He hears it almost immediately, but does his best to ignore it. There's no sense in bringing Sam's attention to it, because Dean can tell that just like last time the soft, haunting voice that twists through the trees and brushes against his ears is not heard by his little brother. And he also knows the rules now, so he thinks that maybe if he just ignores it, doesn't follow after it, it will eventually go away.
But it's been almost an hour, and the voice has only grown louder, poisonous words wafting out into the air like the fumes of some radioactive experiment gone wrong.
He's not the same, the voice whispers. Dean tries to push the words away with a swift shake of his head, but they seem to slide over his skin, tickling at his ears.
He'll never really be the same again. You brought him back, but he is a broken thing, a ruined piece of what he used to be, and you cannot hope to fix him this time.
"Dean? You okay?" Dean registers Sam's words, but he's distracted by the other ones, so he doesn't think he answers. He just keeps walking, hoping to drown it all out. They are deep into the trees now, flashlight beams bouncing out in front of them like the last time. Except this is worse than last time.
Scratch scratch scratching at the wall inside his head, the voice continues.
Tap tap tapping at the cracks that run along it.
"Dean? Stop for a second," Sam says from behind him. Which means Dean must be walking ahead of him. He's not really sure of where he's going anymore, just walking in any direction that might take him far away from the thing that whispers in his ear. Did they even have a direction to begin with? Did they even know where they were going? What they were supposed to find out here? Because so far, all Dean has found is this voice, and it won't stop.
One day it will all fall apart.
So fast you won't even have time to blink.
And Sammy will be gone forever.
"Dean? Come on. Hold on for a second!" Sam yells, and Dean feels his body lurch when Sam takes ahold of him, flips him around and shakes him hard and violent. It's the second time Sam's done that today, and Dean wonders why words don't work on him anymore. Wonders why Sam has had to resort to more forceful ways of getting and keeping his attention. "Dean, snap out of it!"
"It's...I…the voice." Dean realizes he should probably says something, should probably explain why his breathing is too fast and why his heart is jackhammering inside his chest. "I hear it again. I've been hearing it."
Sam has him by the shoulders, flashlight digging into Dean's skin with the beam pointed skyward, and he's staring straight at him, trying to make Dean come back from wherever he's been. His jaw rolls at Dean's words, and Dean recognizes the bit of panic in his brother's eyes, because it rests permanently behind his own pupils now. Ever since Sam came back. Because maybe the voice is right…
Tip tap tip tap. Whoops, hear that? Something's breaking...
Dean reaches out instinctively with the hand not holding his own flashlight, grabbing for the front of Sam's shirt in an attempt to ground himself. He squeezes his eyes shut.
"Tell me what you hear," Sam says. He sounds calm, but he's still holding Dean by the shoulders and Dean can feel the tension rolling off from his fingertips. He latches onto that feeling, tries to make it more real than the thing he knows doesn't exist.
"Tell me what the voice is saying," Sam says, finally asking the question Dean had feared he would eventually find his way to.
Dean shakes his head hard, trying to dislodge the continued murmurs. "It's not important. It's not real," he says, working to convince himself. "Let's just keep going. I'm not 'following it into sorrow' or whatever the rules said, so it doesn't matter."
Dean shoves past Sam, heading deeper into the trees, trying to leave the voice behind. He walks with hurried steps, swinging the beam of his flashlight back up in attempt to light his path, but he still doesn't see it until he's on top of it, and it is as if it has come rushing up to meet him. Dean freezes at the edge of the immense emptiness in front of him: there is suddenly nothing there for what seems like miles, an enormous blank spot in the middle of the woods.
No trees, no grass, no weeds.
The Devil's Tramping Ground.
"I thought it was supposed to be smaller…" Dean mutters, almost to himself. He feels Sam come up behind him, watches the path of Sam's flashlight, and he doesn't have to look at his brother's face to know that Sam is just as awestruck by the sight that has seemingly materialized before them as he is. It wouldn't be this off-putting, it shouldn't be this goddamn scary, except that feeling from before, that jolt of complete and utter despair has begun to once again creep inside Dean's head. He can feel it draining him. He can feel the presence of whatever lives in these woods surging up through his boots and threatening to bury every last good thought left alive. And God help him, it feels like the Devil.
"It looks like it goes on for miles," Sam whispers back, his voice echoing eerily across the open space. A pause, followed by more silence. They stare out at the expanse, lost in it, and Dean is just beginning to wonder why they haven't said anything when Sam finally speaks up, the words coming suddenly, hurriedly.
"Count your fingers ten," he says.
Dean turns to face his brother again, Sam's face lit by the moon still filtering in through the tops of the trees. It glows hollow. "What?"
"Count your fingers ten. Count them again," Sam recites. He doesn't look at his fingers when he says it. He's looking at Dean. "Were we supposed to do that before we came into the woods? Did Bethany specify that?"
Dean wracks his brain. "I don't know. Why?"
Sam closes his eyes and takes a breath. After a pause, he holds his left hand in front of him, glancing down at it warily. With a gulp and a nod, Sam brings his eyes back up to meet Dean's. "Because I count eight on my left hand."
"Sam…"
"Dean, count your fingers. Now."
Dean slides the flashlight into his side pocket, holding both hands in front of him. The light from the moon is bright enough to see his fingers, so Dean counts. One to ten, nothing out of place.
"Got all ten," he says, dropping his hands back to his sides. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know. I'm not the one who wrote down the rulebook," Sam rebukes.
Dean feels the jagged edges of doubt cutting their way into his mind. Maybe he'd missed a word or two. Maybe Bethany had given more instruction, and he just hadn't been listening close enough. Maybe she really is just insane. And maybe that's what's going to get them killed. God, why hadn't he asked more questions? Dean knows the frustration in Sam's tone is born of fear, but that doesn't stop the bite in his own response. "Look, she didn't say when to count our damn fingers, okay?"
Sam holds out a hand in surrender (and it looks just fine to Dean, just five fingers and that's it), tone instantly shifting to one of understanding. "Okay, fine," he says. "Doesn't matter. It's just an illusion, and we know it. So it can't hurt us."
Dean works to adjust his own voice, but it still comes hard and biting; sandpaper to wood. It feels like he's losing bits of his usually impenetrable control at a time, happening so gradually that it's almost impossible to recognize. But Dean Winchester has always been profoundly in touch with the barrier he's built around himself, and though it is less literal than the structure currently blocking up the inside of his little brother's head, the wall placed there by Death, he can still feel when it begins to rupture. So maybe that's why his voice climbs higher than it should on his next words, why the shaking of his vocal cords has begun to reach to his fingertips. "Great, so your freaky spider-hand is harmless," he snarks, fear lamely and, based on Sam's expression, unsuccessfully covered with sarcasm. "Super. What do we do now?"
"Well this is it, right?" Sam shrugs, letting his flashlight once again roam the emptiness that lies before them. He seems more awestruck than alarmed now, eyes scanning the packed dirt in front of him as if he's searching out clues. Dean's used to seeing that look at the library when Sam stumbles across a new bit of lore or finds an ancient book to dissect, but out here in these twisted woods, it seems out of place. Sam should have his guard up, game face on.
"This is the Devil's Ground," he continues. "So we wait. We wait for whatever's coming, and we be ready for when it comes."
Dean shakes his head. "This is the dumbest idea we've ever had. Sammy, this place…"
"I know. But leaving now means someone else dies," Sam cuts in, echoing Dean's words from earlier. "And if we can end it tonight, if there's any chance...we have to try."
Dean swallows. Nods. "You bring a game of Scrabble or something?"
Sam shakes his head, a smile twitching at his lips. "I'll go get firewood," he says
"Not alone you won't."
"Well someone has to stay here," Sam insists. He's still got that faraway look in his eye, a little too unfocused.
"Why?" Dean asks.
"I...I don't know. I don't remember why. But it feels important."
"Important that I stay here while you go off alone?" Dean clarifies. He can't understand how that could ever be the right move.
"Yes?" Sam's answer sounds like a question. He's confused, which means Dean's confused too. Because Sam rarely does disoriented. Sam always knows the answers, and Dean can't help but wonder if the reason he doesn't anymore is because his newly-recovered soul took one too many hits at the Devil's hands. And if Dean had realized it earlier, if he had just done more, sooner, to get his brother back. Then maybe none of this would be happening right now.
"Sammy, let's just take a breath," Dean reasons, trying to focus enough for the both of them. "We just have to…"
The voice cuts him off, riding over the silent wind.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Heard he had a great big fall, it taunts. It is a hollow, cackling sound, raw decibels carrying across the currents of a radio buried beneath the ocean, reception somehow still coming through. The drowning voice continues, and Dean can only listen.
But that's not the right rhyme for this story. This is the one that is true:
Humpty Dumpty had a great wall
Till it crumbled apart all ruined and small.
Inside a mind once so bright.
That's the last time Sammy ever saw the light.
"Just have to what?" Sam asks, smacking Dean on the shoulder. Dean shakes himself back to awareness, doing his best to ignore the background noise. But it suddenly seems as if everything is background noise, a low, buzzing tone that circulates the air and sings directly into his ears. He can't focus on his own thoughts, and they scatter like crabs on an infinite beach, digging themselves beneath the sand until they become frustratingly unreachable.
Dean brings his eyes up to meet Sam's, trying not to let the panic show. "I don't know," he says. "I don't…. remember what I was saying. Is that part of it? Do we forget things?"
"That wasn't in the rules," Sam says, as if that means it can't be true.
Dean wishes he could focus a little more clearly at the moment, but he can't seem to force his mind into cooperating. Maybe Bethany had mentioned something. "Are you sure?" he asks.
"Pretty sure," Sam nods, though he seems pretty clueless too.
"Great, so I'm just losing my mind," Dean replies, turning to look back out at the Devil's Ground. He adjusts the weapons bag on his shoulder, securing the straps over the collar of his jacket.
"I think that happened awhile ago," Sam tries to joke. It falls eerily flat in the overwhelming silence of the trees behind them that move without rustling. Dean swears he can feel them shift, but not in the way that trees do. It is as if the roots of the trees are moving, inching closer and closer beneath the ground until they're right up behind him, tickling at his shoulder blades. Dean wonders what on earth would make him have a thought like that, and before he can help it, he spins around to face the trees. They are stoic and still as ever, but Dean still can't shake the unease. He rubs a hand over his eyes, pausing halfway through the motion.
"Hey Sam?" he says.
Sam seems as though he's gone somewhere else, expression distant, but he immediately pulls back to give Dean his full attention. "Yeah?"
Dean sighs, holding both hands out in front of him.
"I count twelve fingers now."
Spoiler alert: this story will continue to get weirder. Hope I haven't lost you yet =). See you Thursday.
