Chapter 8
Sam had seen his brother standing over him so many times beforehand that he could almost picture it now. He knew that something was wrong when Dean didn't climb into the bed next to him, laughing at how his baby brother had been spooked by the heat turning on or something. No, instead Sam could picture Dean with his back to the bed; his gun would be pointed at whatever beast had gotten the drop on them. There was no fear in the older brother's eyes, of course, for Sam had never seen Dean truly afraid. He would take this thing down or at least hold it back long enough for their father to come and send it back to the depths of Hell.
The situation looked somewhat different from slightly less jaded eyes. He knew that phantoms were not to be messed with lightly and that there was no way he could get to the spirit's bones to salt and burn them. The boy could only hope that he could get this spirit to manifest and give him a glimpse of what he needed. He had a circle of salt around his brother's bed, and was slowly reaching for the box of salt in the drawer behind him. Nothing had shown itself yet, and that put Dean on edge. He would never admit that he was afraid, of course, for then Sam might pick up on it. But each hunt still brought a shiver of emotion that the boy was hard-pressed to push away. His father told him it would come with time, but if someone were to look closely, there was still a glint of uncertainty whenever the boy had to go at it alone.
The room was cold enough to make his teeth chatter, and he could hear his brother sneaking more fully under his blankets. He wanted to call out for his father, but the same uncertainty that had made Sam believe that there could be nothing wrong earlier in the afternoon also plagued the older boy and he didn't want to call the man for nothing.
The box of salt was almost in his hands when Sam whimpered. The silence was getting to the boy, making the dark seem all the more oppressive, and he couldn't help the sound. The noise broke the flood gates loose. Dean jumped in spite of himself, drawing his hand away from the coveted mineral. And he got his wish as well. In a single instant, he knew what he was facing.
It is true that most spirits can come and go as they please; silent and unobtrusive. They exist in the world as we do and while some of them are intent on pestering those they have locked on to, most of them simply are stuck, unwilling to move on. Unfortunately for the Winchesters, this was not one from the majority. This spirit was not content to be stuck, and was therefore, as in Dean's thoughts, royally pissed off. It was, as a result, thoroughly willing to 'put on a show' and attempt to scare the boys it was haunting. Scare the boy, more correctly. The small, tow-headed child whose fear had been etched into this ghost's memory had to pay for its untimely demise.
The bang was loud enough to make Sam clap his hands tightly over his ears; abandoning Todd to the sea of blankets that swaddled him. He thought he could smell smoke and shivered involuntarily, not really remembering that night so long ago, but knowing the fear all the same.
With his eyes screwed shut out of pure reflex, Sam pulled the covers from his head, determined to squash his fear and at least attempt to act grown up.
The view was much more spectacular for the twelve-year old, and it gave him the push he needed to yell for his father. The spirit came into his vision with the first bang, but the boy wasn't impressed. He had seen more angry spirits than he cared to count in the few years he had been hunting with his father, and this one would be no different than any other. Salt, banish, and hope that it would go away until its remains could be burned. The only other way was to get the being's essence to 'finish its business' and move on. And Dean certainly had no patience for that.
When the spirit fully materialized, he could see who it was that haunted him. And he recognized her, complete with her bloody blonde hair and her delicate red hand. Dean wasn't ready to drop the element of surprise just yet, and so he asked shakily, "Who are you and what do you want?"
"I am here for the boy." Dean took a step closer to his brother's bed, deciding again that having the box of salt in his hands would make him feel better. "He has ruined me, and I am here for him."
"Well you can't have him. Not now, not ever. DAD!"
The brothers were both surprised, and a little bit worried, that their father hadn't burst through the door by now, and neither of them could hear his pounding footsteps barreling down the hallway.
The spirit snarled and wisped forward, pulling up short at the box shoved in her face. "You think that will stop me? He killed me; I deserve this."
"You. Will not. Touch him. Not now, not ever. He's eight years old, he didn't kill you. Or anyone else for that matter." Dean wanted nothing more than to reach out and clasp his brother's shoulder, reminding the boy of the promise to protect him always. He knew that if he did, however, the circle would be breached and Sam would be in danger.
"It is because of him that I am dead. That is the same for me. Get out of my way."
"Never." Dean took another step back as she pressed him, trying to scare the boy away from his brother.
She hadn't counted on the fierceness that had been instilled into this one since his brother had been born; hadn't counted on his knowledge that spirits were more than something to scare little brothers with before they went to bed. So now she had to wait until her foil made a mistake to get to her prey.
John heard the bang from down the hall and thought little of it. His boys had been notorious in the past for wrestling before bedtime, and had more often then not come out with more bruises than in their daily sessions. The furniture proved to be far less forgiving than the gear that they wore when their father was teaching them, and so the man was content to let the noise be, happy that some semblance of normality was returning as quickly as it was. The smell of ozone that wafted through the tiny apartment was lost among the stench of beer and whiskey, and John may have ignored it even if it had reached his nostrils. He was, for lack of a more eloquent word, drunk.
The cries of his oldest son angered the man, upset that Dean would be calling on him to tattle on Sam's ability to pin him or for some small scrape that the man knew his sons could both take care of. After all, he made sure that the first aid kit under his eldest's bed was always well stocked. The boys could take care of themselves for the night. He turned back to the shot of whiskey that he had poured from the once-full bottle and lifted it in toast to whatever his muddled mind was celebrating.
Dean had called for his father five times by now and was starting to worry over the man's health. Surely whatever John had been doing, it could have been stopped and supplies could have been found by now.
He watched, almost entranced, as the spirit's form began to look more solid. It was so much so that Dean could almost pretend that the woman in front of him wasn't dead and that didn't sit with him well. He had been taught long ago that what his family did for a living was a lesser of two evils, and that killing the undead was redundant. But the twelve-year old also was well aware of his father's feelings on violence towards other human beings unless it was absolutely necessary. The boy wished that this woman would stay transparent; it would make it easier to get rid of her.
It would also keep her from grabbing onto the collar of his worn tee-shirt and throwing him across the room, he mused after he hit the closet doors. The box of salt lay on its side under his bed, thankfully not having spilled all over the ground. I should've made a circle around me too, I guess.
The boy pushed himself slowly back to his feet, rubbing the back of his head and kneading his knuckles into the already forming knot. He wasn't going to appreciate that one in the morning. His opponent was moving closer to Sam, however, and the boy had no more time to waste on such things as being hurt.
"Hey! I'm not done with you yet. You haven't even told me your name. Haven't told me who you are. How am I supposed to let you have my baby brother if I don't even really know why you want him?" Please, Sammy, don't believe that I'd ever let her have you. "Hey!"
The spirit turned back to Dean with a scowl on her face again. "My name is Cassie. And you know well why I want him."
"Cassie, hunh? Wouldn't you rather have me instead? You know, I am the older one, and I'd be much more fun than Sammy here would." Dean was pretty sure that she knew he was trying to stall, but he had to get back between her and his brother somehow.
Cassie simply grabbed Dean by his collar again and lifted him off the ground. She pulled his face close to hers and stared into his eyes before something sparked in her own.
Before Dean knew what was happening, he had been thrown hard against Sam's bed. As he crumpled down to the floor, he realized what she had been trying to do. In the second that he had been stunned, he didn't notice that his feet were still outside his salt circle while he sat inside it. He jumped up as quickly as he could, but the damage was done. He had breached the circle for only an instant, but it gave Cassie access.
"Sammy, get off the bed! Get over…" Dean didn't waste any more time with words as his brother was lifted from his covers. The older boy could see Sam's fear in clouded eyes as he felt the icy tendrils of a dead hand snake around his neck and pull him up into the air.
Sam couldn't tell how far away from his bed he had been pulled, but the darkness afforded him enough of a denial that he was able to push back the fear that he was near the ceiling. He knew he was in trouble, and didn't know what to do about it. Shivers wracked his already lanky frame as terror gripped him. It was getting harder to suck in air, and he wondered if that were more due to another panic attack or from the fingers crushing his trachea. Far from helpless, however, Sam's instincts soon kicked in and he found himself clawing at the vice that held him and kicking out in front of him, struggling to get back to the safety of either his bed or his brother's back.
Dean didn't have the luxury of believing that his brother was mere inches above his mattress as he watched the boy kick and scratch somewhere just inches from the light that hung from their ceiling. He could hear Sam choking as all of his weight was resting in Cassie's hand, and took no time in grabbing the box of salt from where it lay and scrambling up onto his bed. He stepped back to the wall before leaping into the air and grabbing onto Cassie.
It may have been a comical sight to see the two boys dangling from outstretched arms, both identical in their positions, if not for the fact that they were now both choking. Dean used one hand to try and pry her fingers from his neck, and waited until she was lulled into a sense of security before striking. The salt was thrown directly into Cassie's face, and Dean had to smile when she screeched.
Both boys were dropped to the ground as Cassie disappeared with a roar. Dean hit the ground and rolled, coming back to his feet as soon as he knew the fall wouldn't do any damage. He heard before he saw the damage that the fall had caused his little brother, however. The thunk of an unsuspecting body hitting ground made the older boy wince and he had to bite his lip when he turned around.
Sam was lying still on the carpet, too still for Dean's liking. He didn't have time to check on the boy or try to rouse him, though. The temperature had yet to rise in the room, and he knew that Cassie was already on her way back, having more tenacity through her want of the boy than the salt's pain had in keeping her away. Dean simply shoved his brother under the younger boy's bed, redrawing the salt line and moving as far away from it as he could. He had sworn that he wouldn't be the cause of any more of the boy's hurts, and damn it if he wasn't going to try his hardest to keep that promise.
The sight of red caught his eye as he shrunk into a corner, and all thoughts of letting his father do whatever he had deemed more important that his sons were wiped from his mind. All the boy could do was scream for his father over and over as Cassie began to rematerialize.
Two six-packs and a handle of whiskey did little to sharpen John's instincts, but his oldest son's pleas were starting to grate on his nerves. With a frustrated sigh and a concerted effort, the man dropped the shot glass back to the table in front of him and rose to his feet. One more longing look at the liquid that promised to banish Mary from his mind and he ambled off towards the boys' room, intent on reminding them that bedtime was not 2 am, and they should have been sleeping hours ago.
Dean didn't actually expect to hear his father's barreling steps, convinced that Cassie must have taken care of him first, but once he did, a smile came to his lips. The man would get rid of her once and for all, and the late night trip to find and burn her bones would be well worth it. He glared at the mist forming next to the bedroom door, willing her into existence before his father got there. It would take much less explanation if she were simply floating there. Therefore, Dean held onto the salt box for a moment longer instead of throwing it towards her. Then the doorknob was turning, and his grin turned into a smirk. No ghost or ghoul stood a chance with his father, of that much he was sure.
Unbelievable. Dean's disdain for his father's hobby was dripping in his thoughts as the man who was supposed to take care of everything now almost fell through the door as it opened.
"I fought I fold you boyth wha thime you were ethpecded thoo be in bed?" The words were slurred badly, and the twelve-year old could just barely make them out. The look of absolute incredulity on his face must have struck a nerve somewhere in his father's numb body, however. "Wha? Whadda you screaming abouth, Dean?"
"Nothing. Never mind, dad. Go back to your Jack. We'll go to bed soon." Anger, fear, and hate poured from the boy's eyes as he held his voice steady, knowing that the man would be more of a hindrance than a help like this.
John, always aware of how to find his son's emotions, simply glossed over them and shrugged his shoulders. He turned and stumbled back out of the room, unaware of the daggers being shot at him from Dean's eyes.
Cassie laughed at the boy when she returned to the room. "You didn't think Daddy dearest was coming to your rescue, did you boy? Looks like he couldn't fight off a mouse, much less me. Now, where did your brother get to? Oh there he is."
"Haven't you hurt him enough? For God's sake, lady. You hit him with your car! You almost killed him then. He's eight years old, damn it! He can't see, and he's missing organs that you damaged so badly that they had to take them out! He's broken and bruised and his heart stopped a bunch of times! Do you really think after he fought through all of that you can take him? Haven't you done enough damage?" The boy's rant was punctuated with sniffles as the tears that wanted to fall were fought back. These tears are pointless and can't do anything to help Sam now. Do you think he would want to see you like this? The words his father had spoken came to mind as Dean steeled his resolve. Sam definitely needed him to be strong now.
"I don't care what you think, you know. My brother isn't the reason you died. You just laughed at my father's drinking, but at least he isn't going to go and get behind the wheel of a car now. He's smarter than that; smarter than you ever were. It was your own stupidity that got you KILLED and MADE my brother BLIND! Haven't you done enough damage to both of our families?" Dean was shaking in anger now, and was crushing the box in his hands as he glared.
Emotions that the boy would banish from his own repertoire if he could played across Cassie's features as the innocent words opened her eyes. It really couldn't have been an eight-year old's fault that she had wrapped her car around a tree, or that she had listened to her boyfriend's assurances that she was fine to drive home before her own little brother got home from cub scouts. It wasn't the boy's fault that she had been drinking that early in the afternoon when she had responsibilities. Responsibilities that she shared with the irate pre-teen in front of her, and he obviously took far more seriously than she did. Nodding, the spirit's anger turned inward, and Dean had to duck his head and curl into the corner he was still standing in as she tore herself apart.
When Dean looked up again, the room's temperature had risen so quickly back to normal that he felt as though he was sweating. The stench of ozone was still thick in the air, but the bright light and angry sounds that had abruptly come and gone assured the boy that Cassie was really gone. He wasted no more time with the hunt, and dove under the bed, pulling his brother out and praying that the boy wasn't hurt badly.
When Sam's head was resting in his lap, Dean checked the gash on the boy's temple, pulling it closed with butterfly strips and holding gauze over it, intent on stopping the bleeding before using Steri-strips until their father could suture it closed. The smaller boy's eyes were closed and his body was limp, both scaring Dean and reminding him of the accident that had ended the same way: his brother unconscious and covered in blood.
The older boy knew well that head wounds bled more severely than innocent wounds elsewhere, but it was hard to keep calm with the sight nonetheless and he found himself shaking his brother's shoulders as soon as he had two hands once again. Fear brightened his eyes as Sam continued to lie limply on the ground, and the boy couldn't help wishing his father was there to help.
Dean's knuckles were white as they gripped Sam's shirt, and he had bitten his lip so hard that blood was now trickling slowly from the side of his mouth.
"Sam? Sammy? Come on little brother, you've gotta wake up for me." Dean's plea was almost frantic again.
He had dropped his head to his chest in defeat and moved to scoop the boy into his arms, needing to get to his father.
"Dean?"
Dean physically had to shake his head to make sure he had heard the word, and finally looked down on his brother's bright eyes.
"Baby brother? Are you okay?"
"I…yeah, I'm okay."
Dean breathed a sigh of relief.
"Hey Dean?"
"Yeah Sammy? What do you need?"
"Isn't that shirt getting a little bit too old for you to still be wearing it?"
TBC…