This story wouldn't leave me alone. Please review, and remember that I answer all reviews on my blog. As always, the boys aren't mine.
The night was brisk, with a fall wind tickling the leaves in the trees. A harvest moon, warm orange in the evening sky, sent shadows creeping across the grass. The cold stone walls of the church glowed dimly golden with the light.
The church courtyard was enclosed on three sides by the church walls. The fourth was closed off from the city street by a multi-arched stone cloister walkway. Gargoyles watched from high above on the parapet walls. In the center of the courtyard was a stone fountain, intricately carved with saints in bas-relief. As the night crawled on, the sounds of the street diminished and there was near total silence, save for the quiet, splashing babble of the water in the fountain.
Dean pressed himself further into the corner, drawing his knees up to his chest against the cool air. This was the third night he'd sat here on the steps, watching and waiting. As yet, there had been no sign of the shape shifter. Dean was starting to doubt Bobby's insistence that it would come. Sam was standing watch inside the church, pacing in the tunnels beneath the sacristy where the first victim had been found. Bobby was once again searching the huge church complex systematically, room by room. Three nights. Nothing.
He huffed out a sigh, trying to shrink further into his leather coat, but then the scuff of shoes on pavement perked his ears. He grasped his slender silver knife but did not draw it, and turned to find a figure approaching. It was a woman, of average height and about as non-descript as they come. Her face, which was plain, bordering on homely, was well creased with crow's feet, but she didn't seem old. Dean's eyebrow lifted as he took in her attire. A nun. Not a bad disguise if you're a murdering shape shifter intent on eluding discovery. Lovely. Dean did not release his grip on the knife.
"You seemed cold." The nun offered forth her hand, in which there steamed a cup of coffee. Dean warily took it from her and warmed his palm around it, but did not drink. His eyes did not leave her face. His hand did not leave his knife. "I've seen you here several nights now. Can I direct you to a men's shelter? I'm sure a warm bed and a meal would do you a wonder."
Dean quirked a half-smile. "Thank you, Sister, but no. I hope not to be here much longer, if I can help it." The nun cocked her head to the side but did not protest. "If you don't mind me asking, what are you doing here so late?"
The nun gave a low chuckle. "I often come here late at night. Or early in the morning, as the case seems to be." She cast a glance around the courtyard gardens, smiling gently at the flowers that glowed softly in the moonlight. "The church is so much more peaceful. No one here but me, able to enjoy the quiet glory." She looked down at Dean. "And I do sometimes get to meet interesting folks, and maybe lend a hand to help."
"All due respect, Sister," said Dean, "but aren't you scared to be here all by yourself? It's not exactly safe." He stuttered once and hastened to add, "Not that I mean anything by that. I'm just saying."
She pursed her mouth with a quizzical expression. "It's a logical question, I suppose. But I have faith that I will be watched over."
Before he could stop himself, Dean snorted a derisive little laugh. "Faith won't keep the bogey-man away."
"Perhaps not. But faith doesn't mean knowing with certainty that something is true. It is choosing to believe that it is true, despite any lack of proof." The nun fingered her crucifix distractedly. Dean looked at it more closely, eyes narrowing. Silver and pearl. "Sometimes you just have to give up on finding proof, and just believe."
"Just believe," repeated Dean. "That's not exactly my strong suit, Sister. I'm more of a 'show me' sorta guy."
The nun smiled. "Faith is a funny thing. But in my belief, son, there are just some places that evil will not go." With that she extended a hand toward Dean. "Are you sure I can't convince you to go to a shelter? I hate to think of you spending the night out here."
Dean didn't take her hand, and tried to swallow down the feeling of guilt for not doing so. "I'll be fine, Sister, thank you." She nodded with a smile and turned, walking slowly out to the arched walkway, her fingertips brushing the stone walls as she went.
Hours passed, the moon tracking a slow path across the sky.
Dean stretched, cracking the kinks out of his neck. A glance at his watch told him what he already knew, that it was too damned late to be sitting in the dark and cold. Three damn nights. This is pointless. He smirked suddenly as he thought of something that Stella used to say. Hunting is days and days of sheer boredom, interrupted occasionally by moments of complete terror.
He stood, twisting a shoulder to one side to stretch out the cramping muscle, and shuffled toward the twin wooden church doors. The heavy doors took a mighty heft to open, and he puffed out a grunt with the exertion. They swung slowly open on their great hinges, and Dean slipped silently inside.
He scanned the nave quickly, ensuring that there was nothing lurking in the shadows. A candle flickering at the altar beckoned him on. High upon the walls, lining the way down the aisles, were fourteen carven angels, each more than seven feet tall, standing watch over the chancel. Their faces were cold and impassive stone.
But then, though he couldn't explain why, the hair on Dean's neck stood on end. His instincts dropped him into a crouch, and he snatched his silver dagger from his belt. A quick scan of the sanctuary revealed no immediate threat, but he knew it was there. Evil was hiding there.
Then there came a sound, a scraping and a low chuckle. As Dean's eyes swept the aisle toward the chancel, his heart seemed to stop. There, in the middle of the floor, lay a single shoe, tipped on its side, its low heel broken and hanging askew. The incongruous sight was enough to goad him to action and Dean broke into a run, a growl growing in his chest. As he skidded to a halt at the front of the chapel, a look to the left showed him his foe.
A man, skin already shredding away, was crouching over a body. The nun. She was curled on her side, knees drawn up toward her chest. At their side lay the collection box, a few dollar bills spilling from it. The man did not look up until he heard the scuff of Dean's boots on the stone floor. A quick glance to the side, and the shape shifter scrambled sideways away from his victim.
Dean could see the hate in his eyes. He was used to that look of anger, of bloodlust, of hidden fear. He saw that look every time he confronted one of these damned things. Normally it did not bother him, but seeing this thing staring at him while kneeling over the body of an old woman who didn't want anything more than to sit quietly and pray…it was more than Dean would stand.
Still maintaining the ruse of humanity, the shape shifter backed away, whispering, "Jesus." Anger grew in Don's chest, a pounding, clawing rage.
"He can't help you now." Dean's voice was not much more than a whisper, but the threat in it was so clear that the color drained from the man's face. He took a backward step, preparing to turn tail and flee, but Dean's knife flashed out like a lightning strike. The shifter dodged, catlike, and turned to face Dean. With a snarl and a flourish the creature snatched a wicked looking buck knife of his own from a boot sheath. A quick thrust.
Dean parried too late and felt the bite of steel in his shoulder. The blade stabbed deep, nearly to the hilt, and the shifter gave a practiced twist, ripping the flesh with a wet, shredding noise. Pain heightened Dean's growl to a roar, and with a powerful sweep of his arm he knocked the creature away, sending him crashing over the altar where he landed in a tangled heap. Dean launched himself after his attacker, vaulting the altar and landing straddled over the man's prone form.
Without a sound, Dean wrenched the knife from his shoulder, gripping it with ferocious force. The shifter's face, though dazed by his tumble, reflected sudden terror at the sight of Dean, rage roiling off of him, standing over him with a blood-covered knife and a shining silver dagger. Without a word, without a thought, Dean dropped to a knee, using his body weight and momentum to drive the dagger through the shape shifter's throat. He felt the knife rebound off the spinal cord, and then stop as the tip of the blade broke against the stone floor. Hot blood spurted over Dean's hands and he knelt there, silently watching as the creature's life ebbed away, hearing the last rattling breaths change to gurgles as blood flooded the lungs.
Dean stayed there, motionless, for a long moment, his own breath heaving in his chest, the wound in his shoulder burning and pulsing with his heartbeat. But memory prodded him to his feet and he leapt back over the altar to the nun's side.
Her eyes were open, unseeing, bereft of their spark, of their soul, and he knew straightaway that she was gone. One hand was tucked up against her chest, the other stretched out toward the altar as though pleading for aid, for salvation. A rusty handprint of dried blood marred her pale cheek. The blossoms of arterial red blood upon her blouse hid a series of deep knife wounds.
"Oh, Christ," Dean breathed, and it was half an oath, half a prayer. He fell to a knee at her side, his breath hitching in his chest both from the exertion of the fight and the sight of this small woman, old enough to be his grandmother, sprawled before him in a pool of thickening blood.
A gossamer length of broken chain trailed from the fist clenched under her chin, and Dean gently pried her fingers open. His breath caught as light glinted off the silver and pearl crucifix she was clutching in her palm. He slipped the cross from her hand and pressed it in his own, grinding his teeth. With a whisper light touch, he passed his fingers over her eyes, closing them against the world for the last time. He touched her cheek, her skin still warm and soft.
"Dean!" Sam's voice startled him, and Dean took a steeling breath, willing himself to project the sense of calm, of evenness, that his brother took for granted. "Are you okay?" Sam came sprinting down the aisle, revolver in hand. He came to a halt as he saw the two bodies sprawled on the floor. His hand came up and he pointed his gun at Dean, eyes wary.
Without a word, Dean wiped the blade of his dagger on his jeans, then made a little nick on his forearm with the point. Sam lowered his gun, letting out a little whoosh of air. "Did you get it?"
"Yeah. It's dead." Dean stood, tucking his dagger back into the sheath and tossing the buck knife toward the shifter's body. When Sam stooped to check on the creature, Dean slipped the crucifix into his shirt pocket.
The drive back to the motel was mostly silent. Dean didn't object when Sam offered to drive and spent the ride in the back seat, gaze distant, jaw twitching. As they climbed out of the Impala, Bobby stopped Dean with a hand on his shoulder. He waited for a moment, until Sam was out of earshot.
"Something happened." A statement, not a question. "And you're bleeding." Dean spared a glance to his shoulder, but made no move to staunch the blood.
"I'm all right." Part of him wanted to spill out the story, to rail against the evil in the world, to ask Bobby why even the safe places aren't always safe. But he wouldn't ask. He would tuck this pain away and use it to grow, use it as a reminder that he must always be on guard, or innocents would suffer.
Bobby stared steadily at his friend with his tired green eyes. "The world is unfair sometimes, Dean. Sometimes, no matter what we do, and no matter how we try, evil wins."
A breath caught in Dean's chest, but he wouldn't rise to the bait. This pain was his. He would not try to ease it by sharing it. Pain shared is pain halved, and he wanted all of it. "'Night, Bobby." Without looking at Bobby, Dean turned away and followed Sam into the motel room. He kicked off his boots and strolled into the bathroom, feigning nonchalance.
He turned on the shower and stepped out of his jeans. Stripping his shirt, he spared a glance to his shoulder. The bleeding had slowed, now an oozing trickle that followed the contour of his bicep and dripped from his fingertips. He had made no effort to tend the wound. He wanted to feel every stab of pain, wanted to count every drop of blood. He wanted a scar, a reminder. He'd seen a lot of death. But this was somehow different. He had made a mistake, letting that old woman go into the church alone instead of sending her off somehow. And she was dead because of it.
He stepped into the shower. The hot water stung his skin, burned his wound. He bit back a hiss and stared down at his shoulder, watching the blood run in watery rivulets down his arm to his fingertips, and drip to the porcelain. A rusty brown swirl of water circled the drain. A whirlpool of blood.
Sam and Bobby would never know the story. They both took note of the silver and pearl crucifix that now hung in the trunk of the Impala. And they both connected the cross with the jagged scar on Dean's shoulder, the one that he refused to talk about. But whenever they opened their mouths to ask for the story, the look in Dean's eyes was enough to silence them. The look spoke of guilt, and of a strange knowledge. And the look also said that he would never tell them that story. That story was his alone. And it would stay that way.