AN: Time to deal with some of the fallout! And there's still the Wanderer out there.
Kathy: I do see your reviews! Thank you for the comment about it being imaginative! (Sounds much nicer than saying my brain's a bit twisted…which is also true.) I always love seeing your comments.
Atlasina7: I'm glad you're reading this! And I liked that line too.
Stormy (Kat): Thank you so much. I've said it before, but action is kind of hard to write. It's always hard to know how much detail to add in without bogging it down. I completely understand what you're saying about the finale, and I loved a lot about it even while it broke my heart. I just can't believe they were separated for so long. Yes, Jared did an amazing job in that scene. Also, when Dean was on the bridge and suddenly his face changed and you just knew why. Oh, man. Beautiful.
Dr. "call me Lee" Shelton was waiting outside the clinic for Dean. He proved to be a quiet man with salt-and-pepper hair, and quickly had them tucked away in a back room. Faster than Dean would have expected, Sam's clothes had been replaced with scrubs, he had a transfusion going and another IV with saline, antibiotics, and pain medications (the good stuff, Dean had noted), and was sporting an oximeter and blood pressure cuff.
Lee endeared himself further by not only not protesting Dean's presence, but by accepting his help. And his expression turned approving when Dean began to talk quietly to Sam.
It took a lot of cleaning and stitching, especially just above Sam's hip, but the younger man didn't move the entire time. Finally, they were done.
Lee turned to Dean. "My daughter mentioned you took a hit to the head?" he asked in the soft voice that seemed to be his default. He didn't say more or push and Dean sighed a little.
"Your daughter – Lacey?" If Dean hadn't been so focused, he'd probably have seen it. They shared coloring and their eyes were similar, though Lacey's vivacious manner was a stark contrast to Lee's soft-spokenness.
"She doesn't trust quickly," said Lee, letting Dean make of that what he may. "Would you let me take a look?"
It was underhanded, Dean thought, when people were quiet like that and somehow finagled their way to get what they wanted. Sammy could do that. Even as he sat and grudgingly submitted to the inspection, though, Dean's eyes never left his brother. "He will be okay," offered Lee. "The injuries will hurt and slow him down, but if he doesn't tear his stitches and keeps everything clean and infection free, he will recover completely."
Dean nodded tightly.
Lee set four pill bottles on the counter and tapped the last one. "This one is for you. You don't appear to have a concussion, but I'm not sure how you managed to avoid one with a lump like that." He set down an ice pack next to all of it, and a business card next to that. "You may stay as long as you like. If you stay overnight, I'll sleep in the next room. You may lock the door if you like. My phone number is on the card. Call if you need anything."
Dean opened his mouth to say something, what, he didn't know. His head ached and his baby brother was hurt and he was coming off an adrenaline high. And he wasn't used to kindness or good at handling gratitude.
But Lee just nodded. "Lacey doesn't trust easily," he said a second time, and excused himself.
And Dean thought that now that the homicidal cops and psychotic skinning ghost were gone, this town was growing on him just a little bit. Too bad there was one monster left.
Dean sat in the surprisingly comfortable chair next to Sam's bed and turned it around so he could see his brother's face. He put a hand on Sam's forearm for Sam's sake of course. He wished he could just sit here and watch over his brother. Maybe even relax and take a nap himself. He fingered the bottle Lee had said was for him and, seeing it was only super Tylenol, took a couple. The hunt wasn't over yet.
Dean spent the next 45 minutes on the phone and finally ended up with a pretty powerful purification and banishment spell compliments of Jim via Caleb via Bobby. Jim reassured Dean that it would take care of most evil that is capable of inhabiting a human body, up to and including minor demons.
Still, Dean just sat for a few more minutes, aware that Dad would not have done the same. But sometimes it felt like Dean just got his brother back, and in all honesty, he hadn't thought he ever would. And now whenever Sam got hurt on a hunt, Dean felt responsible. He'd always felt responsible for everything that happened to Sam, whether or not it was something he could control. But this was bigger. It felt like every danger, every stitch in Sam's skin, every bruise patterning his body, every wince and sigh felt like an imprecation, or an accusation.
All the logic in the world, the knowledge that Dean hadn't cast the family into the hunt, that Sam could make his own decisions, that Mom's and Jessica's deaths were the main impetuses behind Sam's return to the fray, couldn't stop Dean's self-condemnation.
Sam was out.
Sam was safe.
I drew him back in.
Then I didn't watch his back.
Sam sighed and shifted in his sleep, and Dean's introspection sharpened into focus on his brother. He leaned forward and moved his hand to Sam's chest. Sam settled immediately, and Dean's shoulders loosened a little. He really had to go, and he hated it. More than rats. More than motels with no hot water. More than flying. More than the thought of selling Baby. Probably.
But there was something bad still out there, and Dean had a job to do.
Dean rubbed his eyes because he was tired. Not because Sam was lying still and pale and Dean still had his brother's blood under his fingernails. Not because he had to leave Sam under someone else's care while he was helpless and sleeping. Dean grit his teeth.
His head was beginning to feel better, so he drew a breath and pushed it all down. He dropped a text to Lee. The man popped his head in a spare minute later.
Dean put his game face on. "I have something that I have to finish."
"I have some reading to do," said Lee, glancing briefly at the monitors that showed all of Sam's stats. Dean didn't follow his gaze, having been watching them himself. "Maybe I could just do it in here."
"Here's my number." Dean set a card on the counter, not trusting his voice if he offered thanks just then.
"I'll call if anything changes." The doctor understood.
Since he had an audience now, Dean just patted one overgrown foot before he left, but in the privacy of his mind, he said, I'll be back soon, Sammy. I promise.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
The only person left at the cemetery was a red-faced man in his 40's with a deer rifle and a pugnacious expression. The expression calmed as his gaze skimmed Baby's clean lines. "You the one as been helpin' Lacey?"
"I'm Agent Dean Plante," Dean responded. He'd stopped at the motel to change his blood and dirt stained clothes. He knew the flannel, denim, and ass-kicking boots didn't scream FBI.
"Lacey said you'd come in what she called a 'sexy black car.'" The man smiled tightly. "And she said to help you do whatever you need to do, no matter how strange." He held out one hand. "Nate."
We owe her again, Dean thought. He shook the proffered hand. "Seeing as you're guarding a mausoleum, I assume you've heard a little bit about the weirdness that happened here?" He continued at Nate's nod. "Well, it's because there's something evil in there, something that's been killing people, and I'm going to get rid of it for good."
"Good enough for me," said Nate. He watched a little warily as Dean pulled sage, hyssop, a few other ingredients, and a wide but shallow hammered metal bowl from the trunk. His curiosity grew when Dean set the bowl about 20 feet in front of the mausoleum door and laid the herbs in a careful grid pattern.
"You, uh, may want to step back," Dean warned. The entity formerly known as Agatha's copilot wasn't very friendly, and Dean doubted it would take kindly to banishment.
Nate eyed Dean even more uneasily, but took a few steps back. Dean took a deep breath and looked down at the scribbled paper in his hands. It was Latin, which he could read fairly easily. He would have memorized it, but it was too long. Dean closed his eyes and tracked his own heartbeat for twenty beats to center himself. It was a trick of Dad's when performing any kind of spell, since anxiety could sometimes skew the results. It was a luxury they rarely had time for, but Dean would take every advantage he could.
He shut away everything. Sam. The blood still on the ground. Allen's screams. Rob's panic and suicide. The blank expressions on all the people this thing had called to itself – including children. Dean put it all away and went to the same place he went when heading into a hunt. There was no past, no future, just present. Just the job.
Dean's chin came up and he lit the herbs on fire, then began to read in a calm, measured voice. He didn't stop when the ground trembled minutely, or when Nate bit off a curse. He didn't stop when the door of the mausoleum flew open, and barely faltered when red, glistening missile came flying out, crashing into what must be Nate's battered pickup truck. Dean didn't pause as a scream, too high pitched to be human, rose from the mausoleum.
The ground shook harder and phantom wind battered Dean. Nate was cowering on the ground but Dean couldn't help him yet. Couldn't even hear him as sticks and small debris pelting them both and the scream rose and rose and rose. Dean stumbled and almost lost his footing, but he was almost finished. He couldn't even hear himself any longer. "Et expulierint. Amen!" Dean shouted.
With a rumble and crash, the mausoleum exploded, knocking Dean flat onto his back. When he could see again, he realized that there was a haze in the air. He rolled to his knees. "Nate?" he called, then coughed and tried again.
The man was on the ground, but he looked stunned more than anything else. He had a number of small cuts everywhere there was exposed skin, probably from flying debris. Dean pulled Nate to his feet. "You okay?"
Nate nodded, staring around him blankly. Dean took stock. Nate's gun had flown over by his truck. And, oh, gross. The thing that had flown out of the mausoleum must be what was left of Allen, and it was sticking through the windshield. Dean turned away from the grisly sight. The flight and impact hadn't made the body any more palatable to look at. Dean was silently grateful that he'd parked Baby out of the blast radius.
As for the mausoleum, it was gone except for the blood-stained floor. Chunks of marble were embedded in the ground, some as big as bowling balls. Headstones were damaged and knocked over throughout the cemetery.
The haze in the air was dirt, and Dean turned to look at the hillside leading up to the Morrow shed and house. Remembering the softness of the dirt along that tract and the sensation of scraping his knuckles against something hard just under the surface when he fell, Dean wasn't even surprised by what he saw. Dotted along the length of the bare patch of earth, spots of dirty white had been exposed by the explosion. Bones.
"I'll give you a ride to the clinic," Dean offered, voice hard. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and felt grit. His hand came away bloody. Huh. Back to the clinic was sounding better and better.
On the drive over, Nate didn't say a single word, so Dean didn't apologize when he called Lacey. "It's over," he said, unable to get the rumble out of his voice. "But you need to call for an evidence team." He hoped she could call in help from other municipalities around. He didn't even know if there were other cops left in the Travails.
But right now, he had a brother to see.
AN (part deux): The Latin that Dean says (according to Google translate) means simply: Be expelled.