Between Here & There
"Check this out. Texas resident, Peggy Hill, survives fall from airplane after parachute malfunction."
I look up from my laptop and across the table at Dean who idly chews his cheeseburger. He squints at the almost obnoxious amount of midday sunlight that floods the crowded diner, taking a sip of his coffee to rinse down the red meat before responding.
"Sounds more like a miracle than a monster," he points out.
"Fair enough," I admit, returning to my computer in an effort to dig up a fresh case. "Okay, how about this. Archeologists unearth a fossil that dates back hundreds of thousands of years."
"That seems news worthy," Dean mutters sarcastically, rolling his eye before taking another bite of his lunch.
"Wait, there's more!" I speak with an enthusiastic tone, mimicking an infomercial spokesman. "This fossil is of a watch that would have been manufactured by a Swiss company ten, maybe twenty years ago."
"Intriguing," Dean grants me that much. "Except the last time I checked, I'm Dean Winchester, not Doctor Who. Anyway, I'm on a time travel diet."
"What does that even mean?" I can't help but wonder.
"You get knocked into the 1940's by Cronos and then tell me time travel is fun or worth getting involved with," Dean replies as he casually glances over his shoulder before extracting his flask. "Then again, you'd need a time machine for that since Cronos is dead."
I watch as he adds an Irish flare to his coffee before returning his flask to its proper pocket.
"Really?" I ask without thought. "It's barely noon, dude."
"Yeah," Dean nods, taking a slow sip of the steaming hot beverage. "But it's Ireland somewhere."
I let out a small sigh and pretend to ignore this, focusing once more on the web pages my search engine brings to my attention.
"Here's one," I say, my eyes excitedly scanning an article from a Nevada newspaper. "This guy, Alex Trudeau, was legally dead for ten minuets. He comes to without being resuscitated, screaming his head off before he starts babbling about Hell."
"I'm listening," Dean urges me to continue with a look of mild interest in his eye.
"Said he spent weeks in the pit," I go on and Dean nods.
"Sounds like Hell time," he agrees I might be on to something. "The article say anything else?"
"Yeah, actually," I nod. "He insisted on salting the doorway and windows in his room, saying demons would be looking for him to drag him back down." I pause to look up at Dean. "Seems like something worth checking into."
"Does it say how he died in the first place?" Dean asks, intrigued but skeptical.
"Head trauma," I respond. "Caused by a car accident."
"I donno," Dean scratches his stubble kissed chin in thought. "Dude might just be crazy."
"Maybe," I slowly admit. "But it wasn't a Hell hound that killed him, which means this probably isn't a contract collection. And he did accurately recount what Hell time is like."
Dean sits back in his booth, giving my points some consideration as he sips his coffee.
"Where'd this happen?" he asks after a moment or two of silence.
"Las Vegas," I reply, which causes Dean to frown.
"That's two days from here," he states unenthusiastically.
"Yeah," I acknowledge this small detail. "But this guy might have demons on his ass. Isn't it kind of our job to help him out?"
"Fine," Dean grumbles before downing the rest of his coffee in one long, giant gulp. "Better make some tracks then."
xXxXxXx
Las Vegas, Nevada
When we reach Sin City, Dean and I go CDC to infiltrate Alex Trudeau's medical records.
"Why is the CDC interested in this?" Trudeau's doctor - a trim, younger redheaded woman - questions as we flip through a thin manila folder.
"Trust me, lady," Dean responds, his eye on the few pages before him. "You don't want to know."
"As a medical professional, I think I deserve an explanation," the woman states, impatiently folding her arms across her chest. While I'm busy racking my brain for a valid excuse, Dean beats me to it with a smooth response that almost clashes with his eye patch and unshaven face. Not that the clean black suit didn't already do that.
"You ever hear of a 'zombie virus', Doctor Green?" he questions the woman who seems somewhat taken aback by his question, managing only a head shake in response. "It's a rare virus that causes reanimation in corpses. It surfaced about ten, fifteen years ago and has been mostly confined to Cambodia, but we have reason to suspect it may have traveled state side. The effects are, of course, somewhat temporary, letting the body go on for anywhere between a few hours and a few days, sometimes a few weeks. Which doesn't sound so bad, except the human brain suffers an extremely high amount of damage, usually resulting in insanity. Kind of like, oh, I don't know, screaming about Hell and thinking demons are after them. Sound familiar?"
Dr. Green gulps as Dean holds up Alex Trudeau's records.
"It's... it's not contagious, is it?" she nervously asks, glancing between the two of us.
"Only if he bites you," Dean replies. "He didn't bite you, did he?"
"N-no," the good doctor shakes her head.
"Good," Dean nods, closing the folder. "If you don't mind, we'd like to take a look at Mr. Trudeau ourselves. Make sure he's just a miracle case and not infected with this rare but serious disease. In case a quarantine is in order."
"Um," Dr. Green nervously looks between us as her cheeks begin to flush a bright shade of red. "I'd like to but... see, the thing is, he was discharged yesterday afternoon."
"What?" Dean's face falls as his brows crease into a frown. "He what?"
"I'm sorry," the doctor sighs. "I mean, he seemed fine. Perfectly healthy other than the whole Hell nonsense."
"You're telling us," I jump in, my expression matching Dean's. "That you discharged a patient who's mental state was clearly unsound? Zombie virus or not, that sounds like a poor judgment call on your behalf."
"I'm sorry," the doctor apologizes, her gaze falling shamefully to the floor. "He seemed fine beyond that. And I wouldn't have released him had I thought he were a danger to society."
"I need his home address," Dean presses her urgently. "You better pray he's just insane and not infected. Either way, your license ought to be reviewed."
xXxXxXx
"You were kind of harsh back there," I tell Dean when we arrive at the address Dr. Green managed to scrawl for us through teary eyes.
"Maybe," Dean shrugs, clearly giving little care either way. "It's true though. Even if this guy does have demons on his ass, you can't just get away with babbling about that kind of stuff to normal people without a serious head evaluation."
"There's not really a zombie virus, is there?" I can't help but ask as we amble up to the front door of Alex Trudeau's small, sand colored ticky-tacky home.
"There is, actually," Dean replies, knocking on the white door before loosening the navy blue tie that hangs neatly around his neck. "I don't think it's that bad though. Not sure where it is, either. Cambodia just sounded believable."
We wait at the front door for a minute before Dean knocks again.
"Mr. Trudeau!" he calls in his deep, gruff voice. "You in there, Alex? We're just checkin' up on you."
He knocks a third time, growing impatient.
"Come on, Trudeau!" he calls. "We're here to save you from demons!"
His fist rises to the door again but pauses when a distinct smell reaches his nose.
"You smell that?" he asks, wrinkling his nose in disgust while his brows fold in concern.
"It wasn't me," I say, defensively holding my hands up.
"Of course it wasn't," he rolls his eye. Now that he mentions it, it does smell kind of bad around here. Like rotten eggs.
Glancing down, something grabs Dean's attention. He bends to investigate a yellow, powdery substance by running his fingers through it.
"Shit," he mutters, quickly rising to an upright position.
"What?" I have to ask. "What is it?"
"Sulfur," he says, allowing me to momentarily study the stuff before he wipes it on the leg of his clean black slacks. I gulp.
"That's a sign of demons, right?" I hesitantly ask as Dean glances around the neighborhood.
"Yeah," he nods, squinting through the afternoon sun to make sure we're not being watched.
"This might be a bad time to mention this," I nervously begin. "But I've never actually dealt with demons before."
"It's a good thing you're with me, then," Dean replies. "You got that knife I gave you?"
I open my suit jacket to reveal the bone hilt of the special demon killing blade Dean had gifted me some months back.
"Good," he says, extracting what almost looks like a small sword composed of silver or stainless steel. "You take the front. I'll go around back."
I let out a swift but heavy exhale as I mentally prepare myself for something completely new. I crack my neck and shake my arms in an attempt to rid myself of the nerves that send messages to my brain to run. Which would be the logical thing to do here. Except I'm a hunter and hunters don't run.
Just kick the door down, I tell myself as my right hand firmly grasps the hilt still hidden in my jacket. You're a hunter for god's sake.
"I am a hunter," I tell myself.
If there were ever a time to have your first demon encounter, it's with Dean.
"I'm hunting demons with Dean Winchester."
This is the best possible time to prove to him you've got what it takes.
"This is my chance to prove myself."
And, you're Ben Freakin' Braden.
"I'm Ben Fucking Braden."
Quit psyching yourself up and get the hell in there!
"Argh!"
I kick in the front door and brandish my blade as soon as I've made it across the threshold.
And then I almost vomit.
"Oh god..." I mutter, covering my nose and my mouth with my elbow as my eyes begin to water and my stomach clenches.
To a certain extent, I'm beginning to understand Dean a little more. It's one thing to decapitate a vampire, shoot a werewolf down or dig up a pile of dusty old bones. It's another thing entirely to witness the mutilated remains of what once was a human being. I'll probably be a whiskey imbibing, angst ridden hunter by the time I reach Dean's age too. Maybe not as bad, but still...
Dean finds his way to the living room from the back of the house and immediately lowers his weapon when he sees what's currently making a valiant effort to expel any remnants of food I might have in my stomach. On the otherwise bare white wall is a message painted with a hurried hand in massive, red strokes. "I'M IN HELL" it reads. Just beside it is a sole hand print that runs all the way down the wall to the beige, burberry carpet. Just below the message lays the body of Alex Trudeau. Rather, what's left of his body, which is ripped to shreds in a manner so brutal it would put a windego's handiwork to shame.
I really start to gag when I realize the message isn't written in paint.
"Damn it," he curses with an aggravated breath.
I'd say "I told you so", but I can't take much solace in that. Not now. Not when we're this late.
"What did that?" I gasp.
"Hell hound," Dean shakes his head and gives a vague shiver. "Poor bastard."
"Why?" I ask, despite Dean's guess is as good as mine.
"Because," an unfamiliar, gruff, and English accented voice speaks from somewhere behind. "No one escapes Hell. Not while I'm in charge."
Dean glances up as I twirl around to face the dark haired man who stands just feet behind me wearing a clean black suit and a smug smile.
"Hello boys."
I know that was kind of evil of me to leave you hanging there, but when in Rome, as it were. This chapter started getting away from me, so I had to chop it up. The second installment will be posted as soon as possible, which may be longer than I would hope for (this third trimester thing is kicking my ass), but you never know. I did surprise the crap out of myself last week with three full chapters. Maybe I can do it again?
Oh, and this chapter was made possible by my awesome father, which sounds awkward until you hear about what happened to my power cord (long story short, poor depth perception + clumsy feet = destroyed power cord & pops was kind enough to gift me his so I could complete these chapters). Thanks, dad, for supporting my crippling addiction to Supernatrual and its fandom!
