The Devil You Know
Chapter Four
Dean sat tense and uncomfortable in his own car, Lucy's cold presence beside him making him shift his eyes from the road every few seconds to cast suspicious sideways glances in her direction. She directed him out of town into sparse woodlands. Eventually, in the same flat, emotionless voice, she told him to pull over, and he obeyed doubtfully.
They slammed the Impala's doors, and Lucy set off silently, away from the road. Dean watched her back stalk away from him, reflecting that there was some tension and purpose in her movement which was strangely unsettling: he was convinced that she had some intention she hadn't told him about. He regretted helping her escape, but it was too late now. He sighed, hefting a shovel from the Impala's trunk, and followed her, kicking out at the scrubby tufts of grass in frustration.
Her form seemed dark and severe among the vibrant yellow-tan colours of the grass and the ground; sunlight seemed to fall around her without settling in her lank hair. Dean wondered why anyone would want to be buried out here in the middle of nowhere: the town was little more than a careless grey scattering across the valley. The sickly foreboding clawing at his stomach became more persistent.
He jogged a few steps to catch up with Lucy, who had stopped, and waited expectantly beside a scrap of land starved of the thin grass which covered the rest of the hillside in uneven patches.
'This is the place,' she told him. He smiled awkwardly and nodded, dodging her empty stare.
For a few moments she watched him dig, and then seemed to lose interest, and wandered among the trees. Dean was too relieved that her eyes were off him to ask where she was going. And too tired. His arm was throbbing, and sweat trickled into the wound, making it sting so sharply that his eyes watered. He had achieved nearly five feet in depth when a particularly fierce pang made him drop the shovel and clutch at his arm, lurching upright and swearing in a hoarse undertone.
He tilted his head back, drinking in air, then stopped abruptly and glanced around. Lucy had disappeared, obscured by trees. He swore again, and wrenched himself laboriously out of the hole.
The trees thickened around him as he jogged in the direction he believed Lucy had gone, shadows joining up until the light was muted and dusky. This darkness, and the upwards lilt of the land, prevented him from seeing the quarry until it opened up at his feet. He snatched at a tree trunk and scrabbled backwards in panic, kicking some sandy soil over the cliff edge. Regaining his balance gracelessly, he looked up, and his frantic eyes found Lucy.
She stood with her toes on the edge, upright as a dancer preparing to leap, her arms outstretched and her face tilted ecstatically to the wind, her eyes closed. She looked human; for the first time since Dean had met her, she looked like her soul was still living inside her, ironically. For the second time, he felt a deeply buried part of him repel the idea of interrupting her meditations. But he knew he couldn't, wouldn't stand and watch her jump, or walk away and let her do as she pleased. The compulsion to save her was almost hardwired into his DNA. Still, a part of him wondered whether this was the only way she could be saved.
'Lucy…' he croaked, afraid that a loud noise would surprise her into movement.
She didn't look at him, but her eyes opened, and her face contracted in pain. 'I'm sorry, I lied to you. I don't know where Paul's mother is buried. But please understand I need to do this…' she pleaded. There were tears in her voice. This pain was honest, it was natural; it wasn't the same as the robotic suffering she had exuded before.
Dean took a wary step forward. 'I know it hurts…' he began, but her choked sob stopped him. Every word she spoke seemed to be wrenched from her gut.
'I killed the man I loved. I can't live the rest of my life knowing that. I can't…'
'Lucy, it wasn't you,' he reassured her, shuffling nearer.
She glanced at him over her shoulder, and pushed her feet forwards, a fraction of an inch, but still, his breath caught sharply in his windpipe. 'Please, stay back,' she warned him, teetering dangerously.
'Listen… I know it's hard… but Paul wouldn't want you to kill yourself, Lucy. If he loved you, he'd want you to go on living, right?'
She turned her face resolutely away from him, shutting out the words. It was clear in her mind. The person she had become was a killer, and she couldn't live this person's life; there was nothing in it that she recognised.
Dean swallowed, and tried another angle. 'Lucy it's possible that Paul's mother wasn't haunted by the necklace... it could be an older spirit. It's likely that Paul worked it out… He gave you the necklace, knowing that it would ruin your life, Lucy,' Dean told her, with utter conviction, not knowing whether what he said was true or not. He had no qualms about speaking ill of the dead if it would save a young woman's life. 'He did this to you, Lucy… the son of a bitch isn't worth dying for.'
She turned horrified eyes on him. Some new emotion was glowing in her eyes. 'He was so strange that night… he was afraid, almost, to give me the gift…' she muttered incredulously, as though to herself. Dean risked another step towards her. Her weight seemed to shift near imperceptibly away from the edge.
'But why would he do that?' she asked. Her voice now was that of a lost child, shattered illusions collapsing around her.
Dean's eyes widened: he had never thought for a second that he might be right, but Lucy's crumbling face told him he had hit bull's-eye. 'I don't know,' he replied honestly. 'But I'll need you to help me find out.'
He met her eyes uncertainly, waiting for a sign that she had made her decision. She nodded, so slightly that he almost missed it.
'Okay…'
He reached out an arm to take her hand, and she pushed back with her feet, reaching out to catch his hand. The loose earth shifted under her feet, and they slipped out from beneath her. In a frantic dive, Dean caught her forearm in his fingers, and clutched it tight as she slipped backwards, pulling his sprawled form along the sandy ground with her weight. Dean dug his toes into the ground, and the friction was enough to halt the movement.
He lay full length on the ground, clinging tightly to her arm. He was all too conscious that his fingers were still sweaty and dirty from digging the hole, and even now her skin was slipping in his grasp. The wound in his arm screeched out in indignation as his muscles tensed desperately, and he knew he couldn't keep this up for long. Her eyes met his, so vivid with fear that he doubted she could have jumped at all.
She mumbled incoherently, drowning in terror.
'I've got you… I've got you,' he muttered. His toes lost purchase in the sand, and they slid a few inches before he could stop them again, pressing knees and toes desperately into the earth.
Buried in a pocket of his jeans and inaccessible, his cell phone buzzed insistently. The intrusive sound seemed to add to the urgency of the situation.
He swung an arm round, and managed to catch hold of her free hand. 'I need you to push yourself up,' he told her breathlessly. 'You won't fall,' he added. For the second time, he was stating as fact something which could be either truth or lies. In a lot of ways, it was harder than lying.
She scrabbled her knees weakly against the cliff face, and her movement caused them to slip another few inches. Dean realised that, locked together like this, if she fell, he would follow.
'Let go of me with one arm,' he said.
She looked at him in horror and shook her head firmly. 'I won't let you fall!' he repeated. 'But you have to climb, or we'll both go over. Please…'
Holding his eyes in a vivid stare, she slowly retracted her hand from his, relying entirely on his weakening grip on her forearm. Her fingers dug into the sand, and she pushed up with her foot from a rut in the cliff-wall. She lurched forward, managing to twist her leg and get one knee up onto the ground. Snatching wildly, her hand caught a fistful of Dean's shirt. His free arm caught her waist and pulled her towards him. They both collapsed panting on the ground.
Dean's phone, which had fallen silent, started up its insistent ringing again. Wearily, he pulled it out. Predictably, it was Sam.
'Hello?'
The voice on the other end was inaudible, but Lucy watched Dean's expression tense.
'What?' he demanded.
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Sam opened his eyes to a bright light, which blurred all around it into vague shapes of dark grey and black. It hurt to look at it, and he squinted out feebly, trying to focus the world into something his injured brain could process. The light was flicking on and off. He shook his head to clear it, and winced: there seemed to be half a brick trapped in his skull battering the sides of his head mercilessly at the smallest movement. He blinked, hard, and finally, the shapes started to resolve themselves into objects.
He seemed to be back in their motel room, sitting bolt upright in a hard wooden chair, half blinded by the low rays of the setting sun, seeping into the dismal room through the grimy window panes, and giving an ethereal glow to the dreary décor. The light was flicking on and off because, far too close to his eyes, something was swinging back and forth across his vision. He tried to lift a hand to swat away the irritation, but something prevented him. Blinking again, he looked down to see his hands bound securely to the wooden armrests with coarse rope. He tested the tightness of the bonds cautiously, and swore under his breath.
He flicked his eyes back to the swinging object in front of his eyes. It suddenly occurred to him that somebody must be holding it up, and his head pivoted wildly, searching for them.
Michael snatched the pendant up with his free hand, and crouched in front of Sam, grinning from ear to ear. Childishly, Sam spat at him; it made him feel better in a minor way. Michael snarled.
'Is this what you were looking for, Sam?' he demanded, opening his hand to show the medallion resting against his palm, its chain tangled round his fingers.
Sam said nothing, but stared at him angrily. His stomach lurched at the sight of the dangerous object in such dangerous hands.
Michael produced Sam's cell phone. 'Let's call your brother,' he said, dialling. He held the phone to Sam's ear.
'What do you want me to say?' Sam asked, suspicious, listening to the droning ring. Dean wasn't picking up.
Michael shrugged mutely, hard-eyed.
It went to voicemail.
Michael growled and dialled again. 'Seems your brother doesn't care about you, Sam,' he muttered angrily.
After five or six tones, Dean's voice cut in. 'Hello?'
'Dean, Michael's here,' Sam said frankly. It seemed best to let Dean know the truth, so that he could work out a plan. Michael, surprisingly, didn't appear to mind that Sam was giving the game away.
'What?'
'Michael, you remember? He's here.'
'Here, as in "in town"?'
'No, Dean, here, as in "in our motel room, with me".'
'There's a time to be sarcastic, Sam, and this isn't it…'
'Dean, do I sound like I'm joking?'
'You're serious…?'
'I'm tied to a chair, dude.'
'I'm on my way.'
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Dean rolled over, his hand going automatically to his arm, which still throbbed fiercely. Lucy looked at him, and her mouth moved soundlessly. She was still too frightened to speak.
'We've got to go…'
On the spur of the moment, Dean could think of no alternative but to take her with him. If he returned her to the mental hospital, she wouldn't be available for help later, and a part of him felt that she didn't really deserve it, despite the suicide attempt. Anyone would be messed up, if they had been through what she had been through. Anyway, there was no time for a detour.
Less than a minute later, the Impala kicked up dust and roared aloud as it sped away.
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'I think this would suit you, Sam,' Michael taunted, perched, grinning, on the edge of Dean's bed. The necklace was swinging hypnotically from his fingers.
Sam swore, and leaned back into the chair, away from Michael, as the realisation sunk in. He had called Dean here, and Michael was going to set him upon his brother like a rabid dog: it was the perfect revenge. He cursed himself for failing to see it; he had been so reckless, on the phone, giving Dean the truth. A lie might have protected him.
Michael placed a knife – Dean's knife, stolen from the duffel bag lying open halfway under the bed – on the table in front of Sam, and carefully turned the handle towards the captive. Sam stared at it in horror.
The sound of the Impala tyres screeching to a hasty halt reached Sam's ears.
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Dean yanked the handbrake on, and the Impala spun to a stop with a sound which seared his eardrums. He glanced at Lucy.
'Stay here. Whatever happens, please don't do anything. Duck down if anyone comes close.'
She nodded mutely. She hadn't said a word since he had pulled her away from the quarry's edge. But her cheeks were wet now, which was a relief to him; it was a natural, familiar type of grief, whereas before, it had been like a zombie sitting beside him.
He hovered for a fraction of a moment, but his concern for Sam quickly overrode his concern for Lucy. It was selfish; he wasn't proud of it, but Sam would always come first.
He snatched a gun from the trunk, hardly stopping to check if it was loaded before striding off towards the door of the motel room.
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Michael approached with exaggerated slowness, holding the chain open ready to slip over Sam's neck.
'Don't you dare…. No, no…' Sam muttered frantically, recoiling as it came closer.
As the chain fell past his eyes, a veil seemed to fall over his vision. Most of his normal thoughts were muted, like frantic yelling heard from underwater, and a single emotion dominated his being so fully that all self-awareness fell away.
He fixed his eyes on the knife on the table in front of him, and as the door opened, the ropes binding him loosened, and he snatched up the knife. He pulled somebody towards him and pressed the knife against their throat, desperate to expel the anger which was consuming him.
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Dean kicked the door open without bothering to check if it was locked, revealing a frantic scene. It took him a few moments to make sense of what was going on, and by that time, the scene had settled into a frightening tableau. Sam stood in front of a kicked-over chair, holding Michael against his chest with one arm, while the other pressed a knife against the teenager's throat. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough that the skin around was white with the pressure. Before he saw the chain on Sam's neck, Dean knew what had happened.
Michael's pale face was livid with shock, anger and fear, his eyes flashing with disbelief at the disastrous backfiring of his plan. He stared at Dean, and their eyes met.
Dean was torn, suspended in a split-second's silence. He knew that the necklace's agents didn't wait too long before action; the throbbing hole in his arm was a testament to that. It would be so easy, and so satisfying, to let Sam kill Michael. Sam's recent brooding and the scars still visible on his own chest were a constant reminder of their grievance against him, and he personally had no qualms about the kid's death. But Sam wasn't a killer, and Dean couldn't let him become one: he needed Sam's innocence to balance his own disillusion.
His breath caught in his throat, and the tiny sound seemed to break the freeze-frame. Time to act -
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