Where's Waldo?
Disclaimer: Not mine…obviously.
Beta'd: By the talented Ms. Wysawyg and her trusty sidekicks: wit and perspective! Thanks for helping me with the two lines I struggled with. So much better now. As usual, I had homework to finish after she beta'd so any remaining errors are mine and mine alone.
Thank you: To CrashNBurn for the opening line to this chapter. :c)
…………………………………………………………..Chapter 10………………………………………………………..
Sam heard Dean's wheezing breath above him and knew his brother had joined him at the grave site. He pulled hard on the wood, taking satisfaction when it groaned and creaked before finally releasing its hold and opening quickly. The sudden lack of resistance caused Sam to wobble on the edge of the coffin, barely able to regain his balance.
"Ah, Sam," Dean said from above. Sam looked up to meet his brother's questioning gaze. "Where's Waldo?"
Before Sam could offer a reply, the sound of distant shouting could be heard. Both Winchesters looked in the direction of the sound and in an instant Sam jumped out of the grave and stood next to Dean. The spirit of Waldo stood to the south, a Native American woman to the west and William to the north. They were virtually surrounded.
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"Hey, Sam," Dean remarked with a smirk. "Looks like we found Waldo."
Sam rolled his eyes at his ever-the-smart-ass brother. "There aren't any bones to salt and burn. That means we need to disrupt the symbols and hope it's enough," Sam explained, hurriedly. As he spoke the spirits moved closer, but stopped, hovering just outside the rings of stone.
"No problem, Sam," Dean replied, his tone deceptively sincere. "Any suggestions on how we keep the Gibbs family from tearing us apart in the meantime?"
"I thought distraction was your specialty," Sam countered, flashing Dean a grin.
"It's about time you appreciated some of my finer talents," Dean replied with a smirk. He slapped Sam on the chest. "Get to it."
"You sure?" Sam asked. "Once I start disrupting the circles there's a good chance things are going to get hairy."
"Go!" Dean insisted. As Sam walked towards the outermost ring of stones, the spirit of William glided towards him, moving so quickly he seemed to disappear from his original spot and reappear in front of Sam in the space of a heartbeat.
"Hey!" Dean shouted, fishing a gun out of the duffel. "Did Lassie pull you out of the well or is that dog-faced thing your wife?" William took no notice of Dean, but reached out a hand towards Sam.
Sam, for his part, was not paying any attention to the spirits. He trusted Dean to keep an eye out for him while he broke the hold this place had on the dead. Seven stones out of each of the seven circles would equal the forty-nine days of mourning and prayer required for Chinese funerals: based on the significant use of numerology in the shrine that number seemed logical.
He had no sooner pushed the shovel into the soft ground than a cold hand pressed into his shoulder. Sam looked up into the face of William Gibbs and jumped backwards in surprise when a shot rang out seconds later and William disappeared. "Huh, the iron rounds seem to work," Dean observed matter-of-factly.
Sam turned to look back at Dean before nodding his head fractionally in understanding. Returning his attention to the task at hand he dug up the first seven rocks in rapid succession. In response Waldo began shouting again. Moving on to the second set of stones he stumbled as he moved quickly to avoid the knife point thrust in his face. Another blast from Dean's weapon signaled the disappearance of Waldo. "You might want to hurry this along a little, Sam," Dean suggested tongue in cheek from behind him.
"I'm working on it." Sam worked quickly, digging up the stones of the next three rings in rapid succession. He did not even look up when the third shot from Dean's weapon rent the air, but continued on to the three remaining rings of stone.
He stood shoulder to shoulder with his brother as he unearthed the final stone. His arms ached from all the digging he had done in the last few hours and he stood, leaning on the short-handled shovel for several seconds, catching his breath. "All that's left is the statues," Sam stated, turning to look at Dean. Dean stood at the ready, his green eyes sharp; his body tensed and prepared to take action. "I hope," Sam added.
Dean flicked his eyes in Sam's direction, before scanning the horizon again. "Any particular order we need to do this?"
"I don't think so," Sam replied. "If we're lucky the age of the monuments will make them easier to break."
"I've got the two over here," Dean said as he limped away before Sam could protest.
Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's stubbornness and ran for the nearest statue on his left. The wind that previously blew high enough to only tickle the tops of the trees, now rushed through the glade. Pine needles and dry leaves chased each other across the ground and the temperature dropped. Sam shivered as his still damp shirt and boxers chilled his skin.
Skidding to a stop at the first statue, his hands had scarcely touched the stone when he once again felt cold fingers on his shoulder. He spun on his heels and lifted his head to look at the spirit of Waldo. He did not have time to react before Waldo's grip tightened and he was flung up and backwards through the air. The hard landing knocked the air from his lungs and he gulped in air trying to catch his breath.
Sam searched frantically for the spirit, but Waldo had disappeared. Pushing himself to his feet, he was relieved to see Dean limping towards the nearby statue, unharmed. "Dean!" he called in warning. An unscheduled flight would do more than leave his brother out of breath. "Watch out for the spirits!"
The wind whipped his words away and he doubted Dean had heard his warning. He headed towards his brother when Dean inexplicably turned his head towards him and shouted over the wind, "Sam, look alive!" He raised his weapon and fired at something just over Sam's left shoulder.
Sam waved a thank you at his brother, shook his head and headed back for the statues on his side wondering why he had ever doubted Dean would still be on high alert. Grasping the statue for a second time, Sam swung it like a bat and hit it against an ancient pine tree. Fissures and cracks appeared in the miniature Golden Fishes sculpture. He swung again and the weather-worn stone crumbled upon impact with the tree.
A vibrant green dragonfly with iridescent wings flittered past Sam, flapping desperately against the wind flying towards the river. He frowned at the impossible sight before turning his attention back to the second statue.
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Dean turned away from Sam and shot a cursory glance at the first sculpture on his side. It vaguely resembled the legendary Gordian Knot and he wondered briefly if it held the same significance. Dismissing the wandering thought, he picked up the statue and grunted. It was far heavier than its appearance would suggest.
He struggled to carry the weighty knot of rock intending to smash it against the tree as he had seen Sam do. The rough granite cut into his fingers and the square base knocked into his chest as he walked. Hurry up, Sammy, he thought. If I have to smash both of these, it's going to kill me.
Shouting in front of him tore Dean's attention back to the task at hand. Waldo stood in front of him, waving a knife in the air. The spirit shouted angrily at him and jabbed it several times in his direction. Dean's fingers itched for the weapon tucked into the waistband of his boxers. He had been pleasantly surprised to find the elastic strong enough to hold the heavy handgun, leaving him with both hands free to carry the sculpture. Now he would gladly trade a free hand for an armed one without a moment's hesitation.
Determined to finish the hauntings so they could finally leave the woods and enjoy the relative calm of the open road, Dean held the woven stone sculpture above his head and shouted back at Waldo. "What's the matter?" he taunted. "Don't like others playing with your toys?"
Waldo lunged for the sculpture, but Dean reacted quicker. He spun in a circle three times, gaining momentum on each turn and released the statue. He watched Waldo track the flight of the Eternity Knot with his eyes until it crash-landed against the side of a sturdy madrone.
The stone crumbled into pebbles and small pieces of granite hit the ground in a wave, rolled and scattered. Waldo seemed to be watching a small bird or large winged insect fly past and Dean took advantage of the distraction to race to the second statue, the heavy boot thumping loudly on the ground.
The wind grew in intensity and the sting of pine needles burned his bare skin. He lifted an arm to protect his eyes from the small projectiles and blindly stumbled the remaining feet to the sculpture. His fingers had no sooner touched the rough stone than Waldo shouted with renewed fervor and this time when he rushed Dean, Dean could not move quickly enough.
The force of impact caused Dean to fall sideways to the ground, air whooshing from his lungs as his damaged ribs sang in harmony. Cold, icy fingers wrapped around his throat before he could recover his breath. "Sam!" Dean choked out before the wind whisked it away. "Sam!"
Dean feebly batted at Waldo's hands, but his weak, uncoordinated movements had no effect on the death grip Waldo had on his neck. His eyes widened in unadulterated panic as his oxygen supply dwindled dangerously low. His ears popped and his arms lost all strength. He knew the horrible wheezing sounds were coming from him, but it no longer seemed to matter. He was surprised he had enough air to make any sound and in a way the whistling gasp was reassuring.
He kicked wildly with his legs in a last ditch effort to throw the spirit off of him and make an escape. The heavy, still water-logged boot rendered his right leg worthless and he could not generate enough action to have any effect. I'm sorry, Sammy, he thought. You're going to be on your own sooner than I hoped. Dean's vision grayed and narrowed until it went out.
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As Sam's second statue crumbled, he turned back towards Dean. His brother's prone form lay straddled by the spirit of Waldo. In the dark and from this distance Sam could not see exactly what was happening, but Dean did not appear to be conscious.
"Dean!" Sam shouted as he ran for his brother. When Waldo glared at Sam, he realized he did not have any way of getting Dean away from the spirit. His best chance lay in destroying the remaining statue. He abruptly changed directions and skirted around Dean and Waldo. The wind picked up force and slowed his progress, tossing branches at him and sending stinging dry dirt into his eyes.
Wiping watering eyes with the back of his hand, Sam grabbed the stone sculpture and threw it into a nearby tree. It exploded into many pieces, the shrapnel bouncing off the tree and back into Sam's face. The howling wind died immediately, the trees stilled and dancing leaves dropped to the ground. Sam's ears rang from the deafening silence until the crickets started chirping once more.
Whirling about, Sam ran towards his brother. Waldo had disappeared, but Dean lay absolutely still on the ground. Skidding to a stop, Sam dropped to his knees by his brother. "Dean!" Sam shouted too loudly, shaking his brother vigorously. Dean remained unresponsive. Sam lowered his ear to his brother's mouth and placed a hand on his chest. Dean was not breathing.
"No, no, no, no, no," Sam repeated in endless litany, sitting back on his heels. His father's voice boomed in his head. Secure the site, Sam. He reacted instinctively, glancing around, searching the grounds for the forgotten duffel and spotted it sitting by the sputtering fire.
Scrambling for the bag, he left small clouds of dust in his wake. He grabbed the duffel and made it back to Dean in record time. Depositing the bag, he pulled out the salt tin and laid a sloppy circle of salt around his brother, leaving enough room for him to squeeze inside as well.
Task completed, Sam crouched down and tilted Dean's head back hoping he had simply missed the shallow exhales of air. When it became obvious that was not the case, he placed trembling fingers gently on Dean's neck and felt the slow, sluggish beats of life before delivering two life-saving breaths. "Come on, come on," he urged quietly before repeating his actions. Time slowed and every second passed torturously slow. Two breaths, wait, two breaths, wait: the rhythm repeated and Sam grew increasingly concerned Dean's damaged air passageway could not recover.
"Don't you do this," Sam spat desperately. "I swear to God, Dean, this time I will be pissed if you do something stupid and leave." Two breaths, wait, two more breaths, wait: Sam thought of the implications of Dean dying, but the most important fact would be he had failed and his big brother would be sent to hell almost a full year early.
Two breaths, wait, two breaths, wait: in his best little brother voice Sam said, "I can't do this without you." Yes, you can. His words, but Dean's voice whispered in his mind. "Well, I don't want to," he said aloud.
Dean's eyes opened wide and he gasped, his back arching slightly off the ground. He looked around wildly before his green eyes settled on Sam and the panic receded into the depths of jade. "You okay?" he croaked.
"Am I okay?" Sam asked incredulously, sitting back on his heels. "Am I okay?" he repeated, his voice growing in volume. He slapped Dean lightly on the chest, who groaned in protest.
"Sam, calm down," Dean forced out in a gravely voice. He rested his hand weakly on Sam's knee and patted it once.
"Calm down?" Sam parroted.
Dean frowned and swallowed hard. He whispered something quietly that Sam could not hear and he leaned in closer. "What?" he asked.
"Gun." Dean winced and squirmed slightly.
"Dean, you don't need a gun right now," Sam replied, with a corresponding head shake.
"No, gun's in my back," Dean corrected softly.
Sam's hazel eyes registered understanding and he gently rolled Dean far enough to pull the gun out from under his lower back. Dean sighed in relief, but moments later flashed Sam a look of concern. Sam caught movement out of the corner of his eye and tightened his grip on the weapon with his right hand. His left hand rested lightly on Dean's chest, subconsciously monitoring the shallow up and down movement.
He looked up and nearly pulled the weapon to bear at the sight of Waldo standing right outside the circle of salt. Waldo cocked his head in confusion and spouted a question that Sam assumed was in Takelma. Sam shook his head in a universal gesture of non-understanding.
Waldo scowled, but spoke again – this time in clear, articulate English. "Why did you disturb the sacred symbols of this area?"
"To free you, your parents, the hold this land has on the dead," Sam replied. "These symbols did more than create a resting place for your family. They trapped spiritual signatures, forcing the final events of those buried here to reenact over and over, every night."
"There are no others here," Waldo replied, half confused, half accusation. He pulled his knife from the sheath at his waist and motioned to Sam with it. Dean started to move, but Sam pushed him back down easily with gentle pressure on his chest.
"No, they've all moved on, but spiritual residue remained, living out events that happened years ago," Sam explained patiently when all he really wanted to do was pick up the gun and fire an iron round into Waldo's heart however temporary that solution would prove to be. Normally he empathized with confused and lost spirits, but his compassion for Waldo ended when he tried to strangle his brother.
"I wish I could leave," Waldo lamented. "I do not know which path to follow."
Sam contemplated Waldo's statement. His father, William, had embraced other cultures, a rarity for the days in which he lived. It was that acceptance and the combination of ideas thereof that had inexplicably trapped his family here. The destruction of the symbols had released all it seemed except for Waldo. Waldo who no doubt had been torn between worlds while alive – remained conflicted in death – impossible to stay, unable to move on. Dragonflies popped into Sam's mind and he blurted, "Your parents followed the river."
Waldo stepped closer to Sam, replacing the knife in the sheath. "You saw them, didn't you?" he asked.
"Yes." Sam slowly slid the gun further away from Dean's body. If Waldo moved any closer, he would fire.
Waldo nodded and turned to look towards the river. "I should leave," he announced. His shape became blurred, thinning into a smoky white. "I should leave."
"Yes," Sam said, returning the head nod. "They're waiting."
As Waldo faded, Sam returned his attention to Dean. "Do you think you can help me move you closer to the fire?"
"I got it," Dean replied, his voice barely over a loud whisper. Dean shivered as the light breeze kissed his sunburned arms and face.
Sam moved to crouch behind Dean, grabbed his under the armpits and hauled him to his feet as he stood. "I got you," Sam contradicted. He frowned at the protective way Dean clutched his chest. "You did get hurt, didn't you?"
"I never said I didn't," Dean groaned. "I just said I didn't want to talk about it. Still don't."
Sam huffed, but brushed aside irritation at Dean's obstinacy. Confronting him on his behavior would not get him very far and Sam could not do anything for him right now anyway. They were stuck here until daylight. Fighting their way downhill in the dark would be an unnecessary risk. He deposited Dean by the fire and checked the clothes on the line only to find they were still sopping wet.
He sat down next to Dean, close enough that their shoulders touched. At least their boxers and t-shirts were dry. He toed off his wet shoes and peeled wet socks from his ghostly white, wrinkled feet and tossed them onto nearby rocks. The socks landed with spongy, wet sound and stuck to the rock. Leaning forward, he helped Dean out of his shoe, the boot and wet socks. Two more spongy sounds on the rocks signaled success and he leaned in closer to a shivering Dean. "It'll be daylight in two hours," he remarked to break the silence. "We can get out of here and head back to the clinic then."
Dean turned to frown at Sam. "I don't need to go back there," he protested, through shivering teeth.
"Dean, you stopped breathing. I know in our lives that's considered an inconvenience not a show stopper, but I'd feel better if you were checked out by a doctor," Sam replied. He kept his tone carefully neutral; Dean tended to tread dangerously close to reckless most of the time, but when it came to his own safety the line seemed non-existent.
Dean's head snapped and he wore an expression of genuine surprise. "If it makes you feel better," he replied in a stage whisper.
"It does," Sam said, relieved the battle would not need fighting.
They sat in silence for several long minutes, watching the fire crackle, accompanied by a chorus of crickets and harmonized occasionally by a lone owl. "I stopped breathing?" Dean asked, finally. He sounded almost resigned to the idea and that fact alone terrified Sam.
"Yeah," Sam replied, not tearing his gaze from the fire. "You scared the shit out of me, Dean."
They sat in silence once more, each brother lost in the implications of that statement. Sam tapped his foot, refusing to look at his brother. Dean would no doubt make light of it and brush it off and Sam was in no mood to pretend it didn't matter. "Well, it's all over now. The spirits are gone and everything's okay," Dean stated finally.
"Dean, you weren't breathing. I was afraid you were going to die. Do you have any idea what that feels like?" Sam asked angrily, annoyed Dean was dismissing the seriousness of what had transpired. As soon as the ill-spoken words were out of his mouth, he wished he could pull them back.
An unreadable expression crossed Dean's face and Sam prepared himself for the onslaught. Dean would either flippantly change the subject as if nothing had been said or explode in a tirade of anger. What Sam did not expect was for Dean to drop his gaze to stare at his bare feet and speak quietly in a cracking voice.
"When you died," Dean began. Sam hiccupped in surprise, questioning why he had felt the need to press Dean on this issue. They never mentioned the death word. In an unspoken agreement between them, they occasionally alluded to it, but never spoke of it outright. Dean continued unabated, "I held you in my arms knowing there was nothing I could do. I pulled you close, willing death away, but it didn't help. You drew your last breath and I couldn't stop it."
Dean paused and looked at his hands, examining them closely. "I failed, Sammy. Practically all my life, I've tried to do whatever it takes to keep my family safe and I failed." Dean's abused throat caused his quavering voice to crack. "You're my little brother, my responsibility, so don't ask me if I understand. I understand."
Sam nodded, swallowing the lump of emotion lodged in his throat. "That goes both ways. You're my brother," he stated huskily, repeating the sentiment he'd voiced only a few weeks ago. "I'll do whatever it takes to get you out of this."
"Don't say that," Dean snapped angrily. "I don't want you doing anything stupid."
"With you as an example, I'm pretty much doomed there," Sam quipped with attempted levity. In a strange, reversal of roles he needed to break the emotional tension and move on. His shoulders sagged tiredly and he felt the strain of responsibility for his brother. A burden he was sure Dean understood full well.
Dean scowled, his brow furrowed in frustration before his lips finally softened into a lopsided smirking grin. "I suppose you got me there," he conceded finally. He squinted into the distance. "Sun's coming up."
"It's about time," Sam replied, stifling a yawn. "I think I've figured out a way across the river."
"Ah man, I'd forgotten about the river," Dean moaned. "No more swimming, okay."
"No swimming," Sam reassured him, tossing Dean his damp socks. "Mike sent us the most direct route, but if we walk downhill on this side, we should be able to find a place to cross further downstream, but close to the Impala."
"Sounds like a plan," Dean agreed, slipping on his socks and one shoe before fighting with the heavy boot.
"We're only about two miles from the car, so it shouldn't take more than an hour or two," Sam stated, adding time for Dean's unspoken injuries. "The jeans are still soaked, so we're probably better off without them."
"Good thing no one lives out here," Dean smirked. "Or you'd be showing off those pale chicken legs to all the locals."
"Sh'yeah, unlike yours," Sam shot back, pointing to Dean's legs with a head nod.
"What?" Dean asked innocently, his arms spread wide, looking down at his own legs. The black, soft cast stood out in stark contract against his pale leg. "Not everyone could pull this look off, the way I can."
Sam snorted and shoved the wet clothes into the duffel. Throwing dry dirt on the dying fire, he quickly smothered the flames leaving only tendrils of gray-black smoke wafting through the air. He shouldered the duffel and helped Dean stand with the other arm. He waited patiently while Dean gained his equilibrium and silently indicated his readiness to begin. With slow, measured steps the brothers walked downhill through the thickly wooded forest.
Unseen by either brother, a large, rusty-orange dragonfly zipped through the air following the path of the river west towards the ocean.
They rested several times before reaching a point downstream where the water ran shallow enough that it afforded them stepping stones the entire way across the river. Negotiating the stones with the awkward boot proved difficult, but not impossible. Dean wobbled several times, but each time, Sam was close enough to steady him.
The final thirty minutes were spent fighting underbrush and thorny blackberry bushes. Tired, scratched and slightly the worse for wear the brothers emerged from the woods to the sight of the Impala in the distance. Dean hobbled slowly and Sam watched him surreptitiously for signs that he could not continue. It had taken longer than the two hours Sam had estimated, but they finally reached the waiting car.
"Ah, baby," Dean crooned. "You are a sight for sore eyes." He ran his hand affectionately down the roof of the Impala.
Sam snickered and opened the passenger door for Dean. As his brother slipped inside Sam remarked, "Why do I always feel like I'm interrupting a private moment between the two of you?"
He closed the door on Dean's laughing reply, slowly walked around the back side of the Impala and climbed into the driver's seat. "Next stop, Doctor Bailey's," he announced upon starting the engine.
Dean stopped chuckling and glared at Sam, causing the younger brother to chuckle instead. Dust kicked up on the abandoned logging road as the sleek, black car winded down the hill towards town.
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AN: Whoa, we're almost there. One more chapter to go and that's all she wrote.
I think my writing mojo has returned (it was temporarily on hiatus after all my traveling/company this summer), but I managed two chapters and a one-shot this week. Woo hoo!
As always – Feedback Welcome!