E.A. Poe didn't just write horror, he also wrote some beautiful and haunting poetry. This little one reminds me of the boys, and the fact that they're never really alone. Please review, and I answer all reviews at my website. As always, the characters aren't mine. I'm just borrowing.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness- for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.
Spirits of the Dead – Edgar Allen Poe, 1827
The rain hammered down outside, raking across the motel roof like claws. Lightning lit the room at irregular intervals, splashing distorted shadows on the carpet, and thunder rattled the pictures on the walls. Dean lay sprawled on the bed, sheets twisted around his bare legs, his eyes wide open in the darkness.
He hated these nights, nights where the weather conspired with his natural jumpiness to keep him from sleep. Normally he would have turned on the television and surfed for porn, but the storm had blown down the power lines. He supposed he could snag Sam's I-Pod, but there was probably nothing on it but emo-pop. Silence was preferable. Sam was sleeping soundly, completely oblivious to the storm that was pounding outside. Dean swore that the boy would sleep through Armageddon, and would wake up to find only himself, Dean, and the cockroaches alive. And Cher, of course.
There was nothing to distract him from his thoughts. He was supremely aware of the air, of the static that stood the hair of his arms on end, of the presence of electromagnetic activity that most humans never take notice of.
Nights like these, when he was the only one awake and there was nothing between him and the darkness…these were the nights that Dean was most aware of what was out there. It was these nights when he felt closest to the other side. He could almost feel them; feel the spirits that he knew lingered there, just out of sight.
Some of them were angry, of course, angry and confused. He didn't really mind those because most of them were weak, dissipated. They were just feelings, really, stray senses and glimpses. Nothing to pay any mind to, nor lose any sleep over.
But there were some who were different, who Dean felt particularly strongly on these stormy nights.
There was the frightened, bitter spirit of Marshall Hall. He was just a voice, a quiet whispering voice, asking over and over again why he was dead and Dean was alive, and how could a strong heart just explode? Angry over the loss of his life, over his stolen future, he could only ask why.
Then there was Layla. She felt gentle, as she was in life, always quiet and watchful, wishing to comfort Dean and take away his pain. Sometimes he could feel her fingers in his hair as she reminded him to have faith, to not lose hope. She made him sad. She made him lonely.
And finally the gruff yet loving sense of his father, watchful and demanding. It was this spirit that Dean felt most strongly. It was almost a part of him, that little part that gave him the right answers out of the blue when he didn't know what else to do. It didn't take a stormy night for John to come to his son.
Dean didn't know for certain that they were really there. For all he knew they could be parts of his subconscious, niggling at him, reminding him about everything that had come before. But he didn't think so. It wasn't frightening or bothersome, really. He rather liked to believe that they were there with him. It was a comfort to think that these three souls, souls who had been taken to save his own, were still around him. To believe that they had not wafted into oblivion or something worse…it made him feel better, dammit, and he wanted to believe it, because it meant that their deaths were not the end.
He never told Sam about them of course. It wasn't that Sam wouldn't believe him; of course he would. He just didn't need his brother lecturing him or worse yet staring at him with his big wet eyes. They were his ghosts. He didn't want to exorcize them, he wanted to hoard them. He needed all three of them. He needed Marshall to remind him to earn the sacrifice that Marshall made, to spend every day killing the evil sons-of-bitches that were destroying the lives of normal people. He needed Layla to give him faith and hope, to remind him that faith isn't only for when things are going right. And he needed John…well, that was a whole other kettle of fish. He needed John for a whole mess of things.
So no, he wouldn't speak of the ghosts to Sam or anyone else. With them he felt like he was never alone, which made him feel even lonelier, but they were his. And he wouldn't salt and burn those spirits for any amount of money or love in the world.
