Hey everyone, it's Sunday again! Thank you so much for all those awesome reviews, I'm such a happy person right now!
Okay then, on with the story – this is one of my favourite chapters, I'm curious what you think! Enjoy...
Chapter 11
Staring at the black liquid had a mesmerizing effect, it was exactly what Dean needed to keep him from losing his mind completely. Plus, he wouldn't accidently meet the demon's gaze while looking around in the dining hall, searching for hallucinations longing for revenge. No, watching the steaming coffee in his cup worked fine for him right here and now.
It had felt so real. So damn real. The nauseating stench was still an uninvited guest in his nose, the persistent odor of death and blood and sweat enough to display the corresponding images before his inner eye. The pounding headache that threatened to drive him crazy since he had opened his eyes this morning was an additional reminder of how vicious that last dream had been.
Had it been a dream? Was it even possible for a dream to be so intense, so violent? Man, what a feral subconscious he had.
Dean took an angry sip of the hot coffee, keeping his eyes trained to an imaginary spot on the table top.
They were still down there. All of them. Never once had Dean thought about all the souls that had stayed, the ones he had tortured, the ones he hadn't, it didn't matter, right? They all had to endure the worst, the most outrageous things possible. Things a human mind shouldn't be able to think of ever. They had to endure all that, not once, not twice, but for the rest of eternity.
Alistair had trained him. And he had trained the demons. Unknowingly. And now it didn't matter anymore if he was down there or up here, the harm was done.
No wonder visions were haunting him. No wonder some demon was walking around here, threatening him. He was a monster. He might have shed that skin when he came back, but he couldn't erase what was etched on his memory.
Dean was ripped from his thoughts when the chair opposite him was yanked back forcefully and someone slumped down on it. He looked up, recognition and realization pushing his dread from the spotlight.
"Phillip…" he exhaled, a massive weight suddenly off his mind, when the nurse held his hand up and regarded him intently.
"Okay", Phillip began, looking around before he leaned close, "I want to know what's in my house. Now, Dean."
So much for the hunch.
Dean clenched his jaw. "Relax, I can explain…" But he was so damn not in the mood right now.
"Oh, I hope you can, because the only reason I'm not flipping out right here and now is because I pray to God that you have a rational answer to what is going on out there."
I prayed, I prayed a lot. I prayed even more when I came down there...
A tiny gasp escaped Dean before he could stop himself and he blinked frantically, fighting the urge to recoil from Phillip who frowned at him.
"Are you okay?" the nurse asked, the slightly exasperated tone softening instantly. He nodded at the coffee in Dean's white-knuckled hands. "Is that your breakfast?"
"Yeah…", Dean stammered, struggling to regain his composure, "I'm not hungry…" Getafreakin'grip!
"Dean…"
"Don't 'Dean' me, Phil, okay?" He ran a hand over his face, hoping that it didn't shake too hard. Focus. He needed to focus. A hunt. This is a hunt. Focus, Dean. "You wanna know what's going on? Fine, I'll tell you but you're not going to like it."
"Fine."
"Fine." Dean took a shaky breath. "From the beginning. What exactly happened?"
"Okay, so I went back into my house", Phillip started, "I had the crowbar and I had salt and everything with me. I went upstairs to get a few things for Coraline…my wife…and when I wanted to leave there was this guy in the middle of my living room."
"What did he do?"
"Nothing. He just stood there and watched me. At first. When I walked up to him, asked him who he was and what the heck he was doing in my house he suddenly…man, you should've seen it…he didn't walk, he kinda…flew at me. Like Michael Jackson's moonwalk, you know, but…onward."
Dean gaped blankly at the man opposite him. Funny comparison, actually. In all his years hunting those things he hadn't ever thought about calling their sneaky attacks that way.
"What happened next?" he asked, erasing the disturbing image from his mind.
Phillip paused for a second. "I threw the crowbar at him", he said. "And he…disappeared. Into thin air."
Dean could once again only stare at Phillip. "Okay, number one", he stated, "you never throw your weapon away. Never. Next time, you hold onto the crowbar, alright?"
"Yeah, thanks for the advice", Phillip replied defiantly, "I knew throwing the thing away might not have been the smartest idea, but you know, normally when you throw a crowbar at someone's head that someone goes down and needs some time to wake up again."
Dean felt his racing heart slow down, felt himself being oddly at home. It was like catching a familiar scent from childhood days, like discovering a place similar to another one from the past, associated with pleasant memories.
Ghosts. Those he could handle. It was like the good old days. Sam and him, salting and burning. No demons. No angels. No experiences in torture.
"When did it reappear?" Dean rasped, his voice surprisingly rough and feeble.
Phillip pulled his head back. "How do you know it reappeared?"
"Sixth sense", Dean shrugged and nodded curtly, "Go on."
"Uh-huh…well…about 30 seconds later he…it…whatever…it was back, all vibrant and pissed and I…" Once again Phillip paused, licked his lips and shook his head barely visibly, almost spacing out.
"You've sprinkled him with salt I hope", Dean pressed, eyebrows raised, ducking his head.
"Yeah. And he vanished. Again." Phillip locked eyes with Dean, leaned closer a few inches more. "Dean. Why do I have David Copperfield's grandfather in my house?"
And damn, if the situation wouldn't be so fucked up Dean would have burst out in laughter right now.
"Did you recognize the man?" he asked instead, seriousness and urgency palpable in his voice and expression, "Have you seen him before, on photos maybe? When you bought the station did you read anything about a case of death sometime in the past?"
"No…I don't remember…Dean, crap, what's going on?"
Slumping his shoulders Dean checked the other tables once more, made sure there was no one close enough to hear what he was going to say now.
"You don't happen to believe in ghosts, do you?" he asked bluntly, not surprised when the only answer he got was a tired blink. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
Phillip looked him in the eyes, his face blank, lacking any emotion. He stared at him for such a long moment, Dean was about to nudge the guy, fearing he might have fallen asleep with his eyes open.
"You mean…a ghost…like…Patrick Swayze, right?" Phillip then asked slowly, "That guy in my house is a ghost? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"
Dean presented him an uncertain smile. "Welcome to the real world." He could see the information sink in, could almost hear the other man's brain rattle and screech while it processed what it just was fed with.
"Why? Why is it here?" Phillip whispered, and he sounded so small Dean felt a tiny twinge of pity, "What did I do to…what did Coraline do that he's pushed her down the stairs?"
"You live in his house, I guess..."
"No", Phillip exclaimed disgustedly, "He lives in mine." He shook his head, eyes roaming the small space between them. "This is ridiculous. You know what? If I wouldn't have seen it with my own eyes I'd run to Salinger right now and beg him to put you into a straightjacket."
"Ghosts haunt places that were important to them when they were alive", Dean explained undeterred by Phillip's comment, "like, for example, the houses they've lived in or special places of emotional significance to them. They're not necessarily evil or angry – well, most of them are, but not because they are sadistic or bored. There might be some unfinished business that keeps him here, or maybe he's just unwilling to move on."
Phillip looked up at Dean. "How is it that I'm the only one freaking out here? I mean, how did you know…well…you obviously knew what was going on before I did…the salt…iron…"
"I know a few things", Dean shrugged.
"Okay, fine, so I'm sure you know how to get rid of it?"
"That's the fun part…"
"Come on, can we talk to it? Tell it to man up or…ghost up…whatever, shoo it out of the windows?"
This time Dean couldn't help but snort at the truly refreshing naivety the male nurse displayed. He'd love to make himself comfortable on the sofa while Phillip ran after their Ghost waggling a newspaper or a flyswatter at it, all windows wide open.
"We need to know who he is, Phil. We need to know where he's buried, if he's buried."
Phillip frowned. "Somehow I don't think I want you to keep on talking…"
"Well, it's not me who has to live with a Ghost under his rug."
"Yeah. Thanks. Fine. So, why do we have to know where it's buried?"
Here we go, Dean thought, letting out a sigh. "You need to burn the corpse."
A while ago he wouldn't have thought that it was possible to express bewilderment and astonishment in so many different ways. But one look at Phillips face told him that he was wrong.
"Burn the corpse", the other man repeated flatly, watching Dean as if to search for any evidence on his face that he had made a joke. Then his eyes widened. "Wait. I have to burn the corpse?"
"Well, I'd love to help but I'm stuck in here, remember?"
"No way. Nuh-uh. How am I supposed to...I can't burn a damn corpse...you're kidding, right? I mean, it's a body, a person, I can't..." Phillip stopped and tilted his head. "What about that Ghost? Huh? He's not going to like it when he catches me scorching his remains, he's going to rip me apart!"
"He's going to rip you apart anyway, he'll be there in your house for the rest of your life. And trust me, this won't be long with him around."
The two men fell silent. From the way Phillip looked down, swallowed and clenched his jaw Dean was sure the man was close to tears right now. And he couldn't blame him. Dean had just unhinged his world, had told him things most people in the world knew only from the movies and were fine with it.
But at least the nurse seemed to trust him. He didn't bring Dean's words and theories into question, didn't greet them with smiles, didn't threat to ramp up his medication, thanks to Phillips own experience with the supernatural stumbling block.
Sam would have been a great help here. Dean would have given Phil his brother's number or would have arranged a meeting, something, anything. Sam could have taken more time and explain the situation without ruffle or excitement, could have done the necessary research with Phillip together. He could have driven out to the grave, if there was one, and could have get the job done, without pushing Phillip into the line of fire, without too many questions.
Hell, maybe Phillip wouldn't have had to learn about Ghosts at all in the first place if Sam wouldn't have been so stubborn and refusing.
Movement in the corner caught Dean's attention and he looked up, recognizing Griffin who had brought him here earlier hovering at the door. The bulky man then approached their table with raised eyebrows.
"Phillip", Dean hissed, satisfied to see some kind of determination in the other man's eyes, "find out who he is, where he's buried. If you need to enter your house, be prepared."
"Gentlemen!" Griffin piped when he finally reached the table, "Sorry to disturb the spirited conversation but I'm going to accompany Mister Rodgers here into the recreation room now."
Dean didn't know what was more disturbing – that dumbass breathing his air or the part concerning the recreation room.
"Wait, what? Recreation room?" he asked in disbelief, eyes darting over to Phillip who looked as surprised as him.
"Is there an appointment or since when do we force our patients to go there?" Phillip asked, suddenly all professional again, any signs of anxiety blown away in the blink of an eye.
"Doctor Salinger's advice. He thinks it might be good and important for Dean to do something constructive."
"That's cute, really", Dean chimed in, "how about you lend me a file or a picklock and I show the good doc how constructive I can get with the cell doors."
"I could give you a spoon so you can dig your way out of here, how does that sound, Rodgers?"
"Guys!" Phillip interrupted the heated discussion, once again acting as a buffer between the two hotheads, "That's enough for now. Dean, I think Salinger's idea isn't that bad
"Come on…" Dean whined but stopped when Phillip raised a placating hand.
"Let's do what we have to do, shall we, Dean?" he said in a low tone, giving Dean a meaningful look.
The two men locked gazes for a moment. "Okay", Dean answered slowly and nodded, "right." He then got up reluctantly, presenting Griffin a mocking grin.
"Well then, big guy", Dean teased, "let's get creative."
"To see you crochet a beanie is going to make my day", the orderly teased and nudged Dean's shoulder, "Move it, sweetheart."
To be continued…