A/N: Wow. I mean really, wow. Thank you so much for the reviews. For those who asked about the juvie thing, there is a bit of a twisted back story to that if/when I get around to writing it; the same with a couple of other bits referred to here.
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Detention 3/5
Twice more the ghost repeated the words and swung the cane.
As the blows fell, Dean tried to curl into to himself again disassociating himself from what was happening. He'd been hurt far worse, although the swelling and bruising would be a bitch in a couple of days. He hoped that Sam got a move on, because he wasn't certain how much more it would take before this ghost completely lost it and killed him.
"Repeat the commandment," the ghost ordered. "Thou shalt not steal, and you deserve this punishment. Say it!"
Rolling his aching shoulders with a groan, Dean glared at the ghost through narrowed eyes and obeyed, spitting each word out. "Thou shalt not steal. I deserve to be punished."
The ghost glared back, but seemed satisfied enough. He gestured at the desk. "Continue and speak every line that you write."
Wincing as he bent over the desk, Dean picked up the pencil and continued where he'd left off, saying every line. With no cane crashing down every ten lines, it made him jump when he got to five hundred.
The ghost smiled at him. "You may take a break," the ghost told him, as the ropes untied themselves and fell away. "You may use the facility, but otherwise you may not leave this room. Use the time wisely boy, for your detention has barely begun."
That ghost disappeared and Dean reflected that that did not sound good. At five hundred lines, he'd kinda hoped he was half way through..
Stretching carefully, he stood up stiffly and, cradling his sore arm, walked about the room, examining the walls carefully. He took advantage of the bathroom even though it was apparent that it had ceased to function many years previously, and went back to methodically examining the room.
It was clear to him that this room was the power base for the ghost, given that the ghost had more powers than a spirit like that had any right to, in which case there had to be something of significance here; quite probably the missing bones.
Unable to find so much as kiddie graffitti, Dean tried the door that led out of the room, but it didn't budge. Not that he'd expected it to, but he had to try out of principle. He was tempted to try and break it down, but decided that would likely draw the ghost's attention back to him, and he didn't want to do that just yet, because with no way to destroy the ghost, he wasn't likely to get out in one piece. Maybe if he got bored before the ghost came back.
Having scoured the main room, he checked out the water closet again, not really expecing to find anyhing. Except that there was a single curb high step up. He'd assumed initially that it was either uneven flooring or a place to put the plumbing, but the main room was solid wood over packed dirt, while the water closet floor echoed. What if the hollow floorboards hid something else?
The boards were old and riddled with woodworm, but bruised as he was, Dean didn't consider lifting the boards, settling instead for using his full weight to heel kick at a weak board in the corner. The board splintered and broke, throwing him slightly off balance, but he got a glimpse of blackened bone before an unseen force dragged him out of the tiny room and crashing into the wall opposite.
Landing at the base of the wall, he looked up, trying to stop the room from spinning as he saw the cane coming at his unprotected head. Instinctively he threw up his left arm to protect it, but missed, the cane veering away and slamming into his shoulder instead, numbing the entire limb. As the ghost drew the cane back, Dean tried to roll himself into the ghost's legs, but they were insubstantial and he kept rolling, his good hand covering the back of his head while letting his back and ribs take the brunt of the attack.
Fortunately, the ghost seemed to think three vicious strokes was enough and Dean found himself dragged back to his stool, the ropes once again snaking out to hold him in place as he was before.
"Respect!" hissed the ghost as he lay across the desk, panting heavily and trying to get his spinning head back under some kind of control. "You have shown me exactly how far off the path you are boy, desecrating my grave with your destructive actions! How would you like it if someone were to start destroying your mother's grave like that? Hm?"
Dean didn't say anything, but turned his face into the desk, too flaming hot angry to say anything, and in too much pain to do anything. He hadn't visited Mary Winchester's grave in over twenty years, but the thought of anyone doing to her what he did on a daily basis to others was unthinkable. Unlike this ghost, she'd never hurt anyone. Abandoned, yes, but never hurt. And it wasn't the same thing. At all.
The ghost was taunting him with his parents lack of love towards such a wayward child, the one having abandoned him so young, the other abandoning him later on, but he tuned the ghost out, taking stock of his injuries. He couldn't feel his arm at all and by the grinding agony in his shoulder, he probably wouldn't until his shoulder was relocated back where it belonged. His right eye felt gummy, and red smeared the paper he was resting on, a souvenir no doubt of his head meeting the wall. The ribs on the right hand side felt bruised, informing him of their displeasure with each breath, but he'd had worse. Probably.
"It pleases me to see, however, that despite your parents disregard for your wilful ways, you have been rightfully obedient and respectful to them. The only Commandment I think, that you are careful to obey, and one I will not punish you for."
That wasn't how it was at all, but Dean continued to try and block the ghost's words out. He wasn't going to win here, and he'd had enough of trying.
The ghost was not going to be ignored though and spoke calmly now, spectral lips close to his ear. "When you have composed yourself boy, you may continue writing your lines."
Well thank you and drop dead, Dean thought with no intention of doing anything other than staying exactly how he was. He stayed that way for the longest time, his stillness granting him the illusion that his aches and pains had receded, allowing him to hide from reality. He'd done this before, and it served him well, enabling him to shore up his defenses, rebuild walls and get a handle on injuries, both external and internal. He remembered the first time he'd done it too, those months after his mother died, shutting himself off in his own mind until he was strong enough to come out. This situation wasn't that dire yet, but this halfway house between here and there helped him pull himself together.
The ghost broke before he did, clearing his throat and tapping the cane and Dean's short giggle was slightly hysterical at that concept. "Sit up boy," the ghost ordered, slamming the cane on the desk, and Dean giggled again, turning it into a laugh.
"Sit up boy!" the ghost commanded again, and Dean felt the cane hit his forearm, even though there was no sensation other than the slight painful jolt of his shoulder, and he laughed some more.
Feeling bone tired, but ready to take the ghost on again, he sat up with a shit eating grin on his face. "Sam'd find it funny," he said. "Funny that I can out wait a ghost."
"Continue with your lines, boy and we'll discuss your brother."
"Oh, goody, can't wait for that one," Dean smirked, and watched dispassiontly as the cane came down on his forearm. The earlier strike had hit his wrist, the rope that held him vulnerable now sunk viciously into swollen flesh, and this last strike had split skin. Yet all he could feel was a curious faint ache as if his brain was trying to inform him of the pain but wasn't actually receiving the pain signals.
The ghost touched the top of the cane to Dean's chin and pushed his head back, Dean catching hold of the cane with his right hand to stop it pushing too hard. "I see where all your darkness comes from, boy," the ghost said softly, almost pityingly. "You've had to be the strong one all your life, protect your brother at all costs, take care of your father and avenge your mother. I can see a lifetime of your wants and dreams dropped and forgotten by the way or purposefully shattered and broken, all left behind. All of this pushing you off the path of righteousness and into the darkness. All your – "
"Stop!" Dean didn't want to hear the gentle words that were cutting deeper than any knife could, didn't want to chance any possibility of having to face any real, long denied truths. The cane dropped away and he swallowed hard, not caring what the ghost thought. "You're right, I'm bad. I deserve to be punished." He picked up the pencil and started writing.
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As always, it was in the details that Sam finally found a lead. The first suicide in 1973 was a Don Taylor and as a well thought of local resident, there were obituaries for him in several papers and it was whilst scouring these that the librarian who had been assisting him pointed to a photograph of the family taken a few weeks before Don's death.
"I recognise her, that's Ann Miller," the librarian said pointing to a smiling teenage girl crouched next to a toddler. "Of course she wasn't married then. She must have been a babysitter for the Taylor's, maybe she could help? She only lives across town."
Sam scribbled down the address the librarian gave him and thanked her with a smile before virtually running out of the building to the car.
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'I deserve to be punished .'
Crack! Dean was startled but not surprised when the cane cracked down at 600 lines, interrupting his self-hypnotic litany.
"So boy, your brother. Tell me about him. Or shall I tell you?"
"Suit yourself. Sir." Dean said flatly, his focus aimed steadily at the top edge of the desk.
"Describe him to me."
"He's an asshole and a jerk and has no respect for family."
"And yet he's everything you wanted to be."
Closing his eyes against the ghost, Dean shook his head slightly, but the ghost continued.
"He managed to create his own life, to escape the darkness that you can't. He has dreams and ambitions and holds on tightly to them. You have nothing, and you are guilty of coveting everything your brother has."
"No!" Dean arched into the desk with a sharp cry as the cane hit his lower back, twice in rapid succession.
"You deserve nothing. You deserve to be punished. Say it."
Dean was getting so sick and tired of this, and he wasn't going to win. He needed to bide his time, wait for Sammy to haul his ass out of there, and then he could take out his anger and frustration and pain on something that he could destroy.
"I deserve nothing except to be punished. Sir," he muttered picking up the pencil and getting back to writing.
"Wait, boy. Adjust your lines to the startement you just made."
"What?" Dean wasn't certain he understood correctly. "You want me to write 'I deserve nothing. I deserve to be punished,' now?"
"No, boy." The ghost tilted his head speculatively. "Your words were so much better."
That's what Dean had thought he'd said and triedto recall. "Uh… 'I deserve nothing but punishment'?"
"Just so, boy," the ghost nodded. "And don't forget to say it after every line."
Dean rolled his eyes but did as instructed.
At six hundred and forty two lines, Dean rubbed absently at his dislocated shoulder, and something clicked, perhaps bone moving to free up a trapped nerve. But whatever it was, the uncomfortable numbness in his battered arm was swept away in wave of indescribable agony that had him reeling in shock. Instinctlively, he tried to pull his arm into him, but the rope holding firm just bit in further, adding insult to injury.
His free hand blindly sought a way to release its trapped counterpart, sending papers and pencil flying randomly as he failed to even get close to the knot over the edge of the desk. He cried out in pain filled rage, scrabbling ineffectively at the rope until he had no more breath and no more energy.
When he could see with some rationality again, Dean saw that the ghost was waiting patiently for him to finish. "You can't punish me for that," he said, wiping the sweat that prickled under his eyes.
"I can," said the ghost, "and I will unless you remember to be respectful."
Dean rubbed his eyes and shook his head. "Sir."
"Thank you. And no, I will not punish you for that which you cannot control. Continue when you are ready."
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