Thanks for reading. Only one more chapter to go after this one. let me know what you think as I love reviews...bambers:)
Chapter Sixteen
Dean dropped Rowena off at a motel about fifteen miles away from the bunker with the promise that once they were finished with Charlie they would return with the spell book to give to her. From there, he drove to a diner on the other side of town, parked the Impala, and then they waited. It all started with a phone call, and the end would begin the same way. When Sam sent Bobby and Rufus to the home where Charlie once lived, he did it for one reason alone. From what he read in his father's journal, John had burned Charlie's home to the ground after the serial killer disappeared, destroying everything inside that might be one day used as a an object to bind Charlie to earth once he was dead. It was a short entry, only four words – I burned the house, and from those few words Sam knew he was sending Bobby someplace he hoped would be safe. Or at least he hoped that he hadn't sent Bobby and Rufus right into danger.
An hour passed and then two and still they sat waiting, Sam checking his watch as the moon rose higher in the sky. "It's almost eleven o'clock," he said, stomach muscles tightening as Dean fished his phone out of his pocket and hit the on button.
"One last call," he said, his lips set in grin determination, and pulling out a silver flask from the glove compartment, he unscrewed the cap, and took a long pull of whiskey. He handed the flask to Sam, and Sam took a healthy swig, swallowing down the fiery liquid. "You ready, Sammy?"
Sam gave a curt nod, and Dean turned the key in the ignition in response. With the way Dean drove, it would take less than fifteen minutes to get to the bunker, and another few minutes to get inside. It had to be timed perfectly, leaving no room for error. They were halfway to the bunker when the phone started ringing, and Sam steeled himself against flinching at the sound of the ringtone. Dean looked to Sam, and as he nodded again, Dean jabbed the button to answer the call.
"Well, there you are…I was starting to worry about you, Dean," came Charlie's softly spoken voice over the speaker, and Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Ms. Burkitt's sends her warmest regards."
"You killed her?" Dean said, the muscle in his cheek twitching as his grip tightened around the steering wheel.
"Of course I did, Dean," Charlie laughed, and although several curse words burned on Dean's tongue to say, he held in his anger. "You missed out on hearing her beautiful screams…but you're in luck," the smile in his tone was unmistakable, "This pretty little thing on my rack claims she helped Sam through his physical therapy. Do you want to say hello?"
"Marley," Sam whispered, and the image of the pretty brunette that had spent the last several months helping Sam through therapy, flashed through his mind. Her name was on the list of people made for Rowena, but neither brother actually believed a protection spell would work.
"What do you want, you sick bastard!?" Dean gritted out, playing the part that he needed to play, and with an innocent girl's life on the line, it wasn't hard to do.
"I'll let her go if you trade places with her," Charlie said after a long moment, and Sam glanced at his watch again. He raised ten fingers, fisted one while dropping the other and raised five fingers again. Dean nodded.
"Are you at the bunker?" Dean uttered, ducking down to look up through the windshield at the full moon.
"You know I am, Dean." He laughed again, and in the background they could hear Marley crying. "If you want her to go free then you need to come alone."
"Just don't hurt her," Dean whispered hoarsely, swallowing down the thick bile rising swiftly in his throat. "I can be there in fifteen minutes…please, just don't hurt anyone else."
"Fifteen minutes," Charlie repeated, punctuated by another scream. "And make sure you bring me my weapon."
"All right…I-I'll bring it just don't –" Charlie hung up as they knew he would, and Dean tossed the phone over his shoulder onto the backseat. "So I go in first to give him back his torture device in hopes of freeing Marley."
"And then I bumble an attempt to sneak inside and get caught," Sam finished for him, breathing in a slow, calming breath as his nerves started to tremble.
"Ms. Burkitt's…." Dean's voice trailed off, and he slammed his hand down hard on the steering wheel as he remembered how kind the elderly woman had been to them, often bringing them homemade cookies and brownies, and numerous times she'd invited them over for dinner. "It's never gonna be over, Sam. Even if we kill the sonuvabitch for good, it's never gonna be over."
Sam rubbed away the moisture gathering in his eyes with his thumb and index finger. He opened his mouth to speak, and snapped it shut as Dean's phone started ringing again. Sam twisted around, and lifted himself up over the seat to snatch the phone up from where it had landed on the backseat. He hesitantly looked at the caller id and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Bobby's name.
He jabbed the button, and put the phone to his ear. "Hey, Bobby, did you find anything at Charlie's old house?"
"Yeah…it was – there were three bodies in the cellar," he said in a gruff tone, and Sam's stomach lurched violently. It wasn't possible. His father had burned the house down. He'd sent Bobby there on purpose to keep him safe. "They've been here a while," he added when Sam failed to respond. "We haven't found Charlie's remains yet…I'll call you if we do."
"No," Sam uttered, the color draining from his face as his stomach began to churn. "You need to get the hell out of there right now. If you're in there at midnight –"
"There is one other thing," Bobby cut in, the hesitation clear in his tone. "Charlie had a journal of his own, and it told a different story of how his son died…I don't really recall everything that happened, but his version just feels more true to me. It's like I can see it playin' out in my head the way he described it. He abducted you boys and in turn John went after his son to have some leverage to get you back. Things went sideways, and there were vengeful spirits involved and somehow his son ended up dead. It wasn't your dad's fault. He was just tryin' to do everything in his power to get you boys back – he never meant for anything bad to –"
"It's a lie!" Sam snapped, fingers tightening around the edges of the phone. "This is just more of the same from Charlie. He twists things around for his own benefit, and I won't –"
Dean snatched the phone out of his hand and pressed it to his ear. "Listen, Bobby. You have less than a half hour to look for Charlie's remains and to salt and burn those bodies."
"This isn't an old home, Dean," the older hunter said, the accusation clear in his tone. "You and your brother sent me here 'cause you didn't think there would be anything here to find. Well, there is and I got a job to do so I'll see you two idjits when this is over."
He hung up, and maybe it was better that way. If he didn't, Dean would have broken down and admitted that in likelihood none of them would make it until morning and that their Hail Mary plan had failed the moment Charlie killed Ms. Burkitts and abducted Marley. Sam must have been feeling the same way as he'd sunk lower in his seat and sat staring out the front window. Or maybe he was upset over whatever Bobby had told him. Either way, they both needed to get their heads in the game or they would lose before they ever set foot inside the bunker.
"He has time, Sam," he said to break the heavy silence inside the car. "If Charlie's bones are there, he could find them before we kill Charlie. Bobby's smart and he has Rufus with him. If they think things are going sideways, they'll hightail it outta there."
"There wasn't supposed to be a house there, Dean," Sam muttered, casting a sidelong glance in Dean's direction. "But now there is and there are three bodies inside it. If he is a vengeful spirit and his remains are buried or hidden somewhere in that house, what are the odds that Bobby and Rufus will find them in time?"
"We can't think about that right now, little brother. We have to keep our focus on Charlie and the demon. If we split our focus between this hunt and what's going on with Bobby and Rufus, we'll lose, and we can't afford to lose again."
"You're right," he said, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. "No one else is going to die," he added, leaving off because of us. Those unspoken words hung between them, binding them together for one last battle, one last attempt to make things right for the people who had died. He pointed to a wooded area not far from the bunker. "Pull over and drop me off here."
Dean did as he said, pulling over to the side of the road. "You have ten minutes," he said, checking his watch as Sam hefted a duffel bag over his shoulder. "Make those minutes count."
"Gotcha." Sam looked toward the woods and then back at his brother. "I just wanted to say…I wanted you to know that –"
"I know, Sammy. Now get going."
Sam didn't waste another moment, sprinting off into the woods while keeping on the lookout for any booby traps Charlie might have set in place. If there were any, he missed them, and he didn't know whether to thank the putsi bag Rowena made to protect him or if he should be thankful for Charlie's utter arrogance in not rigging any traps on his land.
Making it to the tree line just as Dean was pulling up to the entrance of the bunker, Sam waited until his brother went inside, and then darted forward, keeping to the cover of trees and shrubs along the way. When he made it to the grassy area above the bunker, he opened his duffel bag and pulled out several jars of shaved consecrated iron and a flashlight and worked to pour them out to form a perfect hidden devil's trap above the bunker. Then around it, he poured a circle of holy oil. At the first strike of midnight, Rowena would cast her spell, and the oil would ignite, hopefully trapping the Yellow-Eyed demon inside the bunker along with Charlie.
With the trap set, he searched through the duffel bag to find the hex bag that kept his activities a secret, and cocking back his arm, he threw it as far as he could. Stuffing his pockets with the rest of the hex bags, he started forward. This is going to work. It has to work. Those thoughts raced on repeat through his mind as he crept toward the hatch to the bunker and pulled it open. It creaked as he expected; a clear warning that someone was entering the bunker. Checking his watch again, he noted that it was five minutes until night, and silently whispered a pray that Bobby and Rufus were on their way out of Charlie's old house.
"You promised to let her go!" Dean shouted, his voice echoing up the stairway. "I gave you your damn weapon back. Now let her go!"
"I said I'd set her free, but I never said she'd be alive when that happened," Charlie taunted, and Sam's heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.
We're gonna save her. She just needs to stay alive a few more minutes.
"Ahhh…Sammy," Yellow-Eyes said as he reached the bottom step and rounded the corner. Eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, Sam saw the demon leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "You're just in time to watch your brother die. Well, that is unless you've decided to use those wonderful gifts I gave you."
One minute he was on his feet, and the next he was thrown down the earthen hallway, coming to land in a heap on the floor not far from where Dean was chained to a rack. "Dean!" he shouted, knowing his brother had allowed Charlie to chain him up.
"M'okay, Sammy," Dean whispered huskily, never taking his eyes off Charlie.
Charlie splayed out a hand, and Sam flew backwards on the ground, slamming into the wall. He lifted the hand with the Spanish Tickler in it, and Sam lifted up off the ground, his back dragging against the rough wall. "I want you to have a good view of what I do to your brother, Sammyboy," he chuckled lightly, the exposed bones in his cheek clicking as he laughed. He tapped the edge of the Tickler to what was left of his face. "Since your mother did this to me, it really leaves me with no other choice than to do the same to Dean's pretty face."
"Help him, Sam," the demon goaded, a grin splitting wide across his face. "Your brother's gonna die. Are you going to let that happen?"
"What time is it, Sam?" Dean gritted out, straining against the metal cuffs around his wrists.
Sam strained his arm to twist his wrist to look at the time. "Midnight."
That was all Dean needed to hear, and simultaneously they both shouted, "Surge, et ulciscar ultionem tuam spirituum ducum ederet funera. Surge spirituum et malos punias, quia quod factum est."
At first nothing happened and Sam feared Rowena went back on her word to help them, but then black wisps of smoke began to weave in and out through the Spanish Tickler, snaking upward around Charlie's hand. As they appeared one by one, the Tickler fell out of Charlie's hand, and his hold on Sam slipped. Diana appeared in front of him, blackened blood dripping from her mouth and from the metal prongs that had pierced through the bottom of her jaw and chest. Sam held her glazy-eyed gaze, and within a breath, she stood in front of Charlie.
"Sammy, now!" Dean shouted as three horribly disfigured vengeful spirits converged on him. They were everywhere, appearing and disappearing, their terrifying screams echoing through the torture chamber, obscuring his view of his brother. The cuffs around his wrists snapped open, and he felt a gentle hand touch his face – Ms. Burkitts. In a jerky movement, she turned to face Charlie, and turning into nothing more than mist and rage, she flew through his body knocking him off his feet.
Free from his restraints, Dean darted around the vengeful spirits and raced over to where he could hear Sam's voice above the terrible moans of the ghosts along with Charlie's screams.
"You cheated, Sam," the demon said, coughing hard as the floor beneath his feet cracked open. On floor near him sat two hex bags that glowed brilliant shades of purple.
"No, I found a loophole, you sonuvabitch," Sam gritted out, holding his ground as spirits collided into him and pierced through his body without harming him. The crack in the ground split open further.
The demon coughed again, harder this time and black smoke dripped out of his mouth. "You can't win, Sammy…."
"And yet we did," Dean said, jerking backward as a vengeful spirit slammed into him to get to Charlie, and a name came to him – Frankie, the boy who Charlie paid to deliver flowers to Sam and then murdered the boy and his brother Joey.
Clutching at its stomach, the demon coughed again, and this time thick black smoke spewed out of its mouth and poured into the deep fissure in the earth. Sam scrambled over to it, and scooping up the hex bags, he threw them inside the hole. Purple flames shot upward from the fissure, Sammy tumbling backwards to get away from the intense heat. Dean raced over to him, went to help him to his feet, and flew forward as another spirit slammed in and through him. Landing half on top of Sam, he pushed up off the ground, and Sam hurried to his feet.
Dean dove for Sam's duffel bag, only to have it ripped out of his hands and thrown across the room by one of the spirits. "Sam!" he shouted above the awful din of screaming and moaning vengeful spirits, gesturing at the Spanish Tickler.
Sam darted forward, dropping to the ground as the table and all Charlie's torture devices flew at him and crashed into the wall, the chains bolted to the ceiling rattling as they were struck by the heavy wooden object. Keeping low to the ground, he crawled forward, inching closer and closer to the Spanish Tickler. Spirits with torn and hideously burned flesh tore into Charlie, and having lost the bet with the demon, he could do nothing more than scream as his victims claimed their revenge. If it weren't for the fact that he would have lost the bet he made with the demon, Sam would have left the serial killer to die by their hands. No, it had to be him.
The spirits didn't want that, they wanted to be the ones to tears him to shreds, and having seen what he'd done to them, he couldn't blame them for throwing him backwards several times as he tried to get to the Tickler.
"Sam!" Dean shouted again, and this time an iron poker skittered along the ground, landing a few feet away from Sam. Sam's fingers closed around the wooden handle, and snatching it up, he swung outward at one of the spirits. It vanished into a blackened mist as Sam swung the poker again, the iron slicing through another spirit. Dean grabbed for the duffel bag again, unzipped it and yanked out several containers of holy oil, dropping them on the ground to grab hold of his iron poker just in time to cut through the angry spirit of Doctor Lee. "I'm sorry," he whispered as her body turned to wispy smoke. "I'm so damn sorry…."
It hurt, there was no deny that, and Dean couldn't help but tear up every time he struck out at one of the people who'd died for helping them. Every swipe of the poker felt like it tore open one the wounds Charlie had left on his body; and from the heartbroken look in Sam's eyes as he fought his way to Charlie, he knew his brother felt the same way as him.
Blinking hard against the moisture blurring his vision, Dean unscrewed the lid on the container, and poured it over the crack in the floor where the fissure had been to seal it shut, and once Sam was finished with Charlie, he'd set it ablaze. Then on his feet, with container in hand, he raced over to the table laying on its side near the wall and liberally doused the torture devices to make certain they melted away to nothingness when it was over.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Marley writhing against the rack, bruises appearing on her skin from some unseen spirit. Dropping the empty container, he raced toward her only to be thrown backward, his head connecting hard with floor. White sparks danced before his eyes, and dazed for several long seconds he almost forgot what he was supposed to be doing until he heard her scream. On his feet again, he touched his fingers to the back of his head, and pulled them away slick with blood.
"Dean!" Sam shouted, and Dean dropped down to his knees a split second before several knives plunged into his back. Instead they sailed over him, and Sam veering sharply to avoid them, the knives struck the wall, the tips buried deep into the hard packed earth.
Sam was up and then down, up and down, the spirits throwing him around like a ragdoll as he tried to get to Charlie. Although badly torn up, the serial killer was still alive. Sam could hear his moans and pitiful cries.
The chains bolted to the ceiling swung wildly back and forth, clanking together. Heavy objects and sharp weapons flew around the bunker, scraping along the walls to add gritty dirt to the deadly cyclone they'd unleashed with the spell to rip apart the fabric between the living and the dead to bring back Charlie's victims. Something heavy struck Sam from behind, sending him sprawling to the ground, his breath leaving him in a rush.
Sam reached out, the tips of his fingers grazing along the edges of the Tickler, and then it was gone. Whipped up into the frenzied air, the Tickler slammed into the wall, prongs embedding deep into the hard packed dirt. It wasn't that far away from where he lay on the ground, not far at all, but it might as well have been a million miles away. To get to the weapon he'd have to run through the deadly debris being flung this way and that through the air, and skirt around every vengeful spirit in his path.
Breathing in deep, he slowly exhaled and pushed to his feet. He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead to wipe away the sweat and blood dripping down a gash on his forehead. He couldn't recall when it had happened, maybe one of the times he'd been knocked to the ground or maybe from some debris. His gaze strayed to where he'd last seen his brother, and he wasn't there any longer. Dean was on his feet in front of Marley, shielding her with his body, swinging wildly with the iron poker, cutting through the grotesque vengeful spirits. His body jerked forward and back every time he was struck by something, and still he stood strong, unwilling to let another person die. Blood leaked from cuts on his face and dripped from his hands gripped tight around the poker. Seeing his brother doing what he did best, protecting people from harm, spurned Sam into action.
Sam darted forward, pulling back suddenly as a heavy wooden chair filled with iron spikes flew across his path and crashed into the wall. He started forward again, and a hand clamped around his leg – Charlie's bloodied fingers digging into the fabric of his pant leg. Jerking free, he brought his booted foot down hard on the serial killer's hand, and Charlie screamed as his bones crunched.
He raced forward again, covering his arms over his head in an attempt to protect it against being struck by debris. A spirit struck him from behind, throwing him off his feet, and he crashed to the ground several feet from the wall where the Tickler was. Grunting with the effort it took to push back up off the ground, he stumbled forward those last few feet and yanked hard on the Tickler to pull it free from the wall.
Taking a moment to steel himself against another run through the deadly whirling tornado of spirits, weapons and debris, Sam took a breath and raced back to where Charlie lay bloody and broken on the ground. A torture device with two sharpened prongs on either side of the metal fork twirled through the air, slicing through the back of Sam's jacket. His back arched forward, the metal prongs cutting a trail across his back, and he dove to the ground as the weapon circled back on him.
Crawling the rest of the way to Charlie, he whispered, "Exorcizo te creature acquae in nomine Deo, patris omnipotentis et in virtute Spiritu Sancti." Fishing a small metal container out of his pocket, he opened it and dumped the holy oil on the Tickler, and again he whispered, "Exorcizo te creature acquae in nomine Deo, patris omnipotentis et in virtute Spiritu Sancti."
"And th-there i-it is," Charlie uttered, coughing hard as blood spilled out of his mouth, his jaw hanging slightly crooked, brown eyes glazed. "Th-the look of the c-cold blooded killer I m-made you into."
"Rot in Hell, you sick, twisted sonuvabitch," Sam gritted out, driving the razor sharp prongs of the Spanish Tickler into Charlie's throat. Charlie clawed uselessly at Sam's hand with mangled fingers for several seconds before his arm fell loosely to his side. As he fumbled through his jacket pocket to find his lighter, he stared down at the man who'd hurt so many people, and in the end his victims had torn him apart, tearing skin from broken bones. Charlie's blood leaked into the ground, Sam could feel wetness of it seeping into his jeans, and as he lit the lighter and spilled out the remaining oil on top of Charlie, he felt as if he could finally take a full breath again. He stood and backed slightly away from Charlie's remains. "In the end you died by the hands of everyone you hurt, and that is not revenge," he whispered hoarsely, dropping the lighter onto Charlie's shredded upper torso, "it's justice…."
As the Tickler caught fire, burning hot and fast to melt away to nothingness, the spirits that were bound to the pain and torture it had caused vanished one by one. The unnatural wind died away, knives, medieval tortures devices, and debris dropping the ground all around the Winchesters.
"You did it, Sammy," Dean uttered, leaning heavily against the iron poker he'd jabbed into the ground for support.
"You look like you've been through hell," he said instead of acknowledging any sort of victory over the man who'd made it his life's work to brutalize and murder innocent people. He limped toward his brother, and pulled him into a tight hug. "It's over, Dean. It's really over, and we're still standing."
"Yeah, we are," Dean uttered, pulling back to look Sam in the eyes. "Let's get Marley down from there, and get her out of here so we can burn this place to ashes."
"Sounds good to me."