Chapter Seven
Sam backed into the large kitchen diner. There was a sour smell in the air, the counters littered with take out boxes. And tucked at the back of the counter, a large container of salt. As Sam reached for it, he felt a sudden stillness, and a cold so absolute it burned.
The air shifted and eddied around Sam. The light fitting in the ceiling vibrated, the sound like the buzzing of a thousand angry wasps.
He felt the itching sensation of eyes on his back, and glanced up. Jackson stood in the corridor, his eyes empty bloodied sockets.
A strange numbing sensation spread through Sam. Any urgency slipped away. Maybe Gregory isn't the real danger we're facing here, he thought distantly. Maybe we should be concentrating on killing Jackson instead.
Jackson charged, and the soporific effect vanished as fear spiked through him. Sam swore, jerking the shotgun up and firing. The spirit broke apart. Sam grabbed the salt, ran to line the doorway, knowing it would only be moments before the spirit was back. Minor spirits howled around him, too weak to manifest, but strong enough to pinch at him, vicious little nips that left half-moon welts on his exposed skin. The chairs at the kitchen table rattled, legs clattering on the tiled floor. Jackson was speeding back towards him with all the speed and force of a bullet train. Unstoppable.
He laid down the salt line, heart racing.
And a sudden gust of wind blew the salt back over his boots, the protective line obliterated.
Shit.
Around him the air went still. He heard a sound, a soft exhalation, like a gasping breath of terror, and his breath frosted on the air.
Slowly, Sam lifted his head.
Jackson was back.
He stood in the corridor, his empty eye sockets fixed on Sam with deadly intent. The air around him fizzed and crackled with static. Too late for the salt line. As Sam brought up the shotgun, Jackson twitched his chin, and it was as if powerful hands seized the barrel and jerked it up. It discharged uselessly into the ceiling. Sam fought against air that seemed thick as treacle, trying to bring the barrel back down, while Jackson advanced.
The shotgun was torn from his grasp completely. It clattered across the kitchen, came to rest by the kitchen table. Sam stumbled backwards, saw Jackson's lips peel back from his teeth in a rictus grimace of triumph as he stepped across the threshold.
Sam whirled, ran for the shotgun. Ducked too late as a chair flew at him. Its leg struck his temple. A searing blast of pain dizzied him, and then another chair collided with him, slamming into his head. He crashed to the ground, fought the rolling wave of darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. Then he lifted his head, saw the shotgun just out of reach.
Go.
He threw himself towards it. His numbed fingers scrabbled across the ice-rimed tiles for the shotgun. He'd almost got it when the table moved. Scraped across the floor with a sound like nails on a chalk board, then it sprang into the air and flipped over. Sam stared up at it, eyes widening. "Oh, shi–"
He flung his hands up to cover his face an instant before the table crashed down on top of him. All around the chairs clattered and stamped, sounding like applause. The table eased off him, only to slam back down, crushing him. Squeezing the breath from his lungs. The shrill buzzing rage and malice of the spirits filled his ears.
And without warning the weight was ripped away. The table crashed against the wall, leaving Sam gasping for air, spots on his vision like orbing spirits.
The room went suddenly still.
Jackson was watching.
The shotgun. Where's the fucking shotgun? He saw it, scrambled onto his knees towards it. His fingers nudged against the cold metal. He felt a rush of triumph and then it skittered out of his reach, as if someone had kicked it. Jackson inclined his head, and Sam was plucked off the ground and slammed back down on his back. Left winded yet again.
Damn, he was going to enjoy burning this bastard's bones. Assuming he got out of this alive.
He skidded across the floor, caught in the grip of an invisible giant. And then he was sliding up the wall, pinned so hard against it he had to struggle for every breath.
Jackson vanished and reappeared directly in front of him. The air pulsed in time with Sam's heartbeat.
And this close to the spirit Sam could sense something beneath the uncontrolled power, a kernel of rage and sorrow. Jackson knew what had been done to him. And if that was the case, then maybe he could stop this.
"Jackson, I'm sorry," Sam gasped. He had to force each word out through the choking pressure in his chest. The spirit tilted his head, seeming to listen, and Sam tried again. "I'm sorry we couldn't save you."
And there it was, a flicker of understanding in the spirit's face. He eased away, drawing his hand back from Sam's chest. Sam exhaled, able to breathe again. Thank God.
"Emma needs our help," he said. "We–"
The spirit attacked without warning. Slammed Sam back against the wall, crushing him so that every joint threatened to pop from its socket. He plunged his hand into Sam's chest.
And a cold fist closed around his heart.
Dean's finger eased off the trigger. He glanced at Emma, who still looked terrified, and then forced his attention back to Gregory. He backed away, jerking the gun at Gregory, indicating for him to circle around, so he could see both of them at once. Gregory obeyed, his bloodied hands in the air. "Please don't shoot me, Dean," Gregory said, his eyes filled with tears. "The bastard's tricking you."
You knew you were going to kill her.
Emma spoke, her voice hard. "He's lying, Dean."
Dean swung the gun back to her, saw Gregory sag with relief in the corner of his eye. "Thank God," he said. Dean's finger tightened on the trigger. This is him, he thought. It has to be.
He met Emma's gaze over the sight of the gun, and the expression he saw in her eyes was not fear, but acceptance.
Son-of-a-bitch.
He jerked the gun back to Gregory, whose eyes widened in shock and fury.
And then Rafe slammed bodily into Dean. He fired, heard Emma screaming over the howls of the spirit, and above it all Gregory's frantic laughter.
A cold grip seized his wrist. Pain wrenched up his arm as Rafe tore the gun from his grasp, and slammed Dean back against the wall, all nails and teeth and spitting fury. The spirit froze, his eyes wild. Gregory stooped to pick up the gun, gave a breathy little chuckle. He was gripping something tight in his hand. An amulet, Dean guessed.
"Jeez, that was close, huh? I almost had you there though."
"You're a dead man," Dean promised him.
Gregory grinned. Gave a nod.
And Rafe began to ease his fingers into Dean's chest. His eyes lingered on Dean's face like he didn't quite know what he was doing. Just like a virgin giving her first blow-job, and Christ, that really wasn't an image he wanted to associate with dying. He felt a cold sensation in his chest, choking, helpless terror. And was it his imagination or could he hear the howls of Hellhounds in the distance?
Not fair, he wanted to scream. I've got three months left, damn it.
Emma slammed a poker down on Gregory's shoulders. But her strength had gone; she was too weak to do any real damage. Gregory swung towards her, slamming the butt of the gun into the side of her head. She spun around, striking her head on the table.
Rafe's grip on Dean's heart eased. The spirit bared his teeth in fury, and then he was gone. Dean gasped, fighting against the aching pain in his chest. Saw Gregory waver on his feet, aiming the gun at Emma.
Dean charged towards Gregory, knocked him to the ground. The air crackled, spirits coalescing all around him, as he shattered the bastard's nose with a punch. Icy hands grabbed at him. Before the spirits could drag him backwards, he wrenched the amulet from Gregory's grasp.
The man screamed. Made a grab for it as the bulb exploded. Dean felt hot burning little kisses of broken glass against his skin. And the room was thick with spirits, chief amongst them Jackson and Rafe. Gregory howled, scrambling on his hands and knees for the poker, but Emma kicked it out of reach. Dean snatched it up, backed away as Gregory screamed, "Help me!"
Without thinking, Dean grabbed Emma's arm. "Come on, we gotta–"
She jolted at his touch, her eyes rolling up in her skull. And then she collapsed.
"Oh, for the love of..."
Dean slung her over his shoulder, swinging the poker at the few spirits who charged at him. Most of them surrounded Gregory, who kept screaming, begging Dean for help. And Dean hesitated, met the man's wide terrified eyes through the swarming mass of spirits. Saw the claw marks on his face, how the spirits were wrenched his body back and forth.
"You bastard!" Gregory howled. "Don't leave me!"
And Rafe turned towards Dean.
Dean ran for the stairs. Behind him Gregory was shrieking, the sound ripped from his throat. A wild frantic keening sound of agony and terror, like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a fox.
Dean carried Emma up the stairs. More spirits, unable to take part in the feeding frenzy, surged up after them. And just as he reached the doorway, something grabbed him, and he knew he was going to fall, going to plunge back down into the slaughterhouse below.
Sam appeared in the doorway, battered and bloody but otherwise alive. He aimed the shotgun through the doorway and blasted the spirit who'd grabbed hold of Dean. Then he reached over the threshold, grabbed his shirt and hauled him out.
As Dean laid Emma none too gently on the floor, Sam poured a salt line across the threshold and jerked the door closed.
"I told you, Sam," Dean managed. "Never trust a helpful ghost."
Sam choked out a breathless laugh, then he glanced at Emma. Dean sagged against the wall, watched Sam shrug off his jacket and drape it over her. Told himself that the ache in his heart was the result of the fucking ghost.
She coughed, and when she opened her eyes it wasn't Sam she looked at, but Dean.
"You were totally going to shoot me, you son-of-a-bitch," she croaked.
Dean slid down the wall and thought about the howling of the hounds. "Yeah," he admitted. "I was."
She started to laugh, then trailed off. Started to cry instead.
Down in the cellar the screams continued as the ghosts ripped Gregory to shreds. They made it last.
When the noises in the cellar had fallen into a horrible silence, Dean ventured back down the rickety wooden staircase. He left Sam and Emma huddled together as close as they could without actually touching. What was left of Gregory Keane was smeared over the dirt floor and the walls, gleaming blackly. Amongst the gore, he saw a few lumps of unidentifiable meat. And in the middle of it all was the spirit of Rafe Demarquez sitting cross-legged next to his corpse. He lifted his head and stared at Dean, his expression hostile. Dean raised the shotgun, but the ghost didn't move.
"When you hurt her, man," Rafe said, "I'm going to do to you what we did to that bastard." He nodded to the bloody mess on the floor.
"I didn't shoot her," Dean said. "Emma's okay." Bleeding, freaked out, but okay.
"Emma doesn't get things wrong, dumbass." And the spirit gave a cold empty grin. "You can salt and burn my bones, hunter, but you know that won't stop something like me. And when you hurt her, I'm going to rip you to shreds."
"Yeah?" Dean sighed, closed his eyes. "Well, get in line."
When he opened his eyes again, Rafe Demarquez was gone. Nothing else in the cellar, but a silent, staring corpse and the barely identifiable remains of a former psychic called Gregory Keane.
They salted and burned Rafe Demarquez's corpse, and what they could find of Gregory, as well as every scrap of the amulets Gregory had made. And then they went out to the car, where Emma was waiting. She'd dressed again, but still had Sam's jacket around her shoulders. She looked small and fragile, like a child wearing an adult's clothes, But she lifted her head as they got in the car, smiled at Dean. "I tried not to bleed on the back seat."
"Good," Dean said. And he spoke almost without thinking. "Because if you had, I would've had to kill you."
"Dean." Sam glared at him, then turned to Emma. "He's joking."
She grinned. "Yeah, I know."
"Kind of," Sam amended and she burst out laughing. Dean saw the look they shared, the way their eyes lingered on each other for a few moments before they both looked away. Sam turned back to the front, but Emma met Dean's gaze. She was still smiling, but her eyes were grave.
Emma doesn't get things wrong, dumbass.
She refused point-blank to go to hospital, so instead Sam treated her wounds back at the motel. And Dean tried not to watch the way his brother touched her, the way his gloved hands moved carefully over her skin.
They'd watch each other, but never both at the same time, each casting little glances at the other when they weren't watching. And Emma's hand tightened around a glass of vodka, her lips pressed together in a hard line.
And afterwards they dropped her off at her apartment, walked her up to the door.
"So what now?" she asked.
"Well, we gotta salt and burn Jackson's bones. He was one bad-ass spirit." Dean said, and Sam snorted, rubbing his chest.
"Yeah. We can't have something like that let loose on the world."
"The poor bastard," Emma murmured. "I just..." She sagged against the door, tightening Sam's jacket around her shoulders. Dean wondered if he should slip back to the car, give them some privacy, because this was the perfect moment for Sam to make his move. As he started to turn away, he saw Sam reach out to rest his hand on her shoulder. Emma flinched away, and an expression of hurt flashed across Sam's face. They looked at each other for a moment, a weary, 'yeah, this is never going to happen' look, and after a while Emma shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, Sam. I got blood all over your jacket."
"Don't worry about it. You can keep it," Sam said. "What are you going to do now?"
"I'm not sure." She drew in a breath. "I might call on Missouri Mosley. See if there's anything she can do to help me take control of this. Or at least... I don't know, channel it, I guess. Jackson told me there were options, but at the time I didn't want to listen. I don't think I could have saved anyone, but I'll always wonder, you know?"
Sam smiled. "You did save someone. You're alive, aren't you?"
Emma doesn't get things wrong, dumbass, Dean thought.
Her gaze shifted to Dean with a smile on her lips that didn't touch her eyes. "Right," she said. "I'd forgotten." She drew back into herself, her eyes shining with tears. "You take care of yourself, Sam."
"Yeah, you too." And they shared the most awkward attempt at a hug Dean had ever seen. As they started to turn away, she called after them. "Hey, Dean? Can I talk to you a minute?"
Sam glanced at him, then shrugged, carried on to the Impala. Dean turned back, eyeing her warily. "What?" he asked.
"Gregory said something to me back there. About demons existing. But–"
"He was right," Dean said, and saw something flicker in her eyes. Like the world she thought she knew had just been ripped away. It was a look he'd seen a fair few times before. "Demons, witches, vampires... all the stories you ever heard, they're pretty much all true."
"Jesus." She pressed a hand over her mouth. "I thought I had it all figured out, and now I feel like I've been wading around in the shallow end all my freaking life."
"Yeah, I know the feeling," he said.
And then she was looking at him again, something in her eyes. "What is it?" he asked.
"Something your brother said to me. About An Appointment in Samarra. It's an old fable about running from death. Only he got it wrong. He thought it was about standing and facing your fate, but it isn't. It means 'not yet'."
"You still think I'm going to kill you," Dean said quietly.
"No." And her eyes were still and calm. "I know you are."
"Well, it's gotta be soon, because I'll be dead in three months time."
She gave a nod as if she'd known it all along. He guessed she probably had. "How?"
He drew a breath, remembering the howls of the Hellhounds. How close he'd come to death, to having these last few precious months snatched away from him. "Deal with a crossroads demon. Hellhounds are gonna drag me to hell."
She exhaled sharply, leant against the wall, her face pale and horrified. Anger bunched in him like a fist. He didn't want pity. "I made my decision," he said. "Now I gotta live with it. And believe me, I plan to gank as many monsters as I can before I go, but you're not one of them, Emma."
She didn't reply, just kept staring at him. Deep in his heart, Dean felt a treacherous spark of hope. "Do you think..." He swallowed. "Do you think there's a way I can beat this?" And damn, he hated that note of desperation he could hear in his voice. Desperation and fear, because the sight of the blood in the cellar, and the sounds Gregory had made as he was torn to pieces by furious spirits still burned in his memory.
He was willing to bet that even that was nothing compared to what was waiting for him in hell.
Emma's eyes were sad. "I don't know how to explain it, Dean, but no matter what Sam says about using visions to change things, that's not how it works. Not for me, anyway. You're going to kill me. Maybe it's in three months time, and maybe not, but..." She shrugged.
"I'm sorry."
She shook her head. "Don't be. I've been running too long. I'm just happy I've made it this far." She laughed weakly. "It was pretty close in that cellar, right?"
"I wasn't going to shoot you. I just wanted that bastard to think I was."
"Uh huh." She flashed him a smile that transformed her face, and just for a moment he could see what Sam was attracted to. "Yeah, I'm sure."
"Whatever." He glanced back at Sam waiting in the car, watching them. "Take care of yourself, Emma. And don't take this the wrong way, but I hope to God I never see you again."
She gave a soft laugh. "Same here."
He turned to go. Then hesitated, turning back, thinking, Don't. Don't ask it. "Emma, would you do me a favour?"
"Sure. Name it."
He gestured to the car. "After we're done burning Jackson's bones, we're headed south. Could you..." He hesitated, forced himself on. "If you're gonna to leave town, could you go the other way? Find somewhere to hide out? Just for a couple of months. Just until... Until it's over."
Until I'm in hell, he thought. The spark of hope caught light, began to burn brighter. The first time he'd felt anything close to hope since he placed the box in the ground at the crossroads, and smoothed the earth back over it.
Emma nodded. He flashed her an uncertain smile. "It could work, right?" he said.
"Fate's a bitch, Dean. You don't want to mess with her. But yeah, maybe it could."
He hugged her, careful not to touch her skin. She smelled like Sam, and underneath the lingering scent of sweat and blood, and he tried to forget he was using her death as leverage for his own release from hell.
He pulled away, headed back to the Impala with her eyes on his back, wishing he could extinguish the spark of hope inside his chest.
Because the truth was he was screwed. No stupid little trickery with fate was going to change that. He was going to hell and he was going to burn, whether Emma lived or not.
He didn't have a prayer.
A/N: Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this, I would be thrilled if you left a review.