Spirit Fall, Chapter 6
A/N: Not much to say this time, except the usual. Thanks to everyone that's sticking with me here and especially chocolate rules. Only a few chapters left. Let me know what you all think of this one. :)
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When life sucks, run.
While not exactly an honorable move, or something that any Winchester would admit to, it certainly is what they do.
And right now, life sucks.
"Mr. Winchester, please. I really wouldn't recommend this."
John nods, quietly absorbing Dr. Haubstadt's spiel in the hospital hallway.
"It's best, for the patient of course, to stay in one place during treatment." He glances significantly toward the waiting room where Dean sits next to his brother, bundled in a heavy sweatshirt and stocking cap despite the warm weather. "Dean made it clear that he intends to move, but maybe you could convince him otherwise. Traveling can be extremely taxing, especially when your immune system is already compromised."
"Doctor," John interrupts. "You said that Dean would have some time between treatments right?"
Dr. Haubstadt nods amicably.
"Yes, a recovery period."
"So, we have a few weeks, at least, before the next cycle?"
"Yes, but--"
"What, then, might you recommend we do with a few weeks doctor?" he asks sardonically. "Sit around and wither?"
"Well, it's called a recovery period for a good reason, Mr. Winchester," Dr. Haubstadt explains. "Dean should rest."
"He can rest anywhere," John argues calmly.
"It would be best if he stayed here."
"Oh, doc, no offense," John smirks. "Anywhere but here would be best."
"I can't change your mind, can I?"
"Nope."
The doctor hangs his head and rubs wearily at his forehead.
"Okay then," he sighs. "Where should we fax the records?"
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There's never much to pack, but it's a ritual. They each have one bag for clothes, there's one bag for hunting gear, no weapons, one bag for hunting gear, just weapons, one small bag for bathroom stuff, the first aid kit, and a garbage bag for shoes and jackets. At least, that's how it's supposed to work. Even John's military habits can't straighten things out sometimes. The lines are blurred as to what exactly is Sam's and what is Dean's. And when it's Sam's turn to pack the hunting bags, he insists on asking about every single item, are protective charms weapons or gear? Is holy water a weapon? Is salt a weapon? Is the knife I used to make peanut butter and jelly a weapon?
It doesn't matter anymore, especially when they're in a hurry and everything gets shoved into whatever bag it'll fit into. Dean helps out as much as he can, but it's only been a few days and he hasn't eaten anything but crackers and soda water. John keeps a careful eye on him as they all move about the room and Sam does the same. That neurotic hyperawareness that would drive Dean insane if he had the mind to notice it.
He zips his bag up, though it contains as much of anyone's stuff as his own, and shuffles out the door. Sam and John continue to pack, rustling clothes and bags and zippers the only sounds. After a few minutes they share nervous glances toward the door, and when it's gotten to be so long that Dean for sure could have made it to the car and back five times over, Sam jumps up nervously.
"Dad, I'm going to go--" John cuts him off with a shake of his head though, moving toward the door himself, he motions to the bags.
"Finish up here, Sammy."
Outside, the air is cool, but the sun is bright and John squints out across the parking lot toward the car, nearly missing what is right in front of him. Dean is only a few feet away, seated on the curb, duffel bag sagging on the pavement next to him, having never made it to the car. He looks up as John approaches, too pale features unreadable in the summer light and he moves to stand, but John motions him back down before folding himself onto the curb next to him.
"We should be on the road by eight," he starts casually. Dean nods, like small talk is something his father always attempts.
"That late?"
"Stopping in town for some dinner first," John explains.
"Dinner sounds good,"
"Really?"
Dean shrugs.
"Yea, I'm just sick of crackers." They're quiet for a moment, squinting out at the hazy parking lot. Heat rises into their shoes from the pavement below. Dean shivers. "Hey, Dad, you, uh, you took care of that Wellington guy, didn't you?" The question is abrupt, but lacking the accusation John might've expected.
"Yea," John nods. "He's gone. The house is clean."
"You found the bones?" Dean asks. John watches him closely, frowning.
"No, I had to exorcise him from the house, we couldn't find a record of the body."
"So, he might still be hanging around?"
John shakes his head, confused by Dean's questioning. He'd thought his son would be upset that he went alone, without telling them, or upset that he wasn't a part of the hunt. Not so concerned with the actual success of the thing.
"No. I stood there and watched the guy dissipate."
Dean nods carefully, considering.
"Maybe we should burn the house," he suggests abruptly.
"What?" It's an odd idea and not something they would typically consider, considering all of the possible complications. "Why?"
Dean shrugs.
"Just to be sure, I guess."
"The spirit is gone, Dean. We're not going to burn someone's house down, just to be sure."
"No one lives there," he argues.
"It's still someone's house," John barks, rising to his feet and looking down at his son, hunched on the curb. Suddenly remembering why he came out here in the first place, he swallows thickly and softens his words. "Sam said it's some kind of historical landmark. Even if the exorcism hadn't worked, which it did, we were trying to save the house and protect the people that go there. Burning it down would kind of defeat the purpose."
Dean nods quietly.
"Yes, sir." John accepts the compliance easily and extends a hand to pull Dean to his feet. The boy stands lightly, weight already sliding off his bones like ice off a roof. John waits a moment to be sure he's steady before picking up the duffel and slinging it over his shoulder.
Sam comes out of the room then, weighted down by the rest of the bags, slung precariously over both shoulders and arms. His eyes, perpetually wide, take in his brother's pale form.
"You okay?"
"Just peachy, Sammy," Dean grins, moving to take some of the bags from him. He turns toward the car then with a smile and a sharper edge to his gaze that John should've caught. Looking back later, he realizes, he should have known. They should have left town right then, but maybe, part of him knew what had to be done and let it happen. Might as well have done it himself.
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They go settle down to eat at a little restaurant on the edge of town. It's a pretty quiet affair. Dean picks at his food and John eats quietly while Sam swings his legs under the table. Dusk settles around them and the fluorescent lights make it impossible to see out onto the street. Toward the end of the meal, Dean stands suddenly and motions to the bathroom. Both Sam and John jump up to follow him, but he waves them off.
"Chill. I just got to take a leak." He's gone for two minutes and then five and then ten minutes before John shoves away from the table and stalks toward the restrooms. The cramped bathroom, stale with dead air, is empty though and a quick check of the row of stalls reveals the same. He rushes back out to the dining room, noting Sam still alone at the table, before shoving through the front doors and onto the sidewalk, light spilling out behind him. After a beat, Sam appears at his side, staring in bewilderment at the space where the Impala should have been, was, but isn't. He looks up at John.
"Where'd he go?"
They should've known.
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From the restaurant, it's over a twenty-minute walk to the Wellington farm and a good hike to the house once you're on the property. John traipses the distance in half the time though, long legs eating up gravel road and Sam hurrying beside him in a step, step, gallop rhythm to keep up.
"Where'd Dean go?" he pesters.
"That house," John spits like it's a dirty word, focused on the road ahead.
"Why?" John just lets that question hang in the cooling night air because there are too many answers and none of them are good. "Why, Dad?" Sam asks again, but the farm has just come into view and while he can't see any, John can smell smoke.
He takes off at a run, leaving Sam to chase him down the country road and through the half-mile thick woods surrounding the house. The trees are high and neat, easy to run through, but dense. The smell leads them on, that heavy musk of dying wood, choking the air as they chase through the forest catching glimpses of fire orange and blinding yellow between the trunks.
John bursts into the clearing first. The farmhouse heaves up in front of him, rooms choked with fire, living flames that dance behind swirled glass windows and wisp ever higher, reaching for the roof.
At a safe distance on the lawn, the Impala idles; growling engine drowns out the crackling flame, reflected and alive in the black paint. There is just one sound, one smell. Time slows down and for a moment, John doesn't even see his son. Melting into the fiery landscape, Dean is perched calmly on the bumper, hunched and shivering, watching the houses in flames and John gags on a breath of smothering smoky air, wondering if he remembers.
"Dad!" Sam yelps, stumbling out of the trees behind them. Sirens cut through the smoke then, the high whine and blaring horn of fire trucks and John springs into action.
"Dean!" he yells. "Let's go!" Dean nods vaguely before his father reaches him, delirious with the flames, until John pulls him off the car, an arm around his shoulders to guide him into the passenger seat.
Sam's already buckled into the back as John slides in behind the wheel, throwing the car into gear and tearing down the driveway. The fire trucks pass them a mile out on the gravel road, but by then they're home free and the burning house is just a speck of light in the rearview mirror.
John doesn't let off the gas until they're crossing the Nebraska state line into Colorado. He'd told Dr. Haubstadt they were heading for Arizona, as good a place as any, and he has a few leads down there that are worth checking out. But it's only then, a few hundred miles from the fire that he trusts himself to speak. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the earthy smoke scent that clings to them still, and opens his mouth.
But there are too many things to say, too many words to yell, too much anger to convey. He narrows his eyes at the ever-approaching pavement, glowing under their headlights.
"You shouldn't have done that," he states firmly, that scary calm angry, not turning his head in either direction. Sam is silent in the backseat, watching the careful exchange, waiting for his brother to respond. But Dean remains quiet beside John. He shifts, the gentle creak of leather, and nods.
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