Day of the Dead Chapter 3
Dean's anxiety grew with each footstep. The beam of his flashlight fanned back and forth across the quiet street. Come on, Sam. Where are you? He passed the little park on one side of the street, a row of adobe style houses on the other side. The park was small and open with very little trees or bushes. It had a little play area that had one slide and a swing set, and two or three picnic tables scattered about. There wasn't really any place to hide anything—or anyone. He'd swept the flashlight beam across the area and walked on, anxious to get off this wrong street and get back to the motel. Sam had to be back there by now and Dean wanted to be the first one to tear into him over this little disappearing stunt.
He was about to head around the corner house and go onto the next street when a niggling little feeling made him turn around and flash the beam down the road once more at the same time he pulled his Glock out. Bright eyes reflected in the light, watching him. Stupid cat.
Swinging back around, his flashlight cast a wide beam and Dean froze, catching sight of something. He jerked the flashlight back, playing it over one of the picnic tables. Something lumpy was on the bench and he had a feeling he knew what it was.
He ran into the park, over the soft desert soil, and scooped the hoodie off the bench. No no no no, dammit Sam. His fingers curled into the worn fabric, the evidence that something was very wrong. He frowned at the little orange bundle of marigolds on the table, knowing what they were used for. The entire town was covered in the blooms. Dean's fear meter kicked up a notch. Aw, Sammy, what were you doing?
Okay, okay, I'm gonna find you. Dean cast the light out into the night, far into the quiet wilderness where it bounced off the little hills. Ah, hell, if his brother went off that way . . . Clenching down on the low throb in his gut that that thought brought, Dean crouched down, balancing the handle of his gun on his knee while he cast the light over the ground, searching for tracks. The sole patterns of Sam's sneakers were easy to pick out. Dean followed the tracks away from the table where the kid had backed up, shuffled around in the dirt, then moved forward—walking straight—
Shit! A woman appeared in front of him, just floated out of thin air, not two inches away. Acting on pure instinct, Dean let himself roll back onto his butt and fired.
#
John was coming back down the crowded street, shards of apprehension slicing at his chest. It was after midnight and Sam was missing. His youngest child was missing on The Day of the Dead, the day Mary died when something had come after their family. John wasn't going to lose his boy to this gawd-forsaken day too. Not while he had a breath left in his body.
He angled his broad shoulders sideways to get past a strolling mariachi band when the blast of a distant shot echoed across the air. Attuned, John would recognize the sound anywhere, even if the people around him only registered the melody of joyful trumpets and guitars. Dean.
John took off like a bullet, jostling his way through the crowd, ignoring angry grumbles in his wake as he left the center of activity behind to burst into the quiet neighborhood streets. The motel was straight ahead, but he'd told Dean to take one of the roundabout ways to look for his brother. He knew the left road ended up toward a park while the right led into a seedier part of town.
Come on, Dean, let me know where you are, buddy. Making a quick decision, John ran to the right.
And an apparition pulsed out of the air, blocking his way. A young Hispanic woman.
John had the salt palmed with his next inhalation.
"No! Please. Por favor. Don't throw that. I came to help."
John's fingers remained curled around the canister. "Where's my son?"
"Please. He promised you would help me."
John's brow arched. He didn't want to trust her, but damn if that didn't sound like something Sam would promise. And at this point, John was willing to hedge all bets. "All right. First my son." He didn't know exactly what Sam had promised her or if a promise had even been made, but if it meant getting to his youngest, John was more than ready to back his child's play.
"I'll take you to him." The spirit winked out of existence.
"Son of a—"
"This way," she called from the corner leading into the left street.
John ran after her and she disappeared again, reappearing farther ahead down the road. Perfect. He was playing follow the leap-frogging ghost. Hang on, sons. I'm coming.
#
Dean couldn't wait for his dad. He'd picked up Sam's trail and he wasn't about to wait. But he couldn't be stupid either and make things worse. Scooping up several rocks on the run, Dean sped back to the street. Right next to the sidewalk where John couldn't miss it, Dean hurriedly piled the rocks on top of each other, then placed a long stone near the base to mark the direction he was headed in. As a final touch he placed one pebble on top. One for Dean. Two pebbles if the marker had been left by Sam. It was the best he could do to guide his dad. He wasn't waiting any longer.
Tracking his brother in the dark was difficult, but not impossible, and Sam's prints were still fresh, easy to follow. Actually the only prints out this way. As Dean walked farther away from town, his uneasiness grew. Why the hell had Sammy come out here on his own? Dean pulled out his pouch of rock salt, knowing the answer to that. If that spirit back at the park was any indication of what was going on, Sam wasn't exactly alone and that made all sorts of things skitter around inside Dean's gut.
He raced up another hill, feeling every muscle in his thighs working. The usual sounds of nature were eerily quiet as laughter and music from town carried oddly loud on the air.
Dean came over the hill's cusp and his heart jerked painfully in his chest.
Not two yards away from him, lower on the incline was Sam. Held upright by the beefy paws of some Neanderthal sparking ghost clamped around his head. Dean could clearly see Sam was on the losing end. His toes angled downward, dragging in the desert sand. His arms were hanging, yet there was nothing limp about him. The kid's muscles were coiled tight, jerking in tiny rhythmic spasms. His eyes were nearly rolled up inside his sockets and his mouth gaped in a soundless scream.
Dean moved in an eruption of fury. "Hey, Pancho Villa!" Running headlong, he flung a fistful of salt out at the same moment he crashed through the dispersing ghost, slamming into Sam instead, carrying them both downhill in a snarl of arms and legs. They hit the bottom with a jolt.
Where Sam's screams had been silent before, he was now shrilling at the highest decimal point of his young lungs, back arching off the ground, the back of his head digging into the ground.
Dean went to push himself up off his stomach and felt the give in his arm, instantly recognizing he'd broken it. Pulling it in to his body, he rolled the other way to get to his knees and lean over his brother.
"Sam! Sammy!" With his good arm, Dean grasped onto Sam's shoulder, trying to hold him still, but the kid wasn't responding. His eyes were huge, dilated. And the screams . . . Dean had never heard such a piercing wounded sound come out of his brother . . . and the scream wasn't letting up. Whatever had a hold of Sam scared the hell out of Dean.
TBC
Other November 2nd Stories you might like:
Child's Intuition written by cherry619
Promise written by Llini Guisli
November Second written by Bayre