A/N: Wow, guys, I'm sorry this took so long! Thank you so much for those of you who come back and read this (and leave a review!), I know how frustrating it can be to wait around for a story (especially for a month). The holidays built a wall that I had a hell of a time trying to break though!
As always, very special thanks to my beta, Mary T. Who, even while writing her own story (which is brilliant, btw), still manages to read through my chapters and make sure they make sense :)
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Chapter Six
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"Sam, I don't understand."
Grace turned and followed Sam as he stalked back to the car, wiping the sweat from his face and grumbling quietly; the casket deep within the earth had been empty, and while she had no idea what that meant, she knew enough about the supernatural world to be aware that spirits didn't just get up and crawl their way out of their own graves. But what does? she wondered, stuffing her cold hands into her pockets and gritting her teeth in an effort to try to stop shivering. Snow was now steadily falling over the cemetery and coating the ground, crunching beneath her shoes with each step she took as she hurried back to her car and to Sam.
"Sam," she tried again, just as they reached the car, "what does this mean? Is he . . . alive?"
"No," Sam answered, slipping into the driver's seat and quickly popping the key into the ignition, "not exactly. He's alive in that he can move around just like us, and seem just like us."
"So he's not a spirit." "Someone must have performed the ritual," Sam muttered, more to himself than to Grace, "probably some . . . American psycho killer enthusiast, or a teenager who didn't know what they were doing." Next to him, Grace flinched slightly. "Either way, we're not just hunting Gein anymore. There's someone else, too."
Grace took a moment to run his words through her mind, trying to figure things out with the sketchy information she had, a thought formed gradually, but it was too horrific to be real, something out of a Romero flick or a B-level movie full of gore and bad acting. Still, she found her composure and turned to Sam, her eyes searching him for more answers as she voiced her theory: "You mean to tell me . . . he's a zombie?"
"Yes and no." With an expert's ease, Sam sped up and weaved down the windy road. "He's been reincarnated by someone. He might even be under their control. The last time Dean and I faced one, it was a young girl who'd been killed in a car accident . . . she'd been resurrected by a friend she'd had in real life, and was going around getting revenge on the people she blamed for her death."
"So . . . they're not brain-eating zombies then?"
Sam smirked. "No, definitely not."
"Are they evil?"
Sam frowned, concentrating as they went around a sharp corner and the wind outside shook the tiny vehicle. "Angela was a sweet girl in real life, good grades, loved her boyfriend, good friend; when she was resurrected, she lost any sense of right or wrong, but she wasn't really evil." He paused, slowly recalling the events. "She killed the boyfriend who cheated on her . . . the friend he cheated with . . . and then eventually, the guy who brought her back, because she felt betrayed by him." "But Gein was evil to begin with. Even while he was alive."
"So this is different." Grace inhaled and held her breath for a moment, her brain struggling to grasp the strange turn of events that had just unraveled before her. A zombie? She couldn't hold in the odd chuckle, and it softly escaped through her parted lips, startling Sam, who twisted his head to look at her, and incredulous expression on his face.
"You're actually laughing?" he nearly sputtered.
"Sorry," Grace choked out, composing herself. "It's just that . . . I mean, a zombie. I've heard of some strange things, but never . . . " she trailed, unable to find the words.
Sam nodded. "Yeah, I guess it is strange," he admitted, "Dean and I . . . well, we're kind of used to this sort of thing. But it must be pretty crazy for you."
"To say the least," Grace laughed, with no humor, " . . . so how do we kill this thing?"
"I'm going to kill him by pinning him to his casket," Sam replied, "if he was resurrected the same way Angela was that should work, but I don't know. It doesn't seem like too many people around here are familiar with ancient Latin rituals."
"Doubtful." Grace paused. "How else would he have been . . . resurrected?"
Sam frowned, the snow was beginning to stick to the road and was making it increasingly slippery, it wouldn't be long before the backwoods roads were treacherous. "Zombie stories started, as many things do, from real events. But most of the lore on them comes from Caribbean voodoo, where it is thought that a witch would reanimate a corpse and be in control of them. There are also stories of someone giving a person a drug---typically a neurotoxin found in the liver, skin and bones of a puffer fish---that makes them seem to be dead, then after they were buried they went and got them; but the brain damage to the victim was so severe they were basically like 'zombies' and under the control of their attacker."
"My god . . . " Grace breathed, "that's terrible."
"But not what happened here," Sam assured her, "Ed Gein died, there was no poisoning involved. And if he had been resurrected shortly after his death, why would the murders only begin now? No, someone brought him back recently. Finding out who is going to be the hard part, it's not like Gein has family around that cared about him."
"So where do we start then?"
"The college. You're going to see if there are any courses studying American killers . . . or even Ed Gein himself. Then look into the students, find out if any of them seemed to take a special interest in Gein. I'm going to come back out here and keep looking---" the loud ringing of his cell phone abruptly cut Sam off, and with a surprised gasp he flipped it open and held it to his ear. "Dean!?"
Grace's eyes widened, anxious but only able to listen to half of the conversation.
"Where are you? What's going on? Are you okay?" Sam's voice was hurried, his worry evident in his tight tone and the way he spat out each word, speaking quickly; he was silent for a moment, listening to Dean's voice, it seemed to have a calming effect on him. "Dean, is it Gein? . . . there's another guy? . . . hey, hey, hang in there, Dean! Stay with me."
Grace tensed, gripping the arm rest with one hand while reaching over and gently touching Sam's arm with her other.
" . . . okay, I understand . . . we're going right now." With those words, Sam swiftly pulled over into a small turn-around and whipped the car around back onto the road, beginning to drive in the opposite direction.
"Sam, what are you doing?" Grace asked.
But Sam only waved her off, dismissing her concerns in favor of pressing his ear closer to the phone, struggling to listen to his brother. "Dean, I got this, don't worry . . . we're gonna find you . . . yes, I'm with Grace . . . listen, Dean, Gein's not a spirit, his casket was empty . . . yeah, like Angela . . . I guess that's who Peter is . . . Dean? Dean! . . . no, Dean, stay awake," he pleaded, gripping the steering wheel even tighter. "You know how it is, concussion means you've gotta stay awake . . . yeah, I know it sucks out loud . . ."
"Sam, what's going on? Where are we going?" Grace now demanded, stiffening in her seat as Sam accelerated to dangerous speeds.
"Back to the cemetery," Sam snapped, giving her a brief look, one that clearly told her to back off, he was talking to his brother; sighing to herself, Grace settled into her seat and held on tight, wisely knowing there was no way to calm Sam now. He had a steely look of determination in his eyes, coupled with a strong set to his defined jaw; his entire demeanor had changed in a matter of minutes, going from "research mode" to "battle mode", Sam was done sitting around gathering information, and Grace could tell he had pushed all doubt from his mind about his mission. He was going to find his brother. And he was going to save him.
"SAM!!!"
Grace barely had enough time to scream his name before the beige car that came flying out from a hidden dirt road slammed into the Saturn; glass shattered inward, spraying Sam and Grace and leaving tiny cuts all over their exposed skin as they were jostled back and forth in their seats---Sam's knees crashing into the dashboard---the airblags deployed in a whoosh of air, snapping Grace back in her seat and preventing Sam from reaching the steering wheel. Tires squealed pitifully as the Saturn whirled around in a circle while Sam fought to get control of the car; the flimsy aluminum siding had been bent beyond repair and wrapped itself around the front, passenger-side wheel, restricting any kind of movement that Sam could try to make. Steam rose out of the engine and into the darkening sky just as the beige car backed up, and Grace caught sight of the two men in the front seat, both wearing eerie smiles on their weathered faces.
"Sam . . . " she breathed, realization dawning on her a split second before the older car pummeled into them once again, this time head-on. Grace pitched forward, the impact of the crash too much for her to resist, she hit the airbag and bounced off it, smacking her head against the edge of the window. Beside her, Sam slammed into his own window, his head causing a sickening crack as it connected with the glass; he grunted painfully as blood began to run down the side of his face and stain the color of his coat, his hands still gripping the steering tightly, fighting with the car in an effort to keep them from pitching over the side of the hill they were driving on.
"How are they still going?" Grace cried, pressing herself into her seat in an effort to remain still; her eyes were wide with fear, and focused on their attackers sitting on the road and staring at them.
"That's how those cars are," Sam gasped, wrestling with the car and finally bringing it to a stop mere inches away from the edge; he gripped her hand and opened his door, dragging them both out as he spoke: "That's an old Coronet, it's made out of good metal, it won't crumple like nowaday's cars . . . and it'll run forever. Now let's go!"
The Coronet's engine roared almost angrily as Sam ran with Grace right behind him, jumping into the thick woods and taking cover behind the trees. "Stay down!" Sam ordered, pushing her to the soft, wet ground as he pulled the .45 out from the back of his pants, shocking Grace once again. Sam took a steady position, bracing himself against the tree and aiming carefully at the Coronet as it sped down the road in their direction; the gunshot rang out, startling Grace slightly, and the bullet whizzed through the air, implanting itself into the front driver's-side tire and sending the Coronet spinning out of control.
Sam stepped out from the cover of the forest, keeping the .45 leveled at the vehicle and his gaze sharp, his hands steady around the grip and his finger wrapped around the trigger ready to pull. The passenger door opened and the eldest of the men stepped out, his grizzled face glaring furiously at Sam from underneath his ratty cap, Sam tensed, feeling his blood chill and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
"Don't move!" he shouted, focusing his aim on the man, who kept right on walking. "I said, freeze, asshole! You come one step closer and I'll shoot!"
The man only smirked in an infuriating way, making Sam want to shoot all the more; he took one more step, and Sam pulled the trigger slowly, barely feeling the weapon's kick as it dislodged another bullet and sent it into the leg of the man. He fell onto his back, barely wincing at all, then jumped back onto his feet and lunged at Sam before he could squeeze off another round; their bodies connected and they landed on the slick road with a soft thump, both men grunting at the impact, Sam's gun flying to the side and clattering as it landed.
"Gein," Sam spat out, just before the man's fist connected with his cheek and slammed his head into the road.
"That's right, Sam," Gein chuckled, bringing his fist down into the bridge of Sam's nose. Blood spurted up into Gein's face and Sam gasped as he felt the fragile bones snap, but he quickly regained himself, managing to get his legs under Gein and kick him off; not giving Gein enough time to recover, he gave a swift kick to the man's injured leg, finally producing a satisfying cry of pain.
Sam dropped to his bruised knees, straddling Gein and landing a few hard punches directly to his opponent's face, leaving bloody welts behind; his knuckles burst open and began to bleed, but he wasn't even close to stopping. That is, until he heard the door behind him open and slam close; he got to his feet quickly and turned around, sneering at the blonde-haired man standing a few feet away from him, a knife in his hand. Peter.
"Where's my brother?" he snarled, his voice animalistic and dangerous.
"You'll have to find him yourself. I'll never tell you."
"We'll see about that."
Sam took two long steps forward and hit Peter in the throat, doubling him over and forcing him to drop the knife; Sam's booted foot came up and sank into the pit of the man's stomach, then he brought his fists down onto the back of his neck, successfully downing him. He glanced in the direction of the woods, pleased to see Grace steadily sneaking from her safe hiding place and toward the gun that had landed on the rocky side of the road. He just hoped she knew how to use it.
He whirled around then, bringing his leg up just as Gein jumped at him, the heel of his boot smacked into Gein's jaw, spinning him around in a circle before he crashed to the ground; always aware of his surroundings, Sam turned back just as Peter got back to his feet, his fists clenched, still in the fight. Sam recognized the look in his enemy's eyes, one of pure determination, and hatred, Peter wasn't going to go down without one hell of a fight. And Sam was going to give it to him.
Swiftly, Sam landed two more punches to Peter's face, snapping his head back forcefully and feeling the crunch of the man's nose beneath his fist; Sam never liked violence, he wasn't made for the hunter's life like Dean and their father, but he had never been afraid of beating the shit out of someone if he had to. He grunted in pain as Peter struck out with his fist and hit him right in the tender cheekbone, pain shot through his face and left his eyes blurry with tears; two strong punches to his gut forced the air out of his lungs, leaving him exposed for another barrage of attacks.
But Sam had been well-trained---his father made damn sure of that---and he wasn't about to let a mere human take him down; taking a deep breath, he straightened and punched Peter in the nose again, then kicked him in the stomach, knocking him back to the ground.
"Don't move!" Grace's shrill, terrified voice echoed through the hillside, and brought all three men's gazes upon her trembling form, holding the .45 clasped between her hands, aimed directly at Peter; her eyes were wide with fear, but her aim was true, and Peter didn't move an inch. Sam smirked, nodding his approval to Grace---who took a few steps forward, keeping her eyes glued on Peter; Sam faced Gein again, preparing himself for more of the fight.
"Why are you doing this?" he gasped.
Gein's eyes flickered briefly with a flash of light, a slow smile seeped onto his wrinkled face, and instantly Sam was reminded of another insane redneck that liked to hunt people . . . and eat them.
He shuddered. "Where . . . is my brother?"
"Your brother is dead," Gein sneered, baring his rotted, yellow teeth.
In the blink of an eye, Sam hissed, rushing forward and grabbing Gein by his collar, then slamming him into the wet trunk of a tree; before anything could be done, he had whipped out the knives he always carried and buried both of them to the hilt in each of Gein's wrist, eliciting a cry of pain from the trapped man and a gasp of shock from Grace. She stared open-mouthed at the display of violence Sam was putting forth, obviously disturbed . . . and scared.
"Now," Sam started again, "where is he?"
"You can't kill me," Gein laughed, gasping through the pain, "not like this."
"No," Sam admitted, "but I know how to get the job done." A little lie never hurt. He reached over, twisting one of the knives so he heard the unmistakeable sounds of bones crunches and muscle tearing, blood trickled down between his fingers. "And believe me, I will kill you. And, if my brother is really dead, it won't be quick."
"That won't bring your brother back, Sammy-boy!" Peter called, propping himself up on his elbows even as Grace jerked the .45 at him threateningly. "He'll still be dead. He'll rot in hell because of you."
"You son of a bitch," Sam muttered, leaving Gein at the tree and taking a few strides over to Peter; he knelt on the road, wrapping a large hand around Peter's neck and slowly squeezing. "Eddie over there might not be afraid of death, he's been that route before . . . but you on the other hand. I'm willing to bet you'll squeal like a pig with just a little persuasion."
"Those women were nothing but low-life whores," Peter spat, "they didn't deserve life . . . do you know what those bitches did? What they wasted their God-given lives doing?"
"I don't care," Sam said, squeezing harder, not letting go till Peter gagged. "They're dead. And you're a sick bastard who kills old ladies and raises dead psycho killers. That's all I need to know."
"I let Eddie do whatever he wanted with them," Peter went on, relishing the sight of Sam's disgust, "as long as he killed them, as long as they got what was coming to them. Then he got to . . . play with them a bit. Make 'em up like his dear old momma." He paused. "Maybe dress up in their skin a little bit, too . . . make himself look real pretty."
"All right, you know what? I'm sick of this." Swiftly, Sam grabbed Peter's hand and gripped all four of his fingers, then snapped them backwards as far as they would go; Peter screamed, throwing his head back and closing his eyes, Grace winced and looked away. "I'm not fucking around!" Sam shouted, pressing his nose onto Peter's, his voice roaring angrily. "You're gonna tell me where he is. Or you're gonna die . . . right now."
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Cold fingers crept their way up Dean's shirt, chilling his neck and then brushing his cheek before slapping gently, just enough to spark a bit of pain and awake him; his eyelids fluttered for a second as his vision slowly cleared, and once again, with consciousness came the pain. His hand throbbed mercilessly while the pain in his head made it impossible to focus on the elderly woman kneeling beside him, still stroking back his hair with a motherly touch.
"Wha . . . 's goin' on?" he slurred, barely able to form words.
"You must wake up," the woman whispered.
"He . . . he hit wi' a friggin' hammer . . . "
"Your brother needs your help."
"Sammy? Wha . . . happened? He okay?"
"You have to warn him."
"Warn him? 'Bout what?" Dean blinked, trying desperately to convince his body to cooperate, to do the things his mind wanted him to do. "What's wrong . . . with Sammy?" He sat up slightly, resting heavily on his elbows.
"Gein and Peter went to the cemetery," the woman sighed, softly. "Warn Sam . . . " as her voice trailed off, she flickered briefly, then disappeared in a flash of light, startling a groggy Dean.
"What the . . . " he muttered, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Gein . . . Peter . . . " the names sounded familiar, but he was having trouble even remembering what year it was, let alone who Gein and Peter were. Wait. Gein. Wasn't that the last name of the guy who inspired Leatherface? Huh. Well, that had to mean something. Come on, Dean, think! Where the hell am I? Why the hell does my hand feel like someone---?
"I'll be damned," he sighed, raising his bloody hand and staring open-mouthed at the hole driven through it. And just like that, all the memories of the pain and the suffering in that dark room came flooding back, and with it, a realization of what the spirit had been talking about, and who she was; Sam was out there somewhere, undoubtedly looking for him---and Gein. He had to find a way to let him know where Gein was headed. Silently, he sent his thanks to the spirit of Mary Hogan, who even in death watched over the victims of the man that had murdered her so many years ago.
Grunting in pain, he managed to sit all the way up, and then pulled himself to his feet by grasping the wall; his cell phone was probably around the house somewhere, he doubted Gein or Peter would've smashed it. Surprised they even had the mind to take it off me! Chuckling quietly at his own thought, he continued dragging his feet across the room and into the hallway, his aching eyes straining to see in the dark. A glimmer of light caught his eye from a table sitting next to a broken window, and after a moment, he recognized the shape of his cell phone half-concealed beneath a bloody shirt.
"Yahtzee."
Stumbling over to the table, he snatched up the phone and speed-dialed Sam's number, holding it to his ear with a shaking hand.
"Dean!?" came Sam's shocked gasp. "Where are you? What's going on? Are you okay?"
"Sammy, I'm in some . . . cabin. I-I dunno where . . . "
"Dean, is it Gein?"
"Yeah. And, uh, some other . . . "
"There's another guy?"
"Yeah, creepy-lookin' dude . . . " Dean gasped quietly, his head suddenly spinning and a bought of dizziness overwhelming him; he staggered into the table, knocking it over and slumping to the ground. "Shit, Sam . . . "
"Hey, hey, hang in there, Dean! Stay with me."
"Sam," Dean whispered, "Gein . . . he's, uh, goin' to the cemetery . . . you have to get there."
"Okay, I understand . . . we're going right now."
Dean vaguely heard Grace's worried voice in the background, then the squeeling of tires as Sam turned the car around and took off in the opposite direction. "Sam, be careful. This Gein's a scary son of a bitch . . . he friggin' kicked my ass."
"Dean, I got this, don't worry."
"I dunno where I am, Sam . . . "
"We're gonna find you."
"Is . . . Grace there?"
"Yes, I'm with Grace . . . listen, Dean, Gein's not a spirit, his casket was empty---"
"Like . . . Angela."
"Yeah, like Angela . . . I guess that's who Peter is, the guy who resurrected Gein."
"Seems like it . . . " Dean's eyes fluttered for a second, then slowly drifted closed, he let out a breath just loud enough for Sam to hear. And, apparently, get worried.
"Dean? Dean! . . . no, Dean, stay awake."
"Can't, Sam . . . I'm tired . . . "
"You know how it is, concussion means you've gotta stay awake."
"Sucks---"
"Yeah, I know it sucks out loud."
Again, Dean heard distant voices as Grace spoke and Sam snapped something in return, he smirked fondly, his little brother was getting into one of those moods, ready to take on the world if that's how it needed to be. That was his Sammy . . .
"SAM!!!"
Grace's terrified scream came through the connection loud and clear, and jerked Dean back to reality; tires squealed and glass shattered as Grace screamed, the sounds were unmistakeable, they were crashing into something, and it was a disaster. He lost his connection just as he heard Grace's voice again and metal ramming into metal, then there was nothing but static, and then nothing.
"Sam."
The word was spoken breathlessly, laced with an edge of panic that Dean had felt far too many times for his twenty-eight years on the Earth; adrenaline rushed through his veins, erasing the pain and leaving him energized, but he knew it was only temporary and he would have to take advantage of it quickly. Getting to his feet, he hurried through the house and burst outside into the bright light, growling when he felt cold snowflakes land on his hair and saw the snow-coated ground. I hate the snow.
It didn't take long---only a walk around the back of the house and into an old shed---to find the Impala, of course the keys weren't in, and he grumbled some more as he tore apart the steering panel and was forced to hotwire his beloved muscle car. In a few seconds, the powerful engine roared to life, drowning out any other noises coming from the tiny area and filling the room with exhaust fumes; the rear tires spun on the muddy surface for a momen when Dean gunned it, then managed to catch and the car took off like a bat of hell, tearing down the dirt road. His injured hand hurt too bad to use to steer, but it was a pain in the ass trying to manuever the dangerous country hands with just one, so Dean gritted his teeth and placed his hand on the thin wheel; the Impala was his pride and joy, but she had never been good in winter weather. A couple times the wheels slipped on the slick surface and the enormous car fishtailed, but each time Dean managed to wrestle her back into compliance, after years of driving her back and forth across the country, it was as if he had become one with the car. Even his dad used to say he was born to drive.
It already felt like he'd been driving for an hour, when realistically he knew it had barely been five minutes, but the adrenaline had worn off for the most part, and his head was spinning again, blurring his vision. He glanced at the speedometer, frowning at the numbers he saw . . . 5 5 5 5??? What the hell?
At the moment he realized what was happening, he managed to brake severely in an effort to avoid a crash he was certain was coming . . . and then completely lose consciousness.