and pulled away from the curb. He’d spotted a good place to park earlier, so it only took him a few minutes and then he was silently moving through the bushes. He found Sam hidden at the gate, waiting for the patrol to go by.
“They should be here any second now,” Dean said as he hunkered down next to his brother.
Before the cop made his inevitable slow drive by the cemetery, though, disruption came from another place – Sam’s pocket, as his cell began to buzz. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam fumble for the device. He was about to tell his brother to ignore whoever it was when he saw his brother’s face in the bright LED light. Confusion and uneasiness were predominant, with a fair touch of dread. Never a good combination.
“It’s Iris,” Sam whispered, looking over at him with a worried frown.
What the hell? Miss Never-gonna-talk-to-you-again had sure changed her tune real quick like. Dean didn’t have time to shake his head. Sam already had the phone up to his ear. Great. They hadn’t even set foot in the boneyard and this was fouled up. On cue, the cop drove by slowly. He tugged at Sam’s sleeve. His brother pulled away, disregarding him. Dean shifted, trying to decide if he should leave his bleeding-heart brother out there while he went in to take care of business.
“What? Iris, slow down.” Sam’s voice sounded hushed and panicky, drawing Dean’s attention back. “What do you mean? You’re where?”
That’s when Dean heard a voice. A female voice. And it wasn’t coming from Sam’s phone. Oh, hell no. This night couldn’t possibly get worse.
“I followed her out to the cemetery. She said she wanted to prove you were a whack job. Sam, she won’t answer her phone. I didn’t know what else to do. Even if you're crazy, you...oh, shit, I don't know what I was thinking.”
In the pale, frosty glow of the quarter moon, Dean saw Iris, her hair gleaming faintly copper as she walked directly for the cemetery gates. Well, she was either stupid or really stupid for coming out here after her friend…wait, followed who now? If someone was already in the cemetery and alone, that was inviting disaster. The spirit seemed to go for lone people, but once it got going anything was fair game. He eyed Iris. Dean figured it wasn’t a good plan to leap out of the bushes and grab her, but at this point there weren’t many options. Sam beat him to it, hurriedly telling Iris to turn around and go back home as he rustled through the brush.
“But Gwen,” Iris said, trailing off with a startled squeak at Sam’s sudden appearance. She took two steps backwards, dropping her phone. “What…?”
Dean picked up the sledgehammers and followed Sam, keeping himself behind his brother so Iris wouldn’t freak out. Freak out more. Her eyes were huge, her face so white it almost glowed. His attention wandered to the cemetery, eyes searching for the equally stupid friend. They were at the far gate, away from the road. The statue was on the other side of the graveyard, closer to a side gate too visible for them to use in their quickly turning unstealthy plan. Dean couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything. But then, if sweet, sweet murdering Caroline had the other girl already, she’d be suffocating right about now.
“Sam,” he said, “Not to break up the party, but we have to get on this. Clock’s ticking.”
“I want you to go back to campus, Iris,” Sam said, grasping the girl by the arms and pivoting her back the direction she’d come.
“But Gwen’s out here somewhere.”
“We’ll find her. We’ll get her home, don’t worry.”
“I’m not leaving without her.”
They did not have time to stand around talking.
“For crying out –” A shrill cry tore through the night as if in response, cutting off Dean’s frustrated words.
Sam let go of the girl, turning to him.
Dean tossed his brother a hammer, and they ran without pausing or thinking, calling back simultaneously, “Stay here.” He glanced back to make sure Iris heeded the warning, thankful it looked as though she was rooted to the spot. It slowed him down, but Sam would always outdistance him anyway. He collided with his brother when Sam suddenly stopped short and started swiveling his head around like he was looking for something. Then Dean saw the object of their disaffection was not where it should be. Neither was the other girl.
Another cry, and Dean knew where to go. The girl had run for the closest escape. He slapped Sam on the sleeve, taking up pursuit again. Dean saw a massive black shape ahead, somehow much bigger than the statue actually was. He didn’t have time to think. The girl was on the ground, her face twisted in terror that he could not allow to become her death mask. She was too close, the thing was right on top of her. The risk of injury by falling debris was one she’d thank him for later. It beat the hell out of the alternative. Dean locked his legs, raised the sledgehammer and prepared to swing.
What he hadn’t taken into consideration was a moving target. Sledgehammers were effective tools, but they required exertion and balance. That wasn’t easy to come by in a fight. The hammer was halfway down when the statue turned. It swung back at him, clipping the right side of his face. He faltered and then fell, gravity pulling him down with the sledgehammer which had come nowhere near its mark.
“Dean,” Sam said faintly, and, “The girl. The statue.”
He blinked at his brother, seeing Sam’s face contort in a shout, not whisper. His ears were ringing, must be, because Sam was talking more than Dean was hearing. Somehow it sounded like a disco song and also the thunk of concrete hitting dirt at the same time. Sammy swinging the hammer, the girl screaming. Dean scrambled to his feet, reclaiming his own sledgehammer. Everything did a loop. Must have hit his head harder than he thought. The statue moved to him again, unfazed by the blows raining on it. Someone – him? Sam? – connected a substantial blow, shattering its right arm. Not the left, though. The left hit Sam, sent him flying. Dean’s brain cleared almost instantly.
“Sonuvabitch,” he growled, not sparing Sam the look he wanted to.
He aimed for the goddamn bonneted head, smashing it into a billion pieces. That should have killed the possessed statue, but the thing kept coming at him. Headless. It was all so fucking ridiculous. Before Dean could raise the hammer for another swing, the statue flung its still-intact arm at him. The punch was more than glancing this time. As he flew across the cemetery, the disco bells came back, sounding an awful lot like a young woman wailing.
Dean saw it coming but couldn’t do anything to stop. He hit a big pine tree headlong. He’d held onto the sledgehammer the whole time, though he had a crazy, sudden thought it would have done him a world of good to let go of the thing before. In any case, he felt it fly from his fingers, hitting the cemetery fence with a loud clang.
Or then again, maybe that sound was actually his head.
~~!~~
“Dean, you okay?” Sam yelled at his brother, felled by the attacking spirit. Then he added stupidly, “We have to get the girl away from the statue.”
Dean blinked at him, too dazed for more of a response than that as he picked himself up. Sam winced at the blood running down Dean’s face. They should have expected the spirit wouldn’t go down without a fight, with or without the added complication of Gwen’s presence. Sam hadn’t anticipated a statue would move around, though, let alone how fast this one did. A walking slab of rock shouldn’t be able to fly around like this.
As Dean straightened, the statue focused on him again, and away from Gwen. At least that much was going for them, not that it was much comfort. There was no way Sam could let his brother take another blow. He rushed forward, sparing the girl a look he hoped conveyed an unspoken order for her to get the hell out of there. It must have worked. Gwen finally stopped screaming, scooting backward with clumsy, scrabbling movements. He couldn’t take the time to haul her away himself, not with Caroline gunning for Dean. Her instinct would kick in even more, and take care of getting her to safety.
Swinging with all of his strength, Sam obliterated the statue’s right arm. His effort barely slowed the thing down. He didn’t see it in time when its other arm came up and landed a blow strong enough to make him tumble away. He lost his grip on the sledgehammer, heard it scuttle across the narrow cemetery road. Tucking and rolling to avoid serious injury, Sam didn’t manage to completely avoid slamming into a large headstone. The worst of the impact was to his right shoulder. The pain was intense, locking his muscles up. He had to breathe through it for several long seconds. Sam shook his head to clear it, but the night was filled with Gwen’s cries again and he just wanted her to shut up already. By the time he pushed himself upright, it was only to see Dean catapult through the air headfirst into a tree and slide down in a crumpled heap.
“Dean!” he shouted. His brother didn’t move, and the statue was an indistinct block of darkness edging ever closer to Dean. Sam didn’t think about being unarmed, calling out, “Hey, over here!”
It was a successful distraction. Dean must have gotten a swing in when he had been down. The statue turned to face him, headless. Except, no, Sam saw a filmy, wavering dark outline where the head would have been, and one where he’d shattered the arm. He started getting a very bad feeling. Belatedly, he searched for his sledgehammer, lunging for it the second he caught sight of it several feet away. His right shoulder protested. It felt like it had been stabbed with an ice pick and made him fumble when he couldn’t afford to. He came back up gritting his teeth, finding the statue was somehow practically on top of him already. Startled, he slipped, falling to the ground with a pained grunt. Once down, Sam found he couldn’t do more than slide on his back through the cold, damp grass while the statue loomed above.
Sam stared up in horror at the undulating ghostly visage, surprised when he didn’t see malevolence gazing back at him, but sadness. It almost looked like it was crying. Confused, he froze, giving it enough time to trap him. Heaviness weighted first his legs and then crept up his body. He struggled for breath, at once trying to shuffle away and pick up the hammer again. Anything for some kind of defense, but neither worked for him. The more Sam gasped, the less air he seemed to get. The pressure on his chest grew unbearable, he felt his limbs going numb. Blood rushed in his ears, his heart pumping as if he’d just run five miles. Oh shit, I’m dying, he thought, and tried to call out for Dean to wake the hell up. Nothing came out but a pitiful rasp.
“No,” he wheezed over and over, the string of words sounding like a bagpipe losing air. Dean would never forgive him for letting a freaking headless, one-armed statue kill him.
Every utterance served only to tax his lungs faster. Sam’s vision blurred and darkened around the edges. Through the buzzing in his ears he swore he heard a woman’s voice speaking to him in soothing if garbled tones. Death wasn’t what he thought it would be and so sorry, Dean. Jess. Lassitude washed over him. His eyes closed and he exhaled one last time, too tired to even try inhaling.
The terrible calm vanished with a sharp crack, followed by a plaintive howl. Rain, sharp like glass, fell from the sky, cutting nicks into Sam’s arms and face. The pressure increased on his right shoulder for one second, then lifted. Sam choked and coughed as oxygen suddenly rushed into his lungs, instinctively trying to curl over onto his side. He flopped as if he was still partly immobile, struggling with something that should have been easy. On his left side at last, all he could do was heave, grappling for air. It took him that long to realize he could move and breathe, and that wasn’t quite right. Was it? Black spots slid across his vision, somehow malevolent. His brain relived the last few minutes in images. He saw Iris and Gwen and the relentless vengeful spirit and then Dean.
“Dean,” he croaked, “Good timing, man.”
Sam rolled onto his back, trying to get his breathing under control. The night air tasted like a cold glass of water, shocking to his system and strong with the threat of a late snow. Maybe he had to thank the cold; his bruised shoulder was numbed now. Rustling footsteps grew closer, a face appearing above him. He blinked a couple of times. The creamy tan face didn’t belong to Dean.
“Is it over?” Gwen said, her expression manic. She was as breathless as Sam was. Her eyes shifted from him to multiple other points, never landing on one place for more than half a second. “What the hell was that thing? Ohmygod, ohmygod. Are you okay?”
Sam sat up too fast, making his vision swim. Not important. He took in his surroundings quickly. The statue was in pieces, fragments large and small scattered all around, some on him. Gwen bent over as if winded, holding the handle of his sledgehammer, its head on the ground. She was still talking, but Sam couldn’t hear her. He found no sign of…no, there, Dean was over by the tree, motionless and face down.
“Dean,” he said, ignoring Gwen’s frenzied questions.
He stood and stumbled to his brother’s side. Sam fell to his knees, leaning down to roll Dean onto his back. Much to Sam’s relief, Dean immediately groaned and began stirring. A survey of his brother revealed a nasty cut and swelling on his right cheekbone – they’d have nearly mirror-imaged bruises – but nothing else obvious. Checking for other injuries didn’t need Dean’s direct involvement, so he let his brother stay semi-conscious. Sam started patting his brother down, searching for any sign of broken bone or internal injury. His right arm wasn’t cooperating with him well, so he relied on his left. He’d made it to the right side of Dean’s rib cage when his brother pushed at him.
“Hey,” Sam said. “It’s okay, it’s just me.”
“Didja get it?” Dean grumbled, his eyes squeezed shut, then when Sam’s fingers found a tender spot, “Owwww.”
Sam slumped, deeming the question not worth answering. He didn’t stop his examination, though Dean’s hissing and squirming hindered things. He heard Gwen walk up behind him. He continued ignoring her, simply not having the energy to spare for her yet. As long as she was safe, she didn’t matter right now. His concern for Dean coupled with a lingering memory of his last breaths being squeezed out of him were both higher on his list.
“Hold still,” he said, coughing when the cold air hit his lungs. “You broken anywhere?”
“I don’t think so.” Dean didn’t seem to have the energy to even open his eyes, but tried to sit up anyway. He groaned and slumped back down. “Just bruised, I think. Or cracked, maybe.”
Sam moved to Dean’s arms and legs. His brother stopped fishing around altogether and, to Sam’s surprise, submitted to the treatment without whining. Actually, all that meant to Sam was that his brother was hurting and he hated that. A simple smash and run had turned on them…mostly Dean. It didn’t take much to determine his brother’s limbs weren’t busted. Resting on his haunches, Sam was caught off guard when Dean muttered a loud curse, and sat up as if completely uninjured. Sam reeled back, almost falling.
“Damnit, Sam,” Dean said, pressing forward into Sam’s space. His brother caught and held his forearms in a tight grip.
Dean looked pale and shaken, but also grim. Sam frowned, trying to dislodge from Dean’s grasp. He’d spent enough time tonight unable to control his own limbs. His right shoulder gave a twinge. For having been tossed around like a beanbag and completely out of it a few minutes ago, Dean’s hold was strong, though, and Sam couldn’t go anywhere but where his brother maneuvered him – into a seated position. Worriedly, Sam wondered if the blow to Dean’s head had done some damage.
“I’m fine, Dean. What…?”
“What happened?” Dean asked, but not of him. His eyes were riveted up and behind Sam.
Sam was so confused.
“Same shit, different cemetery,” he answered anyway.
Dean pursed his lips, looking unhappy. Wrong thing to say, apparently.
Sam guessed again, “Nothing happened?”
“It didn’t look like he was breathing. He wasn’t moving and that thing was standing above him,” Gwen said, her words tumbling over themselves. She sounded far away, or maybe weak.
Sam thought maybe he should have checked to make sure she was okay.
“So I hit it with the hammer. That’s what you guys were doing. I’m sorry, was that wrong? I’m sorry. Is he all right?”
“Don’t be sorry. You did the right thing. He’ll be fine.” But Dean scowled at him, eyes narrowing as if he were deliberating.
Sam just wanted someone to tell him what the hell was going on. He wouldn’t be fine because he already was fine. Dean was the one who’d been beaten up. Sam blinked, the world looping a little when his eyes opened again. His brother’s face rippled. Odd. Both his arms started feeling heavy, like his bones were made of Jell-o.
“We don’t have much time, but I really think you should lie down, Sam. Just for a minute.” Dean transferred his hold to Sam’s shoulders, gently easing him down.
“Why?” Sam fought to stay upright, suddenly scared as well as confused.
“You’ve got a big chunk of rock in your shoulder,” Dean said, giving Sam a bleak smile. “You’re bleedin’ all over the place, man.”
His first impulse was to deny it. He’d remember getting impaled. That wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to a person without his knowledge. Instead, Sam peered down at himself. The angle was uncomfortable, but he could see a sizeable gray mass sticking out of his jacket, just below his collarbone. The material surrounding it was dark, almost black. The moonlight gave it sheen. He knew it was blood, but it didn’t really look like it.
“Huh,” he said.
The world phased into slow motion. Sam sagged, falling out of Dean’s hold on him and flat onto his back with a jarring thump. It was as if a switch had been thrown. Pain kicked in, and icy hotness tickled over his whole body. His thoughts jumbled together in his head. Though he’d seen the wound for himself, he was still very, very confused. He heard Dean saying something, but it sounded like his brother was speaking into a paper towel tube. Or like the adults always sounded on Charlie Brown cartoons. Wah-wah-wahwah-wah-wah-wah. That was how Dad always sounded to him. Sam smiled. Then he gagged, because the stars above were swirling crazily. It looked and felt like they were falling down on him.
“The sky is falling,” Sam said.
“Stay with me here, Chicken Little,” Dean said, face appearing above Sam. Well, at least his brother wasn’t speaking cartoon language anymore. Dean pressed his lips together, leaning down. A hand was on Sam’s cheek, concerned eyes scrutinizing him. “It doesn’t look that bad, but there could be shit in there I can’t see. I think you’re just shocky.”
The back of Sam’s throat burned with sickness. He couldn’t move his body no matter how much he needed to. He coughed, turning his head to spit. The hand withdrew from his face, Dean easing him onto his side. Pain rocketed through him, as the motion made him sicker and he couldn’t keep from retching in earnest. Sam still didn’t understand how he’d gone from okay to feeling like total crap in less than a minute. When he felt better again, he was going to be embarrassed about that. For now, he was grateful Dean was there. Sam couldn’t even save Dean without needing saving himself. Dean was probably tired of saving him all the time. Dean probably had a frigging red cape somewhere in his wardrobe.
“Don’t be stupid, Sam.”
“What?”
“You’re saying things you wouldn’t if you weren’t in shock,” Dean said, guiding Sam onto his back again. “But I suppose that’s better than not talking. So actually go ahead, keep telling me how awesome I am.”
Sam didn’t realize he’d been saying anything out loud. He stopped. It was too cold, anyway. Something heavy and warm draped over him. Sam shivered, blinking slowly. He smelled leather and gun oil. The stars were still falling on him. They didn’t hurt, though, so it was okay. They were just cold and wet.
“It’s snowing. I told you, you jinxed us, dude.” Dean hovered over him, blocking the moisture. The gash on his brother’s face bled moderately. “We need to get you out of here. You think you can walk?”
“Shouldn’t we call for help?” Someone else’s voice came from nowhere, really perplexing Sam. “I think we should call for an ambulance.”
“No, it’s done now. He’ll be okay,” Dean said, turning to speak to that other person Sam thought he should remember but didn’t…oh, that was right, Gwen.
Sam closed his eyes, fading a little bit.
“He’s had worse.”
“But, you, but,” Gwen said. It sounded to Sam like she was as confused as he was. “But you’re hurt, too. You’re bleeding.”
“It’s a scratch.” A cool hand on Sam’s cheek, jostling. “C’mon, Sam, let’s get you on your feet.”
The reminder Dean was injured woke Sam up. Not much, but enough. He opened his eyes as Dean tugged on one shoulder, grunting softly from the exertion and probably the aggravation to sore ribs. Sam propped himself up on his good arm, shuffling to lend his brother at least some help. The pain from his own injury was there, but had luckily started numbing again.
“I’m good,” Sam said. “I’m up.”
“Not quite, but we’re getting there,” Dean said directly into his ear, an exhaled gust tickling. Dean had his arms around Sam’s shoulders now, close by necessity. “Give me a hand here.”
“I’m trying.” Dean was so bossy sometimes.
“I wasn’t talking to you, Sammy.” But who else…oh, Gwen was there. Sam knew that. “Just kind of boost him up. I’ll do the heavy lifting.”
Except Dean had cracked ribs, and Gwen was small. Sam didn’t want his brother to exacerbate his injuries by helping him to his feet. He tensed his legs, bicycling them in an attempt to get them under him. With Gwen at his left side and Dean on his right, they pushed, pulled and prayed Sam to his feet after only a minute of careful trying. The world looped again, but Sam glanced over at Dean and grinned at their success.
“Frankenstein lives,” Dean said.
Frankenstein might be living, Sam thought, but he wasn’t quite ready to walk. His legs were unsteady, making him list to the left where there was less support. Tucked under his arm like a buttress, Gwen reacted the only way she could, shifting her body weight and reaching up to steady him. Her hand slapped down somewhere on the right side of his chest. Sam wasn’t sure where exactly. All he was aware of was renewed agony, an intense bright light consuming everything, and then finally he was aware of absolutely nothing at all.
~~!~~
to Chapter Six
(Dun-dun-dunnnnn)
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Date: 2008-10-05 03:06 pm (UTC)Great action sequences, and stream-of-consciousness with Sam fading near the end there.
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Date: 2008-10-05 05:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-07 09:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-08 03:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-10-11 03:54 am (UTC)Poor Sammy! *pets him*
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Date: 2008-10-11 06:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-03 09:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-03 04:48 pm (UTC)Thank you!