NEXT
Sam was up first. He yawned and stretched, and reluctantly hauled his big frame out of the bed. The room was still in twilight, he glanced over to see how Dean was faring, and was met by his wakeful, staring eyes.
"Dude, you're up? I woulda thought you'd be dead 'til at least noon."
Dean turned his dull gaze to his brother and shrugged. He said nothing. Sam was a little concerned, and he switched on a light. "You alright, Dean?"
"Yeah." He turned back to watching the ceiling with disinterest.
"Well...you obviously need a shot of caffeine. How 'bout I go down to the café and pick up some breakfast?"
He didn't answer.
"Dean-?"
"Yeah, sure...whatever."
Sam threw on some respectable clothing, flattened his bed-hair back down and headed down to the lobby. The café had just opened, so the coffee was freshly brewed and the muffins still steaming. He ordered two extra larges and bought an armful of the baked goodies, hoping it would force Dean out of his funk. He carried his treats happily—almost making it to the stairs before he realized he'd forgotten a paper. He really wanted something to read, so he turned back to the lobby, purchased one, and headed back to the room. He stood in front of the door, juggling his purchases for a moment so that he could unlock the door. He'd just about managed to do that, when an ear-splitting sound broke the silence from within. Sam dropped his things in horror—
-Gunshot-
He threw the door open and hit the lightswitch, only to be greeted by a terrible scene. Dean was sprawled on his bed, gun in hand. His powder-burned shirt was already sodden, red flowed over his chest, pulsing out from the hole over his heart.
Choking back a scream, Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulders, shaking him, pressing his fingers to his blood spattered throat, pushing hard on the wound, trying frantically to staunch the blood and life that streamed relentlessly through his fingers. He watched, mute with shock, as the light faded from Dean's wide open eyes.
Sam sat bolt upright, with an incoherent shout. He was soaked with sweat, disoriented and still filled with emotion. He fumbled with the lamp, knocking it off the nightstand uselessly. He threw his covers away and dove to his brother's bedside, grabbing hold of his chest in the pitch dark and searching for the place where the bullet had entered mere moments ago.
Dean awoke, startled. He didn't know what the hell was going on, only that something had attacked him in his sleep. He swung a fist in the direction of the presence hovering over him. It connected, he heard a sharp yelp and a mumbled curse as he rolled out of bed, grabbed his gun and hit the wall switch in one practiced, fluid motion.
Sam sat on the carpet between the beds, pressing a hand to his bloodied nose.
"What the hell were you doing?" Dean demanded, incredulous, and still pulsing with adrenalin.
Sam opened one teary eye. "I thought I...I saw you; you'd...ugh, I had a dream, alright?" he growled, tipping his head back.
Dean was still far from feeling forgiving. Sam had scared the crap out of him—he still panted with panic. But he sighed, grabbed his brother's hand and hauled him up off the floor. Sam sat on the edge of the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Well did I break it?" Dean demanded, with reluctant guilt.
"No…you must be getting rusty."
Dean left and brought him a cold, wet towel, throwing it at his head. "You know, you're damn lucky I didn't shoot you, you stupid idiot! What did you think was happening anyway?"
Sam groaned, not wanting to divulge it. His nose stung with a steady beat of eye-watering pain.
"Well? what the hell was that about?"
Sam sighed. "I thought you had…offed yourself. I dreamed we were both awake—I went down to get coffee, and before I got back in the door, I heard you shoot yourself."
"Oh... Huh… Well I guess that's pretty heavy. Sorry about your shnozz, but you oughta know what'll happen if you wake me up like that. But why would you think that, anyway? Cecille's finished, she can't hurt me now. And you already made me promise."
"I know, Dean. But I guess I was still worried because Bobby hasn't undone the spells yet. And you were… well, pretty bummed-out yesterday. "
"Oh." Dean looked down in embarrassment, remembering their emotional argument, and the reason behind it. He felt awful, being the source of Sam's fears, and subsequent nightmare. And a bloody nose on top of it... But despite that, he didn't feel the least bit morose. Instead, he felt-weightless, and free. Cecille's claws were pulled back out of his nerves and mind and soul, and he was now able to appreciate the moment again. "Well, maybe we should wake his lazy old arse up and get that done first thing. Hey; why don't you go down and buy us some coffees. Take your time...I'll just stay here, you know…thinking…in the dark…all alone."
"That's not funny, you jerk!"
"Aw, sure it is. Anyway, I'll go—you're kinda disgusting at the moment." He rooted around and found his pants. "Any requests?"
"Just coffee, a big one—and maybe a pint of blood."
Dean snorted and headed down.
Sam lay back. The bleeding was slowing, almost stopped. He marveled at his brother's lightning-fast reflexes, even when he wasn't fully awake. He sure had a healthy self-preservation instinct. The dream was fading fast from his imagination, as dreams will do, thank goodness. He was grateful for that; it had seemed so terribly real. The towel Dean had thrown him had helped. Nothing brought you into the present like a punch in the nose and a cold, wet towel wrapped around your face.
Dean seemed to be taking his sweet time. Sam tested his nose, pleased that nothing escaped it when he let go and stood up straight. He went into the can, washed up, and decided to pester Bobby. To his surprise, Bobby was awake. Apparently he'd been so, ever since they'd said goodnight many hours ago.
"Bobby! Did you even sleep?" Sam demanded.
Bleary-eyed, the older man smiled. "Oh, well, not really, I guess. I was reading the book. Christ, Sam; we are damned lucky that girl wasn't a scholar. There's stuff in here…well, let's just say Dean was damned lucky."
Sam saw the dolls, all laid out neatly. Each was now devoid of any individuality. All the accoutrements that had given them power and identity were stripped away. The book was there too. "Bobby, you undid all the magic, didn't you?"
He smiled sheepishly. "Yeah. I was gonna grab some shut-eye, but...well, I saw what went down between you and Dean in the parking lot. You don't have to tell me; I figured out what it was about. And when I had everything in my hands, I just had to fix it, Sam. I had to."
Sam took stock of his weary friend. Bobby wasn't young anymore. The fact that he had stayed up all night, safe-guarding Dean's, and other strangers' well-being—was a poignant reminder of his quality of character. "Thanks Bobby, really."
Bobby shrugged it off, as was his way. "Hope you brought some breakfast."
Dean knocked, laden with his coffee cups and paper bags. "Figured you were here." he said to Sam. He unloaded his burden and they all dug in.
Sam brought his brother up to speed. "Bobby finished it, Dean. No more spells—no more magic. Just a bunch of dry grass."
Dean looked to Bobby, raising an eyebrow. "Thought we agreed we'd do this in the morning?"
"Doesn't matter...it's all done. And thanks to you two, we have this damned thing safely in hand. I'm telling ya, Dean, there's shit in here…" He shuddered.
Dean got the idea. "Glad to be a part of it all, then, Bobby. If we can keep this cursed thing out of circulation, maybe it'll all be worth it."
Bobby was quiet. "Yeah... I was tempted to burn it. Safest way to keep it out of the wrong hands."
"Yeah—fine, but what if other versions of this surface? How would you know how to beat it? You have to keep it around for that reason alone."
Bobby had to accept Dean's opinion. Hell, if anyone had a right to one in that regard, he did. "I guess you're right. But I think I'll melt those pins down anyway. You can do the honours of crushing those skulls to dust if you like, Dean."
Dean snorted. "Just give me a hammer."
Bobby stretched and yawned. "So, boys, we're pretty much done here now. And I have to say it; I am real happy you were there with me on this. Couldn't have done it alone."
Dean laughed. "Hey, don't sell yourself short, Bobby. If you were with me at the Blackbird that first night, no guarantee it woulda been me she ended up taking home."
Bobby stroked his moustache and raised an eyebrow with mock-pride. "Yeah...true. I do have that distinguished look that chicks love."
Sam chimed in, "Hey, what about me?"
"Sorry Sammy...you're strictly ugly-friend material." Dean teased. "But seriously, Bobby...don't ever hesitate to bring us in when you need it. I guarantee we'll be calling you up in future when we're stuck and need to pick your twisted little brain."
Bobby prayed he'd never again have to bring danger to their door. He also knew that scenario was unlikely. "Well, thanks ...anyhow."
"Any time, Bobby" they said, almost in unison.
He smiled with a sad fondness.
Check-out was 11:00 am. They all packed up, and grabbed lunch on the way out. Bobby paid. He bought a round of beers and raised his glass. "Well...to a world without evil." he said simply.
They raised theirs. "Well don't take all the fun out of it!" Dean added.
"Amen!"
Bobby had left on his journey home. Sam and Dean were now left to their own devices. They had been driving around aimlessly for a few days, not quite sure about what they wanted next. "How's the head?" Sam asked, with his usual concern.
"Ok." Dean said. He was driving, of course. It felt good, being behind that wheel...felt right. "How's the beak?"
Sam just rubbed his nose and laughed. He was reading the New Orleans paper, occasionally reading interesting bits out loud. A particular article caught his attention. "Hey! Dean, listen—" He read the story. A young woman, Cecille Agathe Daumier, had been found outside her house, having fallen two stories from a window, apparently after some sort of fracas. Someone had called 911, and she was taken to hospital with non-life-threatening injuries. However, she died two days later, of complications.
"Complications from what?" Dean asked, intrigued, and feeling a guilty elation.
"You're not gonna believe it. She got some weird infection that started on the back of her hand. Says here that they amputated but they couldn't stop it."
"Whoa. Poetic justice."
"No shit!"
They had no destination at the moment. They had cash, from their months of working in Mexico. A successful hunt under their belts again. And they had the satisfaction that they were able to come through for their old friend for a change. Life wasn't bad at the moment.
Sam was thinking. "Dean...have you thought about where to go next?"
"Uh…not really. Why? Got somewhere in mind?"
He did. "Well, I was thinking...maybe we should try something different…"
"Different, okaaaaayyyy..."
"Yeah. Ever thought of going north…?"
"Just how north-ish are we talking here?"
"Well...I was thinking we could check out some places in, uh…Canada."
Dean looked at him like he's sprouted another head. "Wha...Why?"
"I don't know… I just thought it'd be different, for a change. Real anonymity, for one. And I dunno, just…something new."
Dean thought for a moment. He smiled to himself. "What the hell, Sammy…east Canada or west?"
End.
Hey, thanks to you all who are following these tales, and more to those commenting. It makes my day, it really does. I know some of you know these stories from other sites, yet still take the time to comment on old, familiar territory (thanks Lisa, for one ;) ) And for others for whom these are new, -I will always try to re-edit regularly so that I can keep updating every other day. No sense in following a story if it has long, boring pauses between updates, right? Thanks again, Seeya...Mal
