A/N: IMPORTANT: Hey guys, I'm going to be changing this story's rating from T to M, given that some really awesome stories have been pulled from this site due to the ratings not being high enough. I'm worried that Dean's occasional potty mouth is warranting a higher rating. SO, please remember when searching through SN fic to change the ratings to "All" (it automatically displays only K-T) if you want to see my updates. I got a heart attack when I forgot to do that and couldn't find it :P
And again, thank you sooo much to you reviewers! Your feedback is invaluable and very reassuring!
Chapter Five"Sam!" Dean shouts, his arms reaching out, eyes glistening with fear. Sam can't reach him in time – he can only watch as Dean's pulled from the room and thrown down the stairs with a sickening thud, landing splayed and unmoving on the dirt floor beneath.
It's not over…a voice whispers in Sam's ear.
Sam eyes snapped open. Dean. He quickly turned in his bed, causing the sheets to tangle around his body like ropes. There was Dean lying on his motel bed, sheets pulled up to his neck, one hand lightly clutching the comforter while the other was lost beneath the pile of blankets. His eyelids fluttered slightly and his chest rhythmically rose and fell. But apart from that, Dean was still and silent. Dead to the world.
Dean must have been exhausted to fall into such an uninterrupted slumber. Sam's nightmares usually woke him up, but this time they hadn't even caused a flinch. Good – Dean needed the rest. They'd been up all night scouting a graveyard when only hours before Dean had almost fried. That would drain anyone's energy – even Mr. Invincible over there.
Sam pulled himself into a sitting position, yanking the tangled sheets away from his body. The sun was bright – streaming through the closed shades from any crack it could find. Sam frowned at the intrusion. His breath was still rattling in his lungs from his dream – it shouldn't be so sunny and bright when Sam's mind was so clouded with worry and confusion.
He ran a hand through his hair and breathed out slowly from his nose. Was that dream about Dean a premonition, or just a nightmare? Was Dean right – had burning Bret's bones really stopped the spirit from terrorizing this town and his brother, and Sam was just being overly cautious? Or, as Dean had called it, overly paranoid?
"No," Sam whispered to himself. He'd ignored his dreams before and let tragedy sneak in– he wouldn't let that happen again.
As quietly as he could, Sam got out of bed and dressed. "Something's not right."
Tap, tap, tap, tap. What was that? Tap, tap, tap, tap. The noise was inside his head, tapping against his skull, reverberating into his eyes and forcing them open.
"Dude!" Dean yelled, having groggily turned his head only to find that the intruding noise had come from Sam piling tools and weapons into his bag. Dean lifted himself up, an annoyed expression deepening the pillow creases marring one side of his face. Sam looked up, surprised to see Dean awake already.
"What are you doing? It's only - " Dean looked at the blinking digits beside him, "well, okay, one in the afternoon, but I only hit the sack a couple of hours ago, so that's still early!"
Sam ignored Dean's complaints and continued to pack. "I'm going into town," he said, not looking at Dean.
Dean sat up further, a weary suspicion building in his stomach. "What part of town?"
Sam paused for a second, before shrugging and turning his back on Dean to grab his jacket.
"Sam," Dean said firmly. "What part of town?"
Sam sighed and finally looked up at Dean. "The graveyard."
Dean stared at Sam for a moment in disbelief. "To do what, exactly?"
"I don't know," Sam admitted, running his hands restlessly through his hair. He was growing angry – he didn't want to explain himself to Dean, didn't know how to explain himself to Dean. At least, not in a way that Dean wouldn't automatically scoff. Dean liked hard facts – a monster he could fight or a string of deaths he could follow. He didn't like acting off abstract feelings. And that's all that Sam could offer him right now. A gut feeling.
Dean was looking at Sam with raised eyebrows. "You know, if you want a place to sit and think, write a little poetry, there's a park down the road. They even have a swing set."
"It's not over, Dean," Sam blurted out, not in the mood for Dean's games.
Dean's eyes hardened as he threw off his blankets and moved to the edge of the bed. "What makes you say that? I burnt the bones – a whole fricken corpse worth of bones. I didn't miss anything - if there were a bone-burning professional, I'd be it. So, tell me Sam, why isn't it over?"
Sam hesitated. "I just…It just doesn't feel over."
Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. "God, Sam. Dr. Phil would love you, you know. You and your feelings."
Sam felt a pinch in his chest. Why couldn't Dean just trust him? "But, Dean - "
"But nothing, Sam." Dean strode up to him and grabbed the bag from his hands. Sam let him take it, breathing deeply from his nose to stop himself from seizing it back and just walking out of there.
"Man, what are you doing?" Dean said, chucking the bag at the foot of his bed. "You wake me up from a very sweet dream where Angelina Jolie and I are doing some very sweet things to tell me you're still hung up on this Parker family. Remember the bones and the burning? That was us closing this case."
Sam pressed his lips together, looking at Dean and wondering if he understood that lives could still be in danger. That his life could still be in danger.
"My instincts have been right in the past, you know they have," Sam said. "And we've missed things in the past, you know that too, so why are you fighting me on this?"
Dean caught the hurt flicker through Sam's eyes and instantly felt bad. But he refused to acknowledge it. Though he did soften his voice. A little. "Look," he said. "I do trust your Haley Joel instinct, okay?" Sam opened his mouth to protest the name, but Dean held up his hand to quiet him. "But, it was your idea to wait 24 hours to see what would happen. I wanted to go back to the Parker's old place, remember?"
Sam nodded. Dean was right. He had told Dean not be stupid and give it time, rest up, before he went chasing after more danger.
Dean watched Sam carefully. "So we're going to wait 24 hours. If nothing happens, we'll go back to the Parker's old place with an EMF and make sure the spirit's gone."
"And if something happens?" Sam asked quietly.
"Well.. then I'll owe you a coke. But until then, we stay put." Dean really hoped Sam wouldn't argue with him about this. What he wasn't admitting was how badly he needed these hours to rest and get his energy back. He'd never felt an exhaustion quite like this before – it seemed to be emanating from the core of his bones. And if Sam was right, if this wasn't over, then he needed to get his strength back. Needed to be fully alert. To protect himself. To protect Sam. He'd take an angry Sam over an injured one any day.
Dean could see Sam struggling with himself – his jaw working back and forth and his eyes darting around the room restlessly. "Fine," Sam muttered, kicking off his shoes with more force than was necessary and getting back into bed, fully clothed, yanking the sheets over him. He turned his back on Dean.
Dean watched Sam for as long as he could – before his eyelids grew too heavy for him to hold open and the world became a slit of light, and then the dark of sleep enveloped him whole.
After a few hours of raging with himself for letting Dean tell him what to do so easily, Sam finally felt the calm of sleep settle over him. I'm sorry…
Sam's eyes shot open. He sat up straight, his heart beating so hard that he could hear it in his ears. That wasn't a dream…
It's not his fault…Sam's head spun to the side, his hand slapping at his ear as the flesh tingled from the whispered remark. From how close it had been. He looked around the room carefully. Where are you?
Sam jumped slightly as Dean turned in his sleep, rustling the sheets. Okay, calm down. He listened hard, slowing his breath. At first there was only the distant sounds of cars, but then he heard it again. Whispered words, floating around the room, caught by the air and carried towards him.
The bathroom! That's where they were coming from. Sam slid out of bed and crept towards the room. He nudged the door open, careful not to actually step foot in it– all too aware of what had happened to Dean in there only days before.
My gift is my burden, Sam..
Sam caught a flicker in the cabinet mirror – a face! He quickly turned, but found only the quiet motel room staring back. He turned back towards the mirror, but this time found himself face to face with another gray entity.
Sam gasped, stumbling backwards, but catching the wall to stop himself from falling and waking Dean.
It's not over, it whispered before disappearing.
Sam's stunned reaction was quickly being overpowered by the sinking realization that his instincts were right. As quietly, and as quickly, as he could, Sam crept up to the foot of Dean's bed and grabbed the duffle bag that Dean had chucked there.
"Sorry, Dean," he said in a barely-audible whisper. "But I can't stay put."
Sam scooped up his shoes, deciding to put them on outside since socked feet were quieter than shoed ones, and opened the front door slowly, wincing at every creak. But Dean didn't wake up, barely even stirred. Which was unusual for him – a trained hunter who practically slept with one eye open - and which further padded Sam's resolve. This town had almost killed Dean and Sam was damned if he was going to let it get third time lucky.
Realizing that leaving Dean alone when he was so off his game wasn't the best strategy either, Sam carefully placed his bag and shoes outside before hurrying back in and creating a ring of salt around Dean's bed. It wouldn't ward a ghost off forever – but it'd slow it down enough for Dean to avoid getting caught off guard.
Sam then hurried to catch the bus into town. Dean would be mad enough without Sam dragging his Impala into the mix.
As soon as Sam closed the door, the air in the motel room grew colder and Dean frowned in his sleep, burying himself deeper into his blankets. He was too shut off from the world to notice the edge of his sheets fluttering.
Sam hopped off the bus at the town terminal and quickly checked out the bus map to see which route would get him closest to the graveyard.
"Haven't you boys left yet?" a voice asked from behind him.
Sam turned to find that same man from the store sitting on one of the bus benches. "Uh, no, not yet," Sam replied, unsure of what else to say.
The man just shook his head and picked back up his newspaper. Sam frowned – this guy wasn't all that threatening, maybe he could get some information out of him. Sam walked up to the man and sat at the end of his bench. The man just gave him a sidelong look before rustling his paper and returning his attention to it.
"Um, actually, we'd probably be gone quicker if someone could just help us. This town hasn't been that friendly," Sam said, unable to restrain the dry hint from escaping his voice.
"I'm not surprised," the man gruffed, eyes still focused on the paper. "You're brother is -"
"Yeah, I know, my brother isn't welcome here – swears, loud, evil, I got it," Sam cut in, not wanting to hear more about Dean's corrupt behaviour, but he quickly continued, seeing the man begin to rile up. "But the thing is, um, we just discovered that some old friends of the family's used to live here. And they died. And we don't really know much about what happened, so we, uh, promised our…doting… parents that we'd find out more. Maybe you can tell me something."
Sam looked at the man carefully as he said this next bit: "Their name was Parker."
The man visibly froze. He looked up at Sam with an expression Sam couldn't read. "Figures you'd know them," he finally said.
"What do you mean?"
When the man didn't say anything, Sam continued. "We heard Brad shot, uh, sweet young Bret."
The man snorted.
Sam frowned. "That's…not what happened?"
"Oh, it's what happened all right. But Bret was anything but sweet. Looked up to his brother like he were a god. Kept trying to live up to his brother's wild reputation, landed them both in fights and jail - though Bret did never stop trying to be like Brad; he'd forgive him spitting on Jesus, he would've. But sweet? Maybe when he was still in diapers. And he sure swore like something all mighty."
"What…are you sure?" Sam was really confused now.
"Never as bad as his brother, mind you. Brad…" the man looked away for a moment. "Brad, he had something dangerous about him. Like…" he trailed off.
"Like," Sam prompted gently.
The man looked at Sam, like he was wondering if he should continue. But Sam knew that he had an open face when he really wanted it there, and this man obviously decided Sam was harmless enough.
"Like he knew he was no good. And was angry about it. He kept making problems for this town and for his family. But we did never expect for him to do what he did. We thought he really loved them." The man snorted again, "apparently he loved his cat more."
Sam's heart was again beating against his chest as this information sunk in. It didn't make sense…Bret was a delinquent too?
"Kid, you having a stroke or something?"
Sam looked up, blinking rapidly. "Sorry, I'm just…letting it all sink in." The man gave him another funny look. Sam quickly recalled his cover story. "You know, since I knew them and all…we used to play in sand pits together…" Sam trailed off, remembering how bad he was at lying.
But the man seemed to buy it. His eyes softened. "Look, Brad…he wasn't all bad. He knew what he'd done and he couldn't stand that he'd done it. It's why he shot himself in the end."
Sam's head snapped up. "What? Suicide?"
"Yeah…" the man replied, his concern giving way to suspicion. "Didn't you know that?"
Sam ignored the question, asking one of his own instead. "What about the Palmers. Were they close with those boys?"
"Who?" the man frowned, growing more weary of Sam by the minute.
Sam was surprised this guy didn't know them. "The Palmers. The family living in the Parkers' old house?"
"Oh," the man replied, but Sam could tell he had no idea what Sam was talking about. Sam frowned at this, but couldn't ask anything else because his bus had arrived.
"Kid," the man called out, grabbing onto Sam's sleeve as he got up. Sam turned to look back at him, surprised by the contact.
"Yeah?"
"You got what you came for, now leave this town. You're still not welcome here." He said it harshly but there was a plea in his eyes. Slightly unsettled, Sam nodded – if only to appease the old man, and hopped onto his bus.
As the bus roared towards the cemetery, Sam lent his head against the stained window and let the vibrations shiver into his body. He replayed the conversation over in his head.
Bret behaved just as his brother did. Bret would have forgiven his brother anything. Brad was violent. Brad loved his family. Brad shot his brother. Wracked by guilt, Brad shot himself. A violent death.
Oh my god…We burned the wrong bones.
The ghost circled Dean, its black eyes piercing Dean's closed ones, the hatred rippling off it in waves. It stretched out its arm and moved towards Dean's sleeping form only to be repelled back by the circle of salt. It hissed silently, but cocked its head suddenly, listening to something in the distance. A smile appeared from its shadowy folds and it disappeared.
Sam swung the torch along the damp ground, stopping as it landed on Brad Parker's headstone, illuminating the engravings.
"Time to torch this sucker," he muttered in a poor imitation of Dean. He shrugged his bag off his shoulder and yanked his sleeves further down his arms. It was getting cold. Really cold.
Sam's eyes suddenly widened in realization. Oh no. He lunged for his weapons but the bag was thrown away by an invisible force. And then from the dark came a sickly light, growing bigger and brighter as it rushed through – yes, through – the headstones, towards Sam.
Sam gulped, spinning around – getting ready to dive for his bag – but the ghost was too fast – it abruptly appeared in front of him. Sam gasped and turned to run the other way, but the ghost cut him off again, floating so close that Sam could feel the cold rippling from its shadowy, distorted body.
Sam jumped as his legs bumped something – he hadn't even realized he'd been moving backwards. It was Brad's gravestone. His spirit must be protecting it! Keeping a weary eye on the ghost, chest constricted with fear, Sam willed himself to calmly step away from the headstone. The ghost didn't follow – just stood there, its edges wavering with the wind, its black eyes focused on Sam.
Sam swallowed. Okay, good ghost, stay there, he thought. He then backed up, slowly reaching for his bag. But the ghost hissed loudly and with a clap like thunder released four bolts of crackling energy that wrapped around that small area faster than Sam could react to – blocking Sam from his bag and trapping him inside. The sparking energy grazed Sam's skin – so cold that it burnt - forcing Sam to stagger closer to the ghost, who continued to stare at him, a boy's figure beginning to appear and replace the ghost's formless mist.
With shaky hands, Sam reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone, not taking his eyes off that thing for a second.
A buzzing noise broke into Dean's dreams, batting at his mind until Dean was forced to escape it by stepping out of his slumber. Willing his eyes open, Dean realized that the noise was his phone.
Sighing, he forced himself up and grabbed it off the night table, rubbing his eyes as he checked the caller ID.
Sam? That's when all traces of sleep ran from Dean's mind as he realized Sammy wasn't in the room with him.
"Sam?" he asked, anger lacing his voice.
"Dean," Sam's voice came through the crackling line. It was shaking and low and he could hear Sam's shallow breaths. All anger instantly left Dean's body, replaced by a numbing fear. Sam was scared.
"Sam, what is it, where are you?" Dean had to strain to hear above the static connection.
"In the graveyard," his brother gulped.
"What!" Dean yelled, realizing with a shock that Sam had snuck off there after promising not to. "You're where?"
"Uh…bigger things to worry about. That thing that attacked you…well, it's standing right in front of me."
"What!" Dean yelled again, the colour instantly draining from his face.
"Yeah, uh, we thinged the wrong things," Sam said, lowering his voice further. But Dean could still hear the fear spiked through it, and it was making his hair stand on end.
Sammy was in trouble.
"What?" Dean asked again. He couldn't seem to get any other word out – his throat was closing up too fast.
"I don't know if it can understand us or not, but it was the other one all along. And I think it's protecting it's grave."
Realization dawned. "Brad," Dean said, eyes wide. He heard Sam gasp and then the sound of a body hitting the floor. "Sam?" Dean yelled as he practically fell from the bed, rushing to get his stuff. "Sam?" he shouted louder. Dean's foot slid on something grainy. He looked down to see the salt surrounding his bed. Closing his eyes painfully, fighting back the tears and panic, Dean let anger wash over him instead.
"You want me!" he yelled into the empty motel room, angrily scattering the salt. "Come and get me! I'm right here!" He waited for a second, wanting nothing more than to see those dead black eyes appear. But nothing happened. "Sam!" he yelled into the phone again. Getting no answer, Dean swore under his breath and ran to his car. He jumped in and reversed it out of the parking lot, tires squealing loudly.
The thing gurgled and Sam glanced back up, berating himself for looking away in the first place. What he saw made him gasp in horror. "Sam?" Dean yelled from the other end of the phone, but Sam couldn't answer him – he was staring at what the spirit had transformed into, transfixed, unable to form any words.
The ghost's billowy façade had melted into the form of a boy – maybe 19, but it was hard to tell given that half his face was blown off! What remained was a matted mess of bloodied flesh – a tangle of hair and bone and skin. A gun hung from his hand and his jaw was slack. Sam felt nausea rile up in his stomach as he noticed the bits of flesh hanging from the side of the gun wound – from the gaping hole on the side of this kid's head. Blood ran down his temple, onto what remained of his cheek, and dripped from his chin, each drop turning blue and sizzling out of existence once it hit the ground.
Then, quicker that the eye could see, he was in front of Sam, using the hand not holding the gun to shove Sam to the ground. Sam grunted as he ungracefully landed on his ass, but in the next second he had to stop himself from screaming as that thing straddled him – his face close enough for Sam to see every gory, horrid detail of the self-inflicted shot.
The spirit lifted up his hand and grabbed Sam by the face.
Sam cringed, waiting for the explosion of pain. But it didn't come. Instead, memories – his own! – started pouring out, flashing in front of his eyes faster than Sam could register.
Dean tugged at the wheel violently, swerving around traffic, ignoring the indignant beeps as he raced through red lights and zoomed past stop signs. "Move it," he muttered to every car he past.
Dean grappled the seat next to him, taking his eyes off the road for a second to grab his phone. It had slid to the edge of the seat and was about to topple to the floor when Dean swiped it up. He quickly redialed.
"Come on…" Dean muttered, fear gnawing at his stomach, threatening to break through. But Dean willed it down, absently counting the rings.
"Dean," Sam finally answered, his voice shuddering, but strong. Dean closed his eyes briefly, relief crashing through him.
"What happened?" he asked. He hated not knowing what was going on.
"Uh," Sam said, obviously shaken, "it came at me and I fell. It grabbed me."
Dean's grip on the phone tightened. "Are you hurt?"
"No," Sam said.
"Thank god," Dean mumbled. "What's happening now?"
"It's just…staring at me. I think it's making sure I don't dig up its bones. But it won't let me leave either."
"Those freakin' Caspers never know what they want. Do you think you can hold it off for five more minutes?"
"Yeah. I don't think it's going to hurt me. Why? What are you going to do?"
Dean didn't answer for a second, he checked his side view mirror and turned into Archer's Way. "Listen to me closely, Sammy. The instant that thing disappears I need you to dig up it's bones and burn the bitch as fast as you can. Think you can do that?"
"Yeah, but," Sam stopped mid-sentence, and Dean knew that Sam got it.
"You're going back to the house," Sam realized, disbelief mingling with the fear already present in his tone. "Dean," Sam said slowly, carefully, like he was talking to a wild animal that was about to pounce. "I really don't think you should do that."
But it was too late to turn back. Dean had reached his destination. And he was fueled by a determination – by an anger – he only felt when Sam's life was at risk. That thing had attacked Sam, and now that thing had Sam trapped. He'd do anything to protect his brother. Anything.
Dean pulled up to the curb outside the Parkers' old house, skidding to a stop. "The instant that thing leaves," Dean repeated. "Burn the bones."
He hung up the phone, cutting Sam's plea off mid-sentence. Dean grabbed his bag, pulled out a shotgun, checked its cartridge, and strode to the front door. Not stopping to think, not stopping to doubt, he let himself fill with adrenaline, his fingers practically buzzing in his desire to kick some transparent butt. He beat his fist against the door loudly, over and over until it finally swung open.
A/N: Again, please remember to change your fanfiction page displays from K-T to "All" in the ratings box to be able to see my updates. And sorry for leaving it at another cliffie! The chapter was getting too long (that's always been a problem of mine) But I have a good chunk of the chapter six already written so it shouldn't be too long before the next update. Thanks for reading (and reviewing?)!