Part Two
Dean was acutely aware of Bobby's unease when he relayed their latest news.
The kitchen was scarcely lit with the one naked bulb hanging over the table that held the usual books and newspapers. Yet Dean was able to see how Bobby's face got drawn and how the man's shoulders tensed as he referred the tale. At the part of Bob's less than forthcoming aid, Bobby rose and walked over to the kitchen cabinet.
Dean looked over at Sam, arching his eyebrow in a question. Sam looked just as perplexed as Dean felt.
Bobby returned with a bottle of whiskey and three small glasses, setting them down in the middle of the table before he proceeded to serve himself. He filled the glass up to the rim and downed it in one gulp.
The silence was tense and Dean was not about to break it.
Bobby looked at each of them in turn before he sat back down and re-filled his glass. "I don't think I dig your angel bud, boys."
Dean cracked a sardonic smile. "Well, I'm on board with that one. But how about the hunter. Any ideas who it may be and why his ass is stuck in Limbo?"
He didn't dare look at Sam at this point, because his brother had been dead for a week and who knew where he'd been? Dean so didn't want to trigger some memories and have Sam a shivering, nightmarish mess at this point.
"What did he do to have demons after him?" Sam inquired. "Did he turn evil at some point? What happened?"
Dean had to hold on to the table not to shake his brother. No one was turning into anything, not on his watch! But he knew that fear still rode Sam like a mare, awake or asleep, it was always there.
Bobby cast a glance at Sam and shook his head. "Pat was a good man until the end as I understand it."
Taking another sip from his glass, he settled in his chair and looked out the window while he spoke. "Pat was not like your regular hunter. He had doubts all the time, more than most hunters alow themselves to have. Didn't want there to be this much evil in the world. If nothing had happened, he'd never even have become a hunter. He was never really comfortable in the role."
Dean felt a chill in the pit of his stomach and served himself of the booze. "So what's the story?"
"Pat was happily married, had a wife and a daughter, when hell broke loose. His wife and daughter didn't make it. That changes a man, as you know."
This time, Dean looked over at Sam and his brother had ducked his head, fiddling with the tablecloth.
"How he died, nobody knows. The house he tried to purify blew up. There was an investigation and the police decided it was a gas explosion. Which is crap and we all knew it. Everybody who knew Pat, including your dad, was well aware that Pat was good at his job."
Bobby paused and Dean had to bite his tongue not to prod for more information.
"Rumors have it that something big went on inside that house that night. I don't know what exactly he was hunting at the time, but neighbors complained about strange lights and sounds that night. And those folks lived miles away. But nobody really knows what happened. Only Pat, and he took it to his grave."
"His daughter, was she ... special?" Sam asked in a low voice.
"You mean like you?" Bobby asked bluntly. "I don't think so. There was nothing strange about the family before they moved into a new house and Pat came home to find Elsie and Anne hung from the chandelier. If Pat hadn't had an alibi, he'd probably gone down for the murders but he was in another time zone at the time of their deaths. Nobody knows what happened and Pat never talked about it. Much like your dad, he did take up hunting six months later. You connect the dots."
"How did Dad know him?" Dean asked, unable to stop himself from prodding any longer. The more he found out about their father, the more he realized how little he had really known about the man.
"I brought them together for a hunt." Bobby admitted. "It was while you were too small to really get all that was going on. John didn't say much about Pat, just that he was different. You see, Patrick O'Brian, second generation Irish and as stubborn as they get, was a devout man. Went to mass every Sunday, confession and all. And he wanted so desperately to believe that there was some good in the world despite everything he'd seen. Never threw himself into a hunt without doing massive research, always ready to free rather than condemn. Sound like anyone you know?" Bobby emptied the second glass and Dean turned to look at his brother.
Sam sat there, silent, the filled glass Dean had placed in front of him untouched.
And Dean got why Bobby was so unwilling to talk about this, got it so clearly that he wanted to punch Bob for dragging them into this. And still, they had to dig into the crap, because the deeper they got into the mess, the bigger it seemed. They needed to understand what this was all about, for Sam's sake. For everybody's sake.
"We need to talk to him, Bobby. We need to get the truth about why demons want him and why angels are on his ass all of a sudden." Dean kept his eyes on Sam, waiting for Sam to look up and participate, not withdraw into silence.
"I know," Bobby replied. "I ain't liking the idea of summoning the dead, not one bit, but I get that it has to be done. Maybe we can help him find peace and move on?"
"Except angels may not want him," Sam spoke as he rose and walked from the table to stand by the window. "Angels seem pretty picky when it comes to souls."
"Sam!" Dean warned. He didn't want to hear it, not now, not ever.
"No, Dean, it's true. Angels are not what I thought they were. I don't know what to think any longer. I used to pray, every day. I bet Pat did too, and look where he ended up!" Sam's voice sounded defeated. "Seems he didn't even have demon blood. He was just persona non-grata."
"Shut up, Sammy," Dean gritted his teeth not to lash out at the injustice of the world. At what all this was doing to Sam, messing with his head, having him doubt himself and his very existence. Anything and anyone wanting his brother was fair game, angels and demons alike.
"He must have done something to piss someone off. I never prayed, not once, and look who got to be hooked to angel freaking radio? I've done my share of things that I'm sure are on the black list and still they seem to need me to screw with your head, Sammy!"
"Dean's right, son. This don't make a lick of sense." Bobby interfered. "If the demons wanted him, they should just have snatched him if he was going to hell. And I doubt it; Pat was hunting, saving people, and he was a card carrying Catholic, Holy Madonna pictures in the truck and all."
"Maybe praying ain't enough for some? Maybe doing good can never wash the evil out?" Sam said. "Limbo is where the unwanted go, right, Bobby?"
"No, Sam," Bobby's voice was softer now, almost tender as he spoke. "It's not that easy. It's not black or white. It's enough that you die unbaptized as far as the Roman Catholics used to believe. That means anyone can end up there, not baptized or not given the last rite. It has nothing to do with you being bad or good - seems more like a fluke to me. I know Pat was baptized, though, and if giving him the last rite is enough, then that's what's gonna happen if we find him."
"Maybe he can't." Sam sighed and pushed his hands into his pockets.
"Huh?" Dean furrowed his brow.
"If he left something behind, he won't be able to leave, ever. He'll be stuck where he is and he'll never find peace."
Dean closed his eyes and wondered if that was where Sam had been while dead. In no man's land, unable to leave. Was he watching while he was being burned? Was he hurting while Dean watched him go up in flames? The mere thought was nauseating.
"Sam," he paused to get his voice under control. "We'll sort it out, man. We'll help him settle and move on. You with me?"
Sam's shoulders sank and he nodded, without turning away from the window. Sam's mirror image on the window glass was too faint to give any indication of his facial expression. But the slumped shoulders, the hanging head, spoke loud and clear of defeat and misery.
Dean's stomach tightened. "There's has to be more to this than we know and we need to talk to this Pat guy."
Sam still didn't turn around, nor did he speak. He just stood there, like he was the loneliest man in the world; lost and hopeless. Dean looked at Bobby; the older man's face turned to Sam by the window, a sorrow presence that Dean just hated. It reminded him of those days without Sam, that awful sensation of having lost everything. He wasn't going back there, not ever.
"Have any fitting summoning ritual at hand, Bobby?" Dean growled. "I need to talk to this one right now!"
Bobby rose wearily. "I'll find one. You just stay put and don't go wreaking havoc by putting your heads in the lion's den without me being right there to save your asses if need be, ya hear?"
"I'll help you look," Sam said and finally turned away from the window. His face was drawn and pale, hesitance written all over him.
Dean felt the knot in his stomach loosen a bit. Sam may be doubting everything at the moment, but he was not backing down and that was all Dean could ask for.
"We have work to do," Dean said he rose from the chair and led the way to Bobby's freakish library. He knew Sammy would follow.
Sam's attention wandered. He found himself reading the same page over and over and still not quite understanding what was written on the faintly age-yellowed pages. He didn't want to remember the feeling of wandering in no man's land. Looking for Dean, not understanding what was going on. Then finding him just to have to watch his brother mourn while feeling totally useless - Dean's sorrow had felt like a literal punch to Sam's gut. He remembered watching him, needing to reach out and console him, tell him it was all right, he was fine. There had been this strange, bodyless sensation, but he remembered how freaked out he'd been. Remembered the pain on Dean's face.
Was Patrick O'Brian as out of the loop as he had been? How much did he understand, how much did he feel? Was he too, forced to watch from afar, knowing it was all his fault for being stupid? Who had he left behind? Who did he owe?
"Sam? You zoning out on me?"
Sam jumped at Dean's voice and lied: "No."
"Right, Captain Obvious," Dean quipped but didn't prod further. There were still things they both avoided like the plague.
"I don't get why we just don't use one of the everyday summoning of the dead rituals? If every damned psychic can call on Grandma Moses and her cat, why can't we?" Dean shuffled impatiently through a book, shifting his feet, crossed at the ankles on the table.
"'Cause we don't wanna meet Grandma Moses and her cat?" Sam innocently pointed out while turning the page.
"We should call Missouri!" Dean's face lit up in a devilish grin. "She'll probably know."
"It's 2 AM, Dean, you really wanna wake Missouri up at this time of night? You itching to make a close encounter with her wooden spoon?" Sam rapidly skimmed through the page and found nothing.
"I'll let you and your puppy eyes take care of Missouri's spoon, dude. I just want some damn intel and get on with this freakin' show." Dean hurled a paper he'd been scribbling on in the general direction of the trash bin, which was already surrounded by an amazing amount of balled paper. Sam was sure Dean missed on purpose because he knew it would end in somebody tidying up after him. Most likely his little brother, Sam crunched his nose irritably. Just to be able to mock said brother about his OCD. Patience had never been Dean's virtue and right now he was about to burst in his seams from the inactivity.
"Lion's den, Dean, lion's den," Sam reminded and then his eyes caught on a passage that seemed plausible. Reading through it more carefully, it seemed to fit the bill. "Dean, I think I got it!"
"Yeah?" Dean pulled his feet off the table between them and scooted over to have a closer look.
"No dead corpses or newborn babies needed? What's the trick?" Dean huffed.
Sam handed the book over and pointed to the section.
Dean frowned. "Translation, professor!"
"It's really simple and it serves to calls for a specific, uh, lost soul. Those sigils need to be made in blood but it's all right with any kind of blood. No restriction of time and place, either. I think it might work. It's just that one line in there that I'm really not gung-ho happy about."
"Better than the last I found that entailed a lunar eclipse and five dead in a row. So what's the line?" Dean squinted his eyes and feigned to read. Sam knew he wasn't really trying and took the book back.
"This one here that says; 'I succumb to your will, oh mighty, and render my soul to the service of the powers that reign'. Pretty close to downright selling your soul, that one."
Dean glared at him, shaking his head. "That leaves you out of the summoning, Sammy. I'm not liking you with this one. Powers that reign? What powers are those? Nope, Sammy, you're out of this one."
Sam glared right back, swatting Dean's shoulder. "You honestly believe I'm letting the two of you do this one alone while I do the dishes? Somebody's gonna save your asses."
Dean reached for the book, causing Sam to almost topple off the couch as he kept the book as far away as possible.
"No way, bitch. Hand it over. This one goes back where it belongs - in a dusty pile."
"Hey!" Sam peeled and wedged himself away from Dean's grabby hands. "You'd rather go snatch some newborns for the ritual?"
They were both halfway to the floor, fighting for the book, when Bobby's footsteps came down the stairs.
"Bobby, I got one," Sam shouted in a half-suffocated voice, thanks to Dean's knee on the small of his back, pressing his chest to the armrest.
"Oh, shut up, Sammy." Dean grunted with one last lunge for the book before Sam got the upper hand and twisted his legs enough to have his jerk of a brother lose balance and land on the floor.
Sam was up off the couch and by Bobby's side before Dean got his breath back enough for another tackle. "Look, I think it'll work and it's the most doable one I've found so far."
Bobby took the book out of his hand and read though the passage. Then he looked back and forth between the two of them. Dean was now standing by Sam's side, a fisted grip on his shirt collar. "You done trying to demolish my house now?"
"Not before I've kicked his ass," Dean promised. "I don't like it, Bobby. We do this one only if Sam's ass is locked up, good."
"I'll be in the kitchen doing some actual work," Bobby rolled his eyes at them. "I even think I have blood in the freezer."
"Don't even ask," Dean grinned before Sam had the time to open his mouth.
Sam didn't even put up fight, he just went boneless and let Dean wrestle him to the floor before he retaliated by sticking his fingers in his brother's ribs. Sometimes they really were twelve.
- o -
The morning sun was stark on Bobby's eyes when he returned from his trip to get what they needed. He heard the loud voices as soon as he shut the engine off. The boys were at it again. They'd discussed the pro and cons, very loudly, half the night until he finally got them to settle for the night, which was more like seven in the morning. Crazy kids.
Turned out he didn't have blood in the freezer and he had to wait until the local butcher opened shop to get some. He'd known leaving those two alone was asking for trouble. Finding the house still intact was a relief.
With a sigh, he gripped the plastic bottle and headed for the house. Dean was in grand form today and had a long list of reasons why Sam should be excluded. Sam had an equally long list of why he needed to be right there by his brother's side. Why the two of them even bothered bitching was beyond Bobby. Nothing would hold Sam back, and Dean knew it. They didn't have Winchester blood running in their veins for naught.
He slammed the door shut behind him to alert the idjits he was back, hoping his mere presence would calm the waters.
It did, for about five minutes. The moment he put the plastic canteen and the grocery bag on the counter, Dean had gotten his second wind.
"Bobby, tell him that he can't be a part of this!"
Bobby sighed.
"Says who?" Sam retaliated. "It's a simple summoning, man. You're overreacting."
"Tell you what Sammy, I'm so not salting and burning your ass again, ever. You said it yourself; you don't like the giving your soul over. Well, guess what, I don't like one freaking thing about this deal."
There was the sound of the scraping of chairs over the floor and Sam's voice was suddenly at a higher pitch.
"I watched Alistair torture you! I thought I'd have nothing left to bury at all! If you think I'm letting you go there, all trigger happy and death defying, you're a certifiable jerk. Lock me up, tie me down, do whatever you want. I memorized the ritual, I'll follow your delusional ass whatever you do."
"Bitch!"
"Jerk!"
Bobby turned and watched Sam towering over Dean. The glare contest was on and no one was backing off.
"I've had it with you two," Bobby spoke tiredly. "Another word out of either of you and I'll lock you both down and do it myself. Got that?"
Both Winchesters turned to glare at him.
"We do this together and we sort it out together. We leave no one behind, ever. We get the intel, send Pat's soul to peace and come right back here to right what else is wrong. We handle whatever comes along, coz' we've have work to do."
Both boys deflated.
"Now, get carving sticks with the needed symbols while I defrost the cow-blood and make us dinner. I ain't going there on an empty stomach."
"Best idea anybody's had today," Dean muttered and dragged Sam out to carve two dozen wood sticks.
Bobby watched them walk away and he wondered if they were even aware of how close they stayed even when ready to rip each other a new one. Like letting the other out of their sight was unthinkable.
"Idjits," Bobby muttered and filled the sink with warm water.
When the sun descended, they went out and raked a circle in the still spring-wet sand, behind a pile of scrap metal and frames of abandoned cars still not totally stripped of spare parts. They worked in silence, the evening chilly but calm enough to allow the candles to burn undisturbed.
Dean watched Sam measure up the three feet between each carved stick of wood. His brother had grown quiet and twitchy: tell-tale signs of unease. Dean still wanted him locked up behind bars for this thing, but he also knew his brother was stubborn enough to never admit to being scared. And the more Dean ranted on him, the worse it all got. He should know, since he'd lived most of his life with the bitch.
Dean used a compass to place the four black candles just right. He was not going to be the one to light them, though. Putting anything to fire still bothered him and even more so at this point. Stretching his legs, he turned to his brother: "Sam?"
"Huh?"
Sam put the last stick in place and stepped back to admire his work.
"This Pat dude...I know what you're thinking, but that's not true." He was being cryptic on purpose, knowing Sam would get exactly what he meant without him having to spell it out. Because he didn't want to spell it out, he didn't want to face it.
On the surface, it might seem Sam and this Patrick O'Brian were dangerously alike. Always seeing the gray shades, always doubting and needing to be sure that what they killed was evil enough to deserve it. Always questioning, to the point of risking their own lives. Sam had lost his, believing that goodness would prevail. Trusting a man who shared his freakish fate, powers and all, wanting him to be good, paying the steepest of prices for that trust.
Sam turned to him, head ducked enough for his hair to cover his eyes. "Whatever happens, Dean, you save your and Bobby's asses, got that?"
Dean smiled sadly . How many times had they been over this by now? And still they never got past where they'd started off. Ready to sacrifice everything.
"However this freaking gig turns out, what it's is all about, or part of, whatever Bob says or does - there's something our Patty-boy didn't have, Sammy. An awesome big brother who will kick some serious ass."
"You mean a stubborn hothead who doesn't know when to back off?" Sam looked up at him from under the bangs. A hint of a smile visible in the increasing darkness.
Dean grinned and swatted at Sam's shoulder. "You've got it, bitch!"
Sam parried the hand, the smile finally reaching his eyes. "Jerk."
Sam's visible relief settled Dean's own ragged nerves and he reached for the canister of blood to make the signs in the sand.
At midnight, they placed themselves around the small fire in the middle of the circle and gripped each other's wrists. For a man mumbling about stupid girly hand holding rituals, Dean's grip was pure steel.
Sam shivered slightly and Dean's fingers clamped down even harder, hard enough for the blunt nails to dig into his skin.
When Bobby started the recital, Sam closed his eyes and whispered the words in unison with the older man.
At the line of rendering control to the reigning powers, the wind picked up and sand blew up into Sam's face with speed enough to make him feel like every grain grated his skin. A howl deafened him and he lost the grip on Bobby's and Dean's wrists. The air seemed too thin to breathe, the earth under his feet gave way and he was free-falling, screaming for Dean as he grappled air to find his brother.
Then the darkness was total and he opened his eyes at a cough somewhere in the distance.
"Dean?" His voice was panicked as he pulled himself up to stand on shaking legs. "Bobby?"
"You two knuckleheads all right?" Bobby's voice was right behind him and Sam turned on his heels when a hand closed around his upper arm.
Dean was sitting on the ground, face set in a pissed off smirk. "What the hell, Bobby? You could have arranged first class. What was that all about?"
He grunted and rose to his feet when Sam gripped at his brother's coat and pulled. Still shaky, Sam just held on while Dean looked around.
"So where exactly is this?"
Sam already knew. He felt it in his bones. Nothing of this was real, everything was too gray and dim, too ethereal and edgeless. But he didn't want to say it, not out loud.
Bobby drew a quick breath and Sam clasped his hand harder in Dean's coat when he turned his head.
The figure looked to be in his forties or early fifties. The hair had started graying around the temples, and the weather-beaten face spoke of a hard living. The eyes were a pale blue and they spoke of sorrow and a thousand deaths combined. Sam knew who this was without asking.
"The Winchester boys and Bobby Singer? What did you do? How did you end up here?"
Patrick O'Brian's voice sounded fittingly grave as he spoke.