CHAPTER 12
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SAM
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"Ye bloody bastard!" Jack shouted and drew to a stop and spun in a circle. Sam noticed how the odd green glow that surrounded him seemed to get darker as he got angrier. "I'll tear yer balls from yer worthless hide!"
Sam hunkered down, ducking a little deeper into the shadows. From the large outcropping of moss-covered rocks, he silently willed Jack to move on. A plea Jack did not seem all that willing to heed.
It almost hadn't worked. So well camouflaged against the forest, he'd almost missed the little cave of rocks in his haste to keep his dwindling lead. Had narrowly gotten to cover as the other Bowe entered the tiny alcove. Now Jack stood only ten feet away, content to linger, glowering at his surroundings. When he spun and marched straight at his position, Sam held his breath and waited.
Sam's mind was a whirl of confusion and questions as to what had just happened. But mostly, it was worry. Still sorting through the events of the last few minutes, his mind tracked back, trying to make sense of it.
In that clearing, with Dean pressed against that tree, and Martin, in Michael's body, exhibiting his unhealthy interest in him, when those strange glowing energies had attacked, things had rapidly deteriorated. Sam had scooted back from his captor, not sure at that moment just how far this would go. Just their electrically charged presence had made the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up on end but they seemed uninterested in him. He'd have laughed if he hadn't been so concerned for Dean, and then when Martin had gone flying, things got really weird.
While Jack and Martin were too busy dealing with them, Sam had seen his chance; get to Dean and get the Hell out of there. But that had proved impossible; the angle of the battle between the Bowes and the entities had blocked the only exit route and before he'd had a chance to find another way out something flashed hard and bright forcing him to shield his eyes.
There was a loud noise, a god-awful scream, both seemingly going on for several minutes. Then, finally, the glare had cleared, Sam had opened his eyes and felt his heart drop; Dean was gone. Memory of that scream still sent chills down his spin.
With Jack and Martin starting to show signs of returning consciousness, Sam had run. In the opposite direction. They'd always said that in any situation, if they ever got separated, that they'd try to get back to the most defensible position. Retreat and regroup.
In this case, the one place that still had most of its walls. The main building the hospital.
So, with few other options, he ran.
Sam had just decided it was safe to backtrack to the hospital when Jack's voice echoed across the forest. The guy was fast, and Sam had barely made it to cover when the—whatever it was—trotted into sight. The guy sucked at tracking, that was a plus, but the fact that Martin wasn't with him, was far more worrisome. Obviously, the Bowes had split up and the demon had gone looking for Dean.
Rather than lead this one back to the Hospital, Sam decided to get rid of Jack first, then go back and find Dean.
Exactly how he was going to accomplish that, however, he had no idea.
The why of it all was also perplexing. He'd not been close enough to hear Dean and Martin talk so he'd no clue what their protracted conversation had been about. What had he shown Dean when he'd lifted his shirt? Martin was possessing Michael, so what could have possibly been there that had...
Sam shook his head. He needed to keep his thoughts in the here and now. First things first.
And right now, that first thing was Jack, who was... "Shit," he whispered, angry with himself for being distracted. Jack was walking right toward him and he sank back farther until his back hit something solid. Rock.
"You know, if I were lookin' fer me a good place t'hide, I'd think this might be a good'n." Jack squinted his eyes and leaned into the shadows. "Ya in there, boy'o? Come out, come out where'ever ye are."
Sam dropped to the ground and rolled out from under the opening he'd crawled through earlier. Just in time as Jack's head poked in to peer in the opening at the top. Sam was off and running, hearing Jack's voice shout angrily behind him.
"Ye ain't doin' yer self no favors, lad. When I get my hands on ye , you'll be wishin' you were dead."
The sound of water went unnoticed. Sam had to stay ahead of Jack and– he burst out of the dense underbrush, tripped on a vine and went rolling down hard packed sand and rock.
Sam turned and took in his surroundings- the river's edge, an old dilapidated dock, all but rotted away, and on the shore, half in the water, half out, a rusted overturned old skiff sat rocking against the incoming tide, waiting for the next big wave to carry it out into the cove.
"You know..." Jack's voice called through the woods. "I'm gettin' almighty tired o' this, boy'o." Closer, his voice was drawing nearer to the clearing. "My brother said I had to bring you back alive, but he didn't say how alive..."
On impulse, Sam scrambled up and into the frizzing water. Shivering, he grabbed the edge of the skiff and lifted it up enough to fold his body beneath it. Sam gripped the edges with just the tips of his fingers, muscles in his shoulders and arms loaded and ready to spring.
Rock and sand crunched not far away. Water lapped at his legs, cold, seeping through his jeans and shirt. Sam waited patiently. Listening.
"Yer just putting off the inevitable," Jack continued. His too loud voice a sure sign he had no idea where Sam was. "And you can't win. Those annoying ghosts, they can't help no more. Shot their load back there, won't be no use to you or your brother."
Ghosts. So that's what they were...
"And your brother, I'm sure Marty's found him already."
Jack's footsteps seemed to be pacing away from him and Sam quietly lifted the edge of the boat. It was just enough to peek out, to see what he was doing. Almost immediately, Jack turned on one heel and moved back toward him. Sam breathed an inward sigh of relief that he'd not been spotted.
An idea came to him – a reckless, unfounded idea, but it was all he had. Timing, however, had to be perfect.
"Aye, your brother, he might've got away from Mart for a bit, but his wrists are sliced up pretty good. Made sure of that. Only a matter of time now. And Mart don't need more'n a few cups of his blood to unlock the binding spell. Him cuttin' his own wrists was the main part."
As much as he wanted to believe he was only trying to bait him, Sam knew much of that was true. Were they trying to do some other spell? Was this part of the first one? Sam couldn't remember if the other bodies had their wrists cut, but then again, it was hard to tell amidst the amount of loose bits that they'd encountered. The fact that they'd been after Dean's blood specifically raised all the hairs in Sam's neck.
It was now or never. Especially since Jack's feet came to stop just next to the skiff, heels turned toward the rusted skiff.
"I'm sure Mart's–"
Sam surged to his feet. The dingy went back and he launched at an angle, grabbing Jack about the knees. Both men crashed into the water where Sam did the only thing he could think of: push Jack further away from land, out where he couldn't touch. Salt water, maybe. Or drowning, one of them had to work. He hoped.
"Stop..!" Jack sputtered, arms flailing as he tried to get his head above the waves. "Not— don't.."
Green smoke seemed to rise off the surface, just where he had Jack submerged. The water around him started to fizz, bubbles rising, boiling to the surface, but the water temperature remained cold. His hand still on Jack's head to hold him down, he felt the texture change beneath his fingers. No longer solid and human-like, it grew soft. Sam pulled his hand back, kicked to move away, and watched.
Larger bubbles surfaced and Jack thrust up out of the water, arms batting about, swatting at the air. At nothing.
"I'm … Noooooo!" The air around him pulled in toward his body and the water went from bubbles to foam and froth. Sam kicked again, moving further back.
Then Jack... faded. Slowly. The white foamy water seemingly rising up to embrace him. His body shimmering, dimmer and dimmer until his solid form turned to little more than dust and dropped to the water in a shower of mist and ash.
Breathing hard, eyes locked to the spot, Sam gave a small huff. "Okay, then."
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DEAN
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Dean looked down at the floor. Blood dripped unabated, trailing behind him. His wrists had begun bleeding again.
It had been a nightmare getting here. The post ghost possession sickness, this time it had been far worse. Three times he'd had to stop and throw up. After each time his body had been wracked with tremors so bad his muscles cramped to the point that all he'd been able to do was to curl in on himself, try to warm up and let the seized muscles take their time to release.
And even worse was not knowing how Sam was doing. Or how far ahead Martin was. All he knew was he had to keep moving, even if it meant moving away from Sam.
He'd entered round the back of the hospital. It had taken longer but it was necessary. The demon killing knife wasn't an option. No way he'd kill Michael. The kid still had a chance and Dean intended to give it to him.
But if he collapsed from blood loss, it would all be for naught. Dean kept his arms tight into his sides, hoping the pressure would be enough to stem the flow. It helped a little. Still he felt it. The rapid breathing. Sweating. The feeling that his mind and the world are working at two different speeds.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Despite it all, that was the one word working on rerun inside Dean's head. He had allowed that reborn Bowe-spook to take a hold of his mind and had make their job of killing him all the more easy by cutting his own wrists. He'd lost too much blood before their little tussle with Martin, now, the run through the forest... he had to get to that room.
Dean leaned against the door next to the stairwell. This was the one, he was almost certain. Almost. This place was so damn big. The door didn't open easily but Dean used his considerable weight, just leaned and allowed gravity to take care of the rest until the thing gave in and he was able to stumbled through.
The world spun around him and he backed until the wall collided with his spine and waited it out. A slow lone whistling... soft, growing louder and Dean's eyes flew open.
"Jack tells he's got your brother secured at the altar as we speak, Dean."
No. That had to be a lie. Dean moved his arms away and let more of his blood leak before locking them in at his sides. Then, keeping his shoulder to the wall for balance, he moved further inside the room.
"No point hiding, lad. You leave a pretty easy to follow trail what with that blood and all..."
Dean legs nearly gave way. Muscles trembled from exertion and fatigue. He glanced up before moving drunkenly, feet dragging, slow and stumbling across the room. When he reached the right spot he waited, looking for all the world like a trapped animal. Eyes barely open, lips pressed tight, breaths that sounded too loud even to his own ears.
Thankfully, he'd not had to wait long. Martin peered around the corner not a minute later. The demon twisted Michael's face into something unkind as his black eyes locked with Dean.
"Ah, there you are, yer blood trail didn't lie." He moved slowly, carefully. "Given any thought as to what you'll do once you get back to Hell?"
"Only that I'm taking you with me if I go."
Martin paused, just before taking the last step and stared at Dean a moment. "Yer confidence is over-blown, considering your present circumstances," he said as he held his arms out to the side. "You've not a card to play here and I'm holding aces high."
"God, enough with the poker metaphors already." Dean felt trickles of sweat sting his eyes and he had to blink several times to clear them, nearly losing his balance in the process.
"You know, Dean," Martin said descending the steps slowly. "You look," he eyed Dean up and down, looking like he was searching for the best to describe what he saw. "Like barely warmed shit on a cold day."
Dean nodded, no longer interested in this exchange. "Fi—fine, now w-what?" His body tipped to one side before he managed to right himself. "So this w-where you t-talk me t'death?" He cast a surreptitious glance down, feigning interest in the little pools of blood he continued to lose, his gaze drifting to Michael's feet, the tips of his shoes...
Not quite far enough...
"Why," Marty grinned. "You got somewhere to be?"
Much as he hated the idea, Dean realized he had to move this along and that meant time for the big guns. "So remind me again which of your brothers I killed? Will or Jim? Gotta say, I wasn't sure my knife would do the trick, but it sure was satisfying to see the surprise on his fac-"
"Ye shut yer damn mouth!" Martin shouted as his hand shot out.
Dean felt his air cut off, invisible fingers clasping his throat and squeezing; he slammed against the wall. Through the struggle to breathe and the intense pressure forcing him against the wall Dean watched Martin's movements through slitted eyes. One foot forward. Good, good. C'mon, keep coming... Then the other foot, and one full step-
The pressure stopped. Dean dropped to the concrete floor, gasping, a hand coming up to massage the tender flesh at his throat. Opening his eyes, he looked at Martin; standing just shy of center of the room, the demon appeared confused, stunned.
On hands and knees, Dean didn't bother trying to stand; his legs felt like jello and his stomach flopped unmercifully. He pushed back slowly to sit on his ass leaning against the wall. "Wa's wrong, Marty?" Dean coughed, "Can't get it up?" he asked, managing a weak smirk before resting his head back against the solid surface.
Martin lifted his hand several time, to no avail. Dean watched dispassionately, trying to pass off the numbness that was spreading through his body for lack of interest. "It's a devil's trap, dip shit," he explained. "Not exactly new to this rodeo."
"Dean!"
Sam's shout came seconds before he appeared at the door of the room.
"'Bout time you got here," Dean groaned and braced his hands against the wall behind him. With a grunt he pushed and fought for balance, willing his legs to hold, to reach that vertical posture those cavemen had conquered so long ago. It was a losing battle, body insisting on folding on itself until Dean felt hands – Sam's – steady him the rest of the way. Straightening, he gave an unspoken 'thank you' in the form of a nod.
"This ain't over," Martin hissed.
"Uh, yeah, it is." Dean looked at Sam. "Get him outta there."
Sam looked down at the blood pooling around Dean's wrists. "Let me get something to stop that bleeding first–"
"Sam, Michael's still alive in there," Dean growled. "Get that demon asshole out of there before that changes!"
Sam nodded, albeit reluctantly, and turned to face Michael. After making sure Dean wouldn't topple, was more or less propped against the wall, he eyed Martin warily and moved a step away, obviously uncertain what effect the exorcism would have on their surroundings and began. Rote memory perfect, the Latin phrases flowed fluently, each word intensifying a vacuum of energy that sparked the air, charging it, driving the room into a flurry and lifting objects around them in a gust of chaos.
In the center of the devil's trap, the effects took hold of Martin quickly. Michael's body shook; he jerked. The movements small at first and increasing as Sam continued.
"I'll—" Martin started before his body twisted in obvious pain. "G-give Alastair your regards, go-golden boy," he finally managed.
Dean swallowed. "You can tell him, if I'm ever down there again, I'm coming after him."
Martin's mouth twisted into a most disconcerting, knowing smile. It lasted only a second before his head was thrown back and a roar of rage or pain or both, and black smoke shot out of his mouth.
Squinting against the onslaught of energy and demon smoke, Dean shrank against the wall, Sam now next too him, still verbalizing the Latin phrases, over and over, driving Martin's tainted soul out, assuring it left, back to Hell where it belonged.
Michael's body rocked once more and dropped to the ground. Dean and Sam froze, staring. He rolled slowly to his side and lifted his head, gazing glassy eyed at the Winchesters.
"That was," he panted… his face flooded with emotion. "I saw— oh my God."
Sam moved to his side and helped him stand. "You alright?"
"I…" Michael looked, seemingly taking some internal inventory before nodding. "I think so. At least physically, I guess."
Sam exhaled, relief clear on his face, in his smile. "Thank God."
Dean would've done the same, but it was kind of hard to do when the floor was rising up to meet him. Then the world lost focus and faded to black. Somewhere in the distance he thought he saw, but probably only heard, Sam shout his name. After that, nothing.
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