Chapter 4
Sam screamed. Dean's name, over and over.
His brother had fallen in a crumpled, curled heap, his cries of pain silenced the instant the ghost of the woman vanished. Terrified and filled with a sickening dread, Sam struggled for control. He dropped the now-empty shotgun, but what effect it had had on her he didn't know. Though he wanted nothing more than to go to Dean's side, he forced himself to fall back on the relentless training drilled into him by their dad over too many years and too many hunts. With shaking hands, he finished off the ritual by sealing the circle with more salt; moving away, he shouted the last word of the binding spell in a voice gone hoarse from screaming his brother's name.
He fervently hoped it wasn't too late. Though only mere seconds had been lost between his reading of the final portion of the spell and the closing of the circle, he might've waited too long…
The ring of salt flared into blue flame, dancing a foot high in the air before settling down to a flicker an inch or so above the floor. The candles, too, now burned with a cold blue fire. The spell had worked.
But had it trapped the spirit? Or had the shotgun blast of rock salt torn her to shreds first?
He crawled over to Dean. With fear clawing at his throat he reached for Dean's shoulder and hip to gently turn him on his back. His brother's pale features looked even worse in the eerie blue light. Sam put a still-shaking hand on Dean's chest, and closed his eyes in sheer relief. Breath. Heartbeat. He swallowed a sob.
"Dean," he whispered. But Dean wasn't moving. He wasn't waking up.
Oh, God, not again.
Sam pulled off his jacket, folded it over and gently raised Dean's head to slide the jacket beneath him. Then he went through Dean's pockets, pretty sure he'd seen his brother put the EMF detector in one of them before hell broke loose. He came up with it, flicked it on. No little red lights glowed at all. He turned on his knees in a slow circle, and still nothing. She was gone, at least for now. They had a little bit of time…
He sat back, shoulders slumped, one hand finding its way to Dean's chest and just tried breathing for a moment. Not liking what he had to do next, but knowing it was why they had returned here in the first damn place, he pushed himself to his feet. With another look at Dean, Sam stumbled to the front door (and saw Dean pinned there, unmoving, silent) and yanked it open to yell out into the night.
"Ginny!" Her name emerged as a harsh, plaintive wail.
She was already in motion, running toward him, the others right behind her. Ian, with his long, football-playing legs, passed her and reached the steps first. Within seconds, they were all crowding inside, questions on their lips, in their wide eyes; but he couldn't say a word, only shake his head and gesture for them to come in. Ginny took Sam's arm and he led them forward. "Here," he said, and they followed him further into the sitting room – still in the dark. They stopped dead, finally able to get a clear view of the sight before them.
"Sam, we heard a gunshot –" Ginny started.
The crazy blue light from the circle still danced, the candles burned steady, and Dean lay nearby like an unstrung puppet on the floor, exactly as Sam had left him. Sam crossed the room to a floor lamp, fumbled for the switch, and suddenly a mundane yellow glow filled the corner.
Lissa and Angie, their initial shock over, had moved, and they were now both crouched beside Dean. Lissa's hand was on Dean's neck, and she looked up in obvious relief at the others, nodding. Ian stood above them, as though on guard, but carefully watching Sam; and Sam suddenly realized that they had believed the worst, seeing Dean lying there on the floor.
"Sam, honey." Ginny had followed him and reached out to grip his forearms. He saw her frightened gaze fall on Dean before focusing on him again. "What happened to Dean? Have you called for an ambulance?" She shook his arms when he didn't answer right away. "Sam?"
"We need to be quick about this," he said, feeling unreal and detached from it all. "I'm not sure how long the spell will hold her. Depends on how hard she fights it, or hell, even if it worked. Well, I know it worked, that's why it's blue, but whether or not she's trapped…I don't know, for sure, it all happened so damn fast. But we've got at least until the candles aren't burning blue. When you see the flames shift back to yellow, you'll know it's time to leave. Here," he handed her the EMF detector. "This'll give you another warning, it'll light up red."
"Sam! What about Dean?"
He was in shock, that must be it. Well, snap out of it, Sammy, and get the job done. Isn't that what Dean would say?
He tore his eyes away from his brother and looked down into Ginny's face, the worry and fear only visible in the tight line of her mouth. And in the tight grip on his arms.
"I don't know!" he suddenly shouted, startling them all. "Something screwed up. I screwed up! But if we don't do this, and do it now, it'll have been for nothing! And when Dean wakes up, finds out that I didn't do what we came in here for, he'll kill me!"
"Okay, Sam, okay." She let go of him, and stepped back, giving him room and time to collect himself. "Sam. Are you all right?"
He took a deep gulping breath, and then another one. "Yeah, I'm just fine." It came out more bitter and savage than he expected. He suddenly thought he might throw up. "Sorry," he said, unconsciously seeking out Dean again, and trying to get his own head back in the game, back in the hunt. "Look, the sooner we get going, the sooner we can get the hell out of here. Please."
"Sam," she said again, gently. Her cell phone was already in her hand. "Do I need to call an ambulance?"
"No, no. They can't help. He has to stay here. It's safer if he stays here until we leave. When the binding starts to lose power." He couldn't seem to stop this babbling, but God, couldn't they see? "We have to work fast."
"All right," she said, probably not understanding but giving him the benefit of the doubt. Brisk and back in charge, she went on. "Sam, no arguing, you stay here with Dean. Ian, help Sam get Dean off this hard floor and on the couch."
Ian immediately leaned over to grasp Dean under the shoulders, and Sam found himself moving automatically, obeying the snap in Ginny's voice. Between them, they got Dean upright and carried over to the couch – temporarily shoved against a wall – careful to avoid the circle and the chalked symbols. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sam decided it was a lot easier lifting Dean when he had help…They got him settled, and Dean lay there, quiet and far too still.
"The rest of us will split up," Ginny was saying. "Angie and Lissa, you two start in the library. Ian, check out the basement, and we'll meet up in the attic, if we have time. I'll try Emma's bedroom first. Anything that looks promising, just grab it. Family bibles, photo albums, diaries, any kind of documents relating to the house, you know what to look for. Go, let's get this done."
Orders issued, the troops moved out. With a wave at Sam, Ian loped off; the girls fussed over Dean for just a bit before heading for the library. All three of them turned on lights in their wake, and the house lost some of its unearthly appearance. Left with Ginny, Sam was not ungrateful when she wrapped him up in a brief hug. He clung to her for a moment, sniffed a couple of times, then reluctantly let go.
"Sorry," he said, again, wiping at his eyes. "But I should be the one to go look –"
"No, Sam," she said firmly. "You stay with your brother, and give a holler when that doohickey of yours gets in the red zone. We've been through the house more than you, before all this started, so we've got an edge there." Her voice softened. "And do you really think you could traipse around this place, snooping for Thornton family secrets, knowing Dean was down here?"
"No," he admitted, "you're right." He gave her a weary smile. "Don't take this the wrong way, Ginny, but I'm really starting to hate your house."
"I don't blame you. Okay, I'm off, Sam. We'll find something, don't you worry, and we'll get this figured out." She nodded at him, and as she passed Dean, she paused to bend down and brush his cheek with her fingers. Then she was gone, and Sam was alone with his brother.
He turned off the lamp again, wanting to see the blue fire in the dark, to know the instant it started to change, and snagged his jacket off the floor and shrugged into it. He perched on the couch next to Dean and pulled off a quilt draped there, an old patchwork piece of faded roses, and put it over his brother's unmoving form.
"I seem to be tucking you in a lot lately," he muttered, doing just that. "Come on, Dean, it's getting to be embarrassing. Quit doing this to me, okay?"
Unconscious, or something infinitely worse…The binding spell had had some effect on his brother, of that Sam was dreadfully sure – Dean had collapsed even as Sam had finished reading the final incantation. Sam had seen the woman's ghost, standing over his brother, and before picking up the rock salt-loaded shotgun, he'd been aware of little other than her wild eyes and streaming dark hair. He admitted to himself he'd probably made a mistake in firing at her; but he'd thought for sure that she'd been hurting Dean, and his emotions had taken over. He could think of nothing but stopping her.
"Idiot," he said, dropping his head in his hands. "All that planning, and I blow it. Stupid, Sam, stupid, stupid, stupid. Dean is so gonna kick my ass…" He lifted his head enough to study his brother's face. Still too thin, he thought, the cheekbones too prominent, and Dean's ridiculously long eyelashes were startlingly dark against his pale skin. "You hear that? Wake up and kick my ass for me. I deserve it."
But like those other times when Sam had begged Dean to wake up, to open his eyes, his brother remained silent and oblivious.
Sam got up and restlessly paced the small room, spending a few moments to pick up the discarded shotgun, John Winchester's journal, and the rest of their gear, stuffing it back in the duffel bag. Keeping an eye both on Dean and the candles burning blue on the floor, he retrieved the flashlight and did a rapid search while he waited for Ginny and the others. There wasn't much, really, to even look through – a couple of built-in bookcases (filled, it appeared, with the collected works of Danielle Steel and John Grisham), a small chest of drawers, and a pair of end tables. Coming up with nothing more interesting than some old dry cleaners' tickets and partially filled-in crossword puzzle books, he hoped the others were having better luck. It felt like they'd been gone for hours, but a quick glance at his watch made it all of twenty minutes. Just as he was about to yell out for a progress report, Lissa came in lugging a big cardboard box.
"Hey," she said, "Thought I'd dump this off with you. Oh, thanks," as Sam took it from her. "Angie and I found a bunch of old scrapbooks and albums, stuff like that, in the library." She looked over at Dean, and her voice went quiet. "How's he doing, Sam?"
Sam put the box down near the door. "No change," he said. "Still out like a light. He's probably just doing it to get out of digging through musty old boxes in the attic." He tried to smile, but judging from Lissa's reaction, it didn't work.
"I'm sorry, Sam," she said. She shook her head. "This is all way beyond anything I was expecting when the freakiness started around here. It was sort of a joke, at first, you know? Like kids playing haunted house, daring each other to go in. I wish we hadn't gotten you guys involved, it's been so awful for you both…"
"Hey, it's okay," he said, stepping over to her. "Like Dean said, we'll figure it out. And Dean's tough. Not to mention stubborn."
"Yeah, right," she said, giving him a shadow of a smile. "Guess I'd better get back and help Angie." With a gesture at the glowing circle, she asked, "How much time have we got?"
Sam looked. "Your guess is as good as mine. But it could be any minute."
"On my way then." She threw another glance at Dean before heading back to the library.
Sam made a few more circuits around the room, continually watching the candle flames, and alternately looking at his watch and checking on Dean. Still nothing. Not a flicker, not a twitch, not a sound. Dammit, Dean, enough already, you gotta stop doing this to me or I'm gonna have grey hair way before my time... Twenty-three minutes of non-stop prowling, and he halted suddenly to stare intently at the burning circle of salt. The flames dipped and fluttered. Dying. The blue light of the candles wavered, steadied, and slowly morphed into a normal yellow-white. There was a subtle shift in the air, a trembling. That strange heavy tension was back; something made him shiver, a shadow, a presence…He didn't know, and he didn't intend to stick around and find out.
"Ginny!" he shouted. "Everybody, time to go! Ian! Lissa! Angie! Now!"
He grabbed their bag of gear, tossed it over one shoulder, and as he went to Dean, he heard the echoing voices of those closest calling out to the others. He quickly threw the quilt aside, and hooked an arm under his brother's shoulder, hauling him up off the couch. Lissa and Angie came in at an awkward run, both of them carrying piles of what appeared to be books and documents.
"Go!" he said again. "Take everything outside, then come back to the door. See if the others need help."
They nodded, left with their collected booty, and Lissa was back in an instant, dragging out the box Sam had set by the door. He could hear them clattering up and down the stairs, and then Ian was in the room, cobwebs clinging to his dark hair and a smear of soot along one cheek. He immediately chucked his own box to the floor and helped a struggling Sam with Dean, wrapping an arm around the unconscious man's waist and taking some of his weight.
"Thanks," Sam said, that sense of urgency climbing. Dean's head lolled against his shoulder. "Where's Ginny?"
"Right behind me, I thought," Ian said, as they began half-carrying, half-dragging Dean out of the room. "God, the air's suddenly thick in here. Hard to breathe."
Just as Sam was about to give another shout, Ginny appeared suddenly from the hallway, shooing them on ahead of her; then Angie was back, picking up what Ian had dropped.
"Okay, we're all here?" Ginny panted, surveying her little group, as they staggered out the door and down the steps with their sundry burdens.
"Yeah, all present and accounted for," Angie said.
"Everybody got their stuff?"
Various nods and grunts of affirmation arose.
"Sam? What about the fire?"
"It'll just go out when the binding's broken," he said, slightly breathless. "Nothing to get the neighbors suspicious."
Yeah, like carrying an unconscious man down the front steps won't. Sure hope nobody calls the cops; that's all we need...
Halfway down the front walk, what sounded like a small puffing explosion reached their ears, and as a group they stopped to turn back to the darkened house to see a fluttering of curtains behind closed windows.
"Just in time, I think," Sam said, grimly, tightening his arm around Dean, and moving forward again.
As quickly as they could they continued down the sidewalk, through the tall, wrought iron gate, and across the street to their own house. Bright with warm, friendly light spilling from the front windows, it looked like home to Sam, and he was never so grateful to be anywhere in his life as at that moment.
With Lissa holding the door open, box propped on hip, they managed to get inside without losing a single dusty piece of paper. Ginny directed them to the living room, and everyone put down their hard-won piles of Thornton history with a communal sigh of relief. Dean was again deposited bonelessly on a couch, and, much to Sam's dismay, still showed no sign of rousing.
"Come on, bro," Sam muttered under his breath, "getting tired of dragging your sorry pain-in-the-ass ass around... Time to wake up, okay?" Crouched next to Dean, he patted his brother's cheek a couple of times, an action that would normally bring Dean awake and swinging. A fist. At Sam's head.
Ian, overhearing, cracked a grin at him. "Oh, brotherly love. What a beautiful thing." But he looked almost as worried as Sam felt.
Everyone had pretty much dropped on the floor along with their boxes and stacks, and they all sat back to just breathe for a moment. Sam plunked himself down to lean against the couch; if he tipped his head, he could feel Dean's shoulder. He saw Ginny, intent on Dean, and her fingers were pressed against her mouth as though trying to hold back a cry.
"Sam," she said, very quietly, as she moved her hand away. "What happened to Dean?"
Closing his eyes, he tried to see those frantic few seconds over again. But he was too aware of Dean behind him, and all he saw was his brother yet again at the mercy of the Thornton family ghost, in pain, and calling for Sam.
"I'm not sure," he said, forcing himself to look over at her. His voice shook, ever so slightly. "Something…he…when I finished the incantation. He just…collapsed. She'd…become visible by then, and she vanished at the same time, but that might have been because I fucked up and decided to fill her with rock salt," he ended in bitter self-recrimination.
"So what do we do now?" she asked, glancing aside at Dean. "Sam, should he be in a hospital?"
"I don't know, Ginny, I just don't know," he said, sagging lower against the couch. "I thought he'd wake up when the binding spell ran its course, if it did something to him in the first place, I mean… God, I screwed this up so bad." He stared up at the ceiling, and he could feel Dean's sweatshirt beneath his hair. "Dean was counting on me to get us in and out in one piece, and all I did was get him hurt again. Dammit!"
"Sam, honey, no, it's not your fault. Blame me for letting you go in there again, blame that bitch haunting the place, but it's not your fault. And you know Dean would tell you same thing."
He rolled his head sideways and met her eyes. "Well," he said, "he wouldn't blame you, either."
"Okay, it's the bitch's fault, then, all right?"
"Yeah," he sighed, "you're right." Then he almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the most welcome sound in the world.
Dean groaned.
Sam managed to get to his clumsy, shaking knees and turned so he could see his brother's face. Yes, that was definitely a grimace, and he could see the fluttering of eyelids struggling to open.
"Dean?" he said hopefully. "You awake?"
"Ohhh," came the less than coherent response an eternity later. Dean shifted on the couch, and Sam helped him hitch into an almost upright position. Then he groaned again, and rubbed his hands over his face.
"Dean?"
The hands fell away, and Sam grinned as the eyes opened fully to meet his own. But as his brother stared at him too long with a rather quizzical expression, Sam's grin faded. There was no recognition in those familiar green eyes, no spark, only confusion. With a chill that went deep into his very soul, Sam found himself looking back at a stranger. And he thought he'd been kicked in the stomach when he heard the first words his brother spoke.
"Why are you calling me 'Dean'? My name is Alex." His head tilted in puzzlement as he searched Sam's face. "Who are you?"
xxxxx
Dean Winchester was lost. Lost in the embrace of a beautiful woman, drowning in an overwhelming onslaught of memories that were not his own.
But even as the thoughts and images cascaded through him, becoming clearer and more real, even as the woman's arms held him like a familiar lover, something about the entire situation felt not quite…right. Whatever it was, it eluded his grasp like a darting minnow. But it made him uneasy enough to end the kiss and break away from her. He stared down into those beguiling blue eyes that he recognized, that he loved, that he'd never seen before outside of a dream…
"Bridget," he said, tasting the name on his tongue.
"Alex," she said, smiling back at him, the joy practically shining out of her. "Oh, Alex, my darling, you're here, I knew you would return. I knew you would come back, if only I waited long enough."
Her voice held a hint of a lilting accent. She was small; she barely came up to his shoulder. Her black hair was loose down her back, the way he liked it, hanging in long, silky waves. Clad in a blue dress that matched her eyes, her radiant beauty struck him anew. The look of sorrowing loss that he'd last seen on her face, in some memory (or dream?) that had nearly made him weep, was no longer in evidence.
Because of him? He had been gone, she said. Gone…
But…
"I'm…not Alex," he said, almost certain. "I'm…" He floundered.
"Of course you're Alex," she said lightly, laughing. "And who else would you be, then?"
He put a hand to his head, as though trying to will the fleeting thought to surface again. It was there, somewhere, he knew it…But she took his hand away, holding it between her own, and led him to a loveseat to pull him down to sit beside her.
"It has been far too long, my dearest. I have missed you so much." The blue eyes turned earnest and hopeful, almost pleading. "But now you're here with me again, and you'll never have to leave. We can be together, always."
They had been here together. He could see them, in this very room, sitting together, leaning against one another in the evenings, talking softly and laughing, happier than he would've thought possible. For too short a time, though, not even a year, and then he had left for war…
But there was someone else, wasn't there? Someone else he used to laugh with, and tease, and without whom life wouldn't be worth a damn or have any meaning. Someone he had always watched over and looked out for… He could almost see – him? Tall, lanky, a wide grin… A sudden sharp throbbing in his temples caught him unawares, driving all other thought out of his mind, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut against the pain.
"Alex, I'm here, I'm right here," she kept saying, desperation coloring her voice. "Don't leave me, please. Not again." Her hand stroked across his forehead, and he felt the pain ease.
"No, Bridget, no, I won't," he said, smoothing her hair and drawing her against his shoulder. "Of course I won't leave you. Why would I ever do that?"
She settled into him, sighing, his arm around her, and he again had that twinge of wrongness about his surroundings. He knew this room, he recognized it as the front sitting room, but as he glanced around, he could sense…something off about it. Hadn't it looked…different, somehow, the last time he'd seen it? In darkness. With a strange flickering light… The pain flared again, briefly, enough to distract him from further contemplation of anything but Bridget. For she was his heart and soul, his very life.
How long they sat together, quiet, content, he couldn't have said, but gradually an awareness of other sounds, of voices, perhaps, intruded upon his senses. He frowned, and slowly straightened up, easing Bridget away from him. She made a small noise of protest, but she was nearly asleep and didn't stir. Where were those sounds coming from? There was urgency about them, somehow, a fearful warning…He needed to know. He had to. Getting to his feet, he slowly pivoted toward the door. Before, he had felt absolutely no desire to leave this room; now, he found himself almost frantic to get out. There was a reason he had to leave… But something had been holding him back, wanting him to stay.
He looked over at Bridget, now lying curled on the loveseat.
Then he staggered as a crack of thunder, or cannon fire in the heat of battle, seemed to go off right over his head. The room darkened as though clouds had covered the sun, and a sudden whirlwind swept through, scattering books from the table and billowing the curtains from the windows. Then it died as quickly as it had risen. Now. He ran for the door.
"No! No, you cannot leave! You mustn't!" Bridget was on her feet, staring wildly at him. "Alex, no, you promised!" She held out beseeching hands to him, but made no move to come closer. "It's not safe outside! Alex!"
Torn, he met her eyes, wet with tears, but he had to know what was on the other side of the door, and why she didn't want him to find out. He wrenched it open, and there was nothing but a dark void, roaring with an angry, battering wind. It was terrifying. But before he could even blink, he made an instinctive choice. For some reason, he thought of that lanky young man with the mop of dark hair, whoever he was. Bridget screamed as he threw himself forward. He fell, tumbling and twisting, hearing the echoes of Bridget's cries, and still he fell through the darkness...
And heard a voice he thought he should know calling for him. He slowly became conscious of lying on his back, of pain in his ribs and chest, and he let out a groan. A hand under one elbow helped him to sit up, and he managed to get his eyes open after scrubbing his hands over his face. Staring back at him, anxious, he thought, and with a growing smile, was a young man. With a mop of long dark hair. Familiar, maybe – but how…
"Dean?"
What? Baffled, he stared back. Where was he? No Bridget. No sunlit room. After a long moment of tongue-tied confusion, he finally asked, "Why are you calling me 'Dean'? My name is Alex." He watched panic, hurt, loss, he wasn't quite sure, fill the young man's eyes, but he could only say, helplessly, "Who are you?"
With those words, he saw he might as well have ripped out the young man's heart.
He found that he hated having put such an expression on this man's – boy's – face, and he said helplessly, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
To his surprise, the other man reached up to cup his face between gentle long-fingered hands, and with a strong, steady stare, he said, "It's okay, it's not your fault. Listen to me. Your name is Dean. Dean Winchester. You're the eldest son of John and Mary Winchester. You were born on January twenty-fourth, 1979, in Lawrence, Kansas. I'm –"
"Sam," he whispered. Reality turned one hundred and eighty degrees on its head, and came crashing down on him. Sam. My little brother, Sammy. I'm not Alex, dammit. I'm Dean. I'm Sam's big brother. He shivered. He could still feel Bridget, in his mind, somehow; and she wanted him back. She wanted Alex back. But Alex was dead, and so was she… "Cold," he said, his teeth chattering. "It's so cold. Don't leave me there, Sam."
"I won't, Dean, I won't. I promise," Sam said, the words tumbling from his mouth. "Come on, Dean, stay with me, now, come on." Sam let go of his face and instead wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders and pulled him close.
It wasn't enough.
"Sammy," he choked out, breathless. "She's got me. She's in my head, has been since…" He could feel himself slipping away, losing his grasp on the living world as she fought to pull him back into hers. "She's too strong," he gasped, trying to hold on, his fingers curling frantically, uselessly, into Sam's shirt. "And I'm so damn tired… You gotta help me, Sam."
"I will, you know I will," Sam promised, fierce and resolute.
"Sam," he said, one more time, before Bridget furiously swept him away into the cold and the dark, into her memories and her past, and the last sound he heard was Sam's voice, crying his name.
xxxxx
"If I can't remember my own damn name when I wake up, it's all your damn fault."
"Just don't forget mine."
"Not a chance, geek boy."
Sam's fists wound themselves in Dean's sweatshirt, holding tight, holding Dean awkwardly against him. Those horribly prophetic words, spoken as a joke, ran wildly through his mind. Dean's head lay on his shoulder, but his brother was gone again, trapped back in that place of nightmares. She had done this to him; she was the one hurting him, stealing his memories. And now Sam would have to fight her for his brother's life.
It was not a fight Sam intended to lose.
He had forgotten about the others in the room with him. All he'd been able to see was Dean, but now he felt the weight of their shocked, hushed attention, centered on him.
"Sam," Ginny said at last, very softly, breaking that heavy silence.
He raised his head wearily from where it rested against Dean's.
"He's gone again," Sam whispered. "She took him back."
"Sam, honey, why don't you let Ian help you get Dean upstairs to your room, all right? I think your brother will be more comfortable if he's lying in bed. You stay with him, and we'll get to work on this stuff we dragged out of the house. Okay? How does that sound?"
She was talking to him like a frightened child, he thought, and maybe she wasn't too far off the mark. But Sam had seen way too much in twenty-odd years, had endured too much to fall apart because his brother's consciousness somehow came to be trapped by the ghost of a dead woman. He'd seen worse happen to his brother…
He nodded. Ian was there in an instant, and though Sam was reluctant to let go, he slowly loosed his tight hold on Dean.
"Okay, Sam," Ian prodded gently. "I've got him. Come on."
They carried him upstairs, and Sam held Dean carefully against him as Ian turned down the blankets on the bed that Dean had made with near-military precision that morning. Sam got him lying down with Ian's help, and then tugged Dean's boots off and drew the covers up to his chest.
"Thanks," he said, not quite looking at the Englishman. "I'll be down in a few minutes, okay?"
"Sure, Sam." With a brief touch on Sam's shoulder, Ian was out the door, closing it behind him.
Sam let out a long breath as he sagged down beside Dean, wiping tiredly at his eyes.
"Dude," he said, feeling a painful need for some of Dean's smartass-ness, "I know you think you're a chick magnet, but come on, she's dead. You gotta draw the line somewhere, okay? I mean it. What the hell am I gonna do with you? Can't take you anywhere…" He swallowed, and briefly wondered if he should even bother to call their father. Hey, Dad, there's this dead chick, and she's got it bad for Dean. Problem is, we don't even know who she is or where she's buried. So you see, Dean's in some serious trouble here if we can't find her bones pretty damn soon and turn her into smoke. What do you think, Dad? We could sure use your help on this one... "Dean, you hang in there, okay? I'll get you out, I promise. Don't let this chick push you around. Use that Dean Winchester charm on her that you're always bragging about, talk her into throwing you out."
He could hear Dean's comeback for that one, complete with a patented smirk. Sure, Sammy, no problem. She doesn't stand a chance, not against yours truly. You may have your psychic boy superpowers, but dude, I've got these devilish good looks and this killer smile. So quit worryin', okay?
"Okay," Sam whispered. He put a hand on his brother's chest, needing the reassurance of feeling a continued beating heart, remembering a time not long ago when it hadn't beat, when Dean lay in a damp basement, not breathing… How long would it take for that fear to go away? If it ever would.
With one last long look at Dean's pale face, strangely peaceful, Sam got up and ran downstairs into the living room. Before the astonished group could say anything, he snagged the duffel bag, and said over his shoulder on his way out, "Be right back." Taking the stairs two at a time, he quickly got to work back in their room. He didn't know if a salt circle would do any good at this point, but he decided it sure as hell couldn't hurt, and he was willing to try anything to protect Dean.
Luckily, the bed was on casters, on a hardwood floor, so he was able to move it away from the wall enough to form the circle more easily all the way around. But first… After a quick rummage through the other items brought up from the trunk of the Impala the day before, Sam pulled out two small wooden carvings, old objects of power from a long-dead shaman. Where John had gotten them, he'd never found out. Then there was the stone; flat, grey, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and inscribed with a prayer in a dead language to gods with lost names. One more, he thought, and decided on the Egyptian scarab for luck. As he bound the four sacred objects to the four corners of the bed, he murmured a litany in a language older than Methuselah to the four winds and the four elements, to banish evil and plea for protection. That done, he quickly poured the salt around the bed, and sealed his brother within the circle.
He sat back on his heels, wiped his forehead, and surveyed his handiwork. There was almost a shimmer around the bed, like heat waves on the highway on a summer's day, and he only hoped the power would help Dean, wherever he was…His brother hadn't stirred during all of Sam's working, and in fact, Sam thought uneasily as he studied him, he looked possibly even worse than before. Ghastly pale, with sunken eyes, he could've been a corpse laid out for a wake… Stop it! Just stop thinking things like that! He's going to be all right. He's got to be.
"Hang in there, Dean," he said again, then brushed his hands on his jeans and with one backward glance, headed downstairs.
The mood in the living room when he returned was far from jubilant. Though Ginny and her group of students had successfully raided the Thornton house of quite a large amount of books, records, and documents, all to help in solving the mystery of their ghost, no one looked much like celebrating. They were desultorily flipping through books and rummaging in the boxes they'd hauled out.
Ginny looked up. "Sam, how's Dean? Is it all right to leave him alone?"
He slumped into the couch cushions, wearily stretched out his legs, and wished he could cheer them up. "He's still out." Not sure he was up for a lecture on sacred circles and protection rituals, he simply added, "I, ah, think it's safe to leave him for a while. I'll check on him a little later." Shaking his head, he went on, quietly, "He managed to get away from her before, wherever it is she's got him, but…I think he's getting weaker. We're running out of time. Dean was right about that, somehow he knew…"
Hesitantly, looking up from a large book she held in her lap, Lissa asked, "What was that about him thinking he was someone named Alex? Is there another ghost? Is that like he's…possessed, or something?"
Grimacing at the unbidden memory of the insane, dearly departed – and thankfully burnt – Dr. Ellicott, Sam said, "No, I don't think that's what happened here. I think it's our ghost who did that to him. Did you guys hear what Dean said? 'She's got me. She's in my head.' Maybe we need to find out who this Alex is. At least that's a name, somewhere to start."
"There were a couple of Thornton men named Alexander," Angie said, flipping through her notebook until she found the page she wanted. "Okay, here it is. One was born in 1830, and died in, um, May of 1864, during the Civil War, and the other…where is he, I know I saw it…okay, yeah, lived from 1918 to 1944 – another soldier, killed on D-Day."
"Okay," Sam said, "so let's look at them and find out –"
An odd strangled exclamation from Lissa cut him off. "I don't think we need to look any further, you guys. No wonder our ghost latched onto Dean." Sam craned his head to see what she had. The big book in her lap was actually a dusty old photo album, cracked and a bit tattered. She now delicately held up, with slightly trembling fingers, a sepia-toned print that had come loose from the faded page. "I think our 1830 Alex is the one." She passed the picture over to Sam. "Does the expression 'dead ringer' apply here?"
Sam stared down at the photo she had given him, and cold fingers walked down his spine. "Holy shit," was all he could manage. It was Dean. It was Dean in a Confederate officer's uniform, standing tall and handsome, gazing solemnly into the camera, a tasseled cavalry sword slung at his hip, boots and buttons gleaming.
Angie was leaning over his shoulder, agog. "Yeah, the resemblance, as they say, is uncanny. I mean, my God, that's impossible," she went on in awe. "He's got Dean's mouth. He's got those lips."
"And those illegally long eyelashes," Lissa put in. "No man should have eyelashes that long, it's just not fair. Bet his eyes are green, too," she added.
Ian rolled his own eyes Sam's way. "Girls. So easily impressed by a pretty face."
"Oh, you're just jealous," Lissa said.
Despite the fact that Dean was lying unconscious upstairs, Sam couldn't help the smile that broke out. It wasn't anything he'd never heard (or overheard) before. Women swooned over his brother. And didn't that just make Dean a smug bastard? Pain in the ass, no kidding.
"Ladies," Ian was saying, "I'm the one with the cultured British accent."
Sam went back to staring at the photo. Yes, it was uncanny, but the longer he looked the more he could see that the other man was not an exact double for his brother. He flipped the photo over, and it had the date written there, June 22, 1861, in a smooth copperplate hand. So, Alex Thornton was thirty or thirty-one at the time this was taken, older than Dean, with lines around his mouth, and crow's feet at his eyes; his hair was longer and not quite as dark… He shivered again.
"Are you sure you guys aren't related to this family? Or hey, what about reincarnation," Lissa speculated.
"Nope, no relation, just a coincidence," Sam said, not wanting to think about that too deeply. There are no coincidences, not in our family.
"Well, it sure is spooky. As if it weren't already." She went back to the album, flipping pages. "There's got to be more pictures of our Alex in here…"
Ginny hadn't said a word during all of this, and he glanced up to see her troubled expression. "So who is the woman, and what does she want with Dean? Is she this Alex's wife, jilted girlfriend, scorned mistress, murdered lover out for revenge, what? Why is she doing this? Does she think Dean is Alex?"
"Or does she just want Dean to be Alex?" Sam looked at the photo again, thoughtful. "She's in his head, according to Dean. She has to know he's not the same man. So maybe she…what? Filled his head with what she thinks Alex would know? So that he'd know her? Trying to make Dean forget who he is…" It had scared him when Dean had woken up thinking they were still in Nebraska; but that stare of confusion just moments ago directed at Sam, brief though it was, shook Sam even more. For Dean not to recognize him, to lose his brother to another's memory… Sam felt sick.
Well, I guess we've ruled out Ginny's post-traumatic stress theory. It's been that bitch of a ghost, all along, in his head and screwing things up.
Angie, back at her notes, said, "No record of our Alex having been married. Must be a sweetheart…"
"I did see her, for just a moment," Sam said thoughtfully, trying to recapture her in his mind's eye. "She was young, maybe in her early twenties… Dark hair. Pretty, I think, except for the fact that she looked angry as hell…"
"I'll see what I can do," Lissa said, carefully turning more pages. "If he's in here, hopefully she will be, too. Otherwise, well, we found lots of junk. She's got to turn up if she's in the family."
"Let's just keep digging," Sam said, and tried to get the image of Dean's eyes, staring at him like a stranger, out of his mind. Dean, don't give up. I'll get you out of there, I promise.
xxxxx
"Noooooo! Sammy!"
One moment he was leaning weakly on Sam, trying to wrap his brain around the whole damn weirdness of it all; then, a dizzying flash later, he found he'd been pulled back inside the Thornton house – or some past version of it – ensnared in the memories of a dead woman.
But this time he knew who he was. He remembered. Everything. He was Dean Winchester, dammit, and Sam's big brother. Not Alex fucking Thornton.
"And I never will be!" he shouted into the air from where he lay sprawled on the floor where he'd fallen. Where she'd dumped him, metaphysically speaking. "You hear me? You won't make me forget again, I won't forget my brother!"
No answer. Just silence.
Dean got to his feet – surprise, surprise, no pain in his battered ribs, another sign all of this wasn't real – and saw he was in the front sitting room again. Maybe her favorite room in the house? This was where she'd started to throw things at Ginny. Where she'd attacked him and Sam, where they'd performed the binding ritual, and he'd gotten trapped right along with her.
But she'd been in his head even before then, he knew that for sure now; he'd dreamt of her, of the sweet scent of roses, for she'd been walking through his nightmares right behind the reaper…
No sign of her now, though. At least, not right in front of him, putting her slender arms around him, looking up with those big blue eyes… He shook his head, determined not to think of blue eyes shining with tears. The house itself, instead of bright with some long-ago summer's day, was now nothing but grey twilight, grim and shadowed. And cold, cold as the grave. It was slowly seeping under his skin, into his bones, numbing him and making him shake. Did the house somehow reflect her, or her mood? Was she in hiding – or angry that he had flung himself out the door, after that promise never to leave her?
"Bridget!" he called, as he began to prowl about. First trying the front door – locked, he couldn't budge it, she'd obviously decided he wouldn't be using that as a likely escape route again – he then checked the windows. He found another door in the kitchen, but no luck there. She'd battened the place down tight. Looked like he was stuck. For now. He wondered if it were simply a case of willing himself out, of being strong enough to overcome whatever it was that bound him to her. Or it might just all come down to Sam…
After searching the first floor in vain, calling her name, he started climbing the wide staircase to the second floor. "Bridget, come on out! I won't hurt you, I just want to talk!" Shadows in the corners, a tense stillness in the air; he could feel her here, somewhere, watching, listening. "I can't stay with you, Bridget, you know that," he went on, as he continued his methodical sweep through the rooms. "I'm not Alex. I can't be Alex for you…"
"I know," she said, suddenly standing a few feet away, further down the hall, nearly hidden in the gloom.
Dean stopped, then took a single step back as she moved forward. The shadows fell away from her as she drew closer, and she was as heartbreakingly beautiful as he remembered. But the sadness had returned, her eyes were bleak, and for a moment, for just a breath, he wished he had been Alex Thornton, coming home to her, to always be with her, to make her smile again… Then he wondered, uneasily, was that his thought, or some lingering fragment of a memory she had put there?
He fought down a shudder and forced himself to stand still as she approached and stopped in front of him.
"I know you're not Alex," she began, studying him with almost hungry intensity. "But oh my Lord," she whispered, as she reached up a hand to touch his cheek, but frowning and drawing it back when he could not restrain a flinch, "you could be, for you do so look like him. When I first saw you, I thought you were my Alex, come home at last. I'd been waiting for him, you see, and it was forever and ever, and I grew so lonely… I don't know where he is. He lied to me, after all, and he's not coming." The tears slowly started to fall. Her eyes glittered as she looked at him, and he thought he saw madness there. "You lied, too, when you said you'd stay," she went on, her voice becoming cold. "But I have you now, and you're not leaving. You might not be Alex, but I can still make you think you are. I won't be alone any more."
"Bridget, no, I can't be with you," Dean started, but cut himself off when he saw the mounting fury on that lovely face. Great, not only is she dead, but she's fucking crazy. I sure hope you're having better luck than I am, Sammy. Hope you guys found what you needed and are doin' the research, 'cause I don't know if I can make it outta here on my own... In the meantime, though, maybe a change of plan is called for here; she doesn't want to hear 'no' for an answer. Use that God-given charm you've got, not to mention these devilish good looks and killer smile. C'mon, Dean, how hard can it be to calm the wrath of a dead, pissed-off, almost sort of girlfriend?
"Bridget, sweetheart," he smiled (the smile he saved for pretty girls, the one that nine times out of ten, got him a phone number), and put out his hand. "Let's go downstairs, sit for awhile, and talk things out. There's nowhere I gotta be, so hey, I might as well spend some time with you. All right?"
She stood, fists clenched at her side, obviously distrusting, but he kept his smile in place until it ached and gradually the anger faded; she softened and smiled back, taking his hand in her own.
Yes indeed, if she had a phone number, it would be mine. Now be careful, don't forget she's nuts. Oh, shit, she's probably reading my mind...
xxxxx
Sam checked on Dean throughout the evening, every half hour or so, and though his brother refused to wake up, he was at least still breathing. And Sam felt his hopes diminish with every trip back up the stairs.
By two in the morning, Sam couldn't see anything except a blur instead of whatever it was he was trying to read, the yawns were nearly continuous, and so he finally turned off the lights and took himself away to bed. The others had already called it quits at least an hour ago, but he'd doggedly kept going through the miscellaneous piles of stuff they'd hauled out. The woman remained a mystery. No mention, no photos, nothing. He was beginning to think she'd never existed, for they were no closer to finding out who she was…
Once in their room, it was hard to not go to him, to put a hand against his throat and feel for himself that Dean's pulse beat strong and steady. But he didn't want to risk breaking the barrier of the circle, not yet.
He had just come out of the bathroom; teeth brushed, and changed into sweat pants and a t-shirt, when there was a quiet knock at the door.
It was Ginny, in pink pajamas, and a white robe adorned with flamingos. She looked almost as tired as Sam felt.
"I know it's late, Sam, I'm sorry, but I just wanted to see how Dean was. Do you have a minute?"
He swung the door open wider. "Of course, come on in. Just watch your step."
As she stepped into the room, her eyes were immediately drawn to the salt circle on the floor and the bed within it; and Dean, unconscious, lying there so still.
"Sam, what the hell?" She walked around it as far as she could, studying it, and he could see the growing fascination on her face. "Is this one of those protective circles you were talking about?" At his nod, she went on. "And you think this will help Dean, to keep that thing away from him?"
Sitting down in one of the reading chairs, he sighed and gestured for her to do the same. "I'm not sure. I didn't think it could hurt, though."
"How is he? Any change?"
Her worried gaze was focused on Dean, and Sam could see the strain the last few days had taken on her. She'd been strong for them all, Sam included, and he felt a sudden rush of affection for her, for the way she'd looked after them both, but especially Dean, right from the start.
"No. No change." He pulled his feet up and hugged his knees. "I can't lose him, Ginny," he said abruptly. "I can't. He's all I've got left. We're it. If he doesn't make it out of this…" His throat closed up, and he just shook his head.
"Oh, Sam," she reached out to give his leg a pat. "I wish I could say for sure that everything is going to turn out all right. But still, from what I've seen – and what I've heard – your brother is not the kind of man to give up too easily."
"What you've heard?" Sam repeated, raising his eyebrows. "What does that mean?"
She fiddled with the belt on her robe. "Well, when we started having our strange little…situation, I was on the phone with an old friend, and I was telling him about it, asking if he thought I was crazy. He was quiet for a little too long, and then he told me about a friend of his who taught at some posh prep school up in New England. He wasn't very forthcoming about the details; all he did was give me his friend's name and number, told me to call him and tell him my story. So I did."
Sam listened quietly, having an idea of where this was going. That cryptic comment Ginny had made upon meeting them, the one that had Dean growling, suddenly made sense. What had she said… Oh, yeah. "I thought you'd be older."
"Seems they'd had a little problem of their own, at this school, about three years ago – a rash of sudden, inexplicable suicides among a group of smart kids who had no reason to do such a thing. But somebody knew somebody, and these two men showed up and took care of the problem. The teacher at the school was reluctant to tell me much at first, but I weaseled the whole story out of him. Seemed that the ghost of a student who had killed himself back in the thirties was reenacting his death by making these students commit suicide as well. Well, these two men, an older man and – well, the teacher called him a boy – they got rid of the student's ghost, but before that, the boy almost died the same way those other kids had. The ghost tried to make him hang himself."
"Dean." Sam swallowed in a dry throat, and closed his eyes. Three years ago. He'd been a freshman at Stanford, living a new life and trying to forget his old one.
"Uh huh. But the boy was too damn stubborn, I guess, because even though that ghost had the rope around his neck, he kept fighting. Then your father" – and it almost sounded like a question – "did whatever it is you boys do, just in time, and though Dean had stopped breathing for a minute or two, he came back."
"He never told me that one," Sam said, dropping his head onto his knees.
"He probably didn't want to worry you. Isn't that what older brothers do?"
"Oh, yeah." His face was still buried against his kneecaps. "Stupid, stubborn idiot."
"He'll keep fighting, Sam. We'll get to him in time, I'm sure of it."
"Thanks, Ginny." He turned his head to the side.
"Sam…" She hesitated, obviously torn in wanting to ask more, but also respecting his privacy. Curiosity won out. "What about your father? I mean, I called his number, the one I got from the friend of my friend, but then I got Dean's number… And when I asked at the hospital if there was anyone I should call for you, you said there was no one. Is he, did he…?"
"No," Sam sighed, wearily. "He's not dead. He's just sort of…incommunicado, I guess. We've been looking for him, when we aren't doing…other stuff." His voice tightened. "But he never showed up when Dean was sick, when he was…dying. I called, I had to leave a goddamn message, and for all he knows, Dean could be dead now. Did he ever call back? Ever try to find out what was wrong? Hell, no. So," he looked over at Dean, "it's just us. Dean and me."
"It still will be, Sam. Dean won't want to leave you, either." She stood up and gathered her robe around her. "I'm going to bed." As she turned to go, she got as close to the salt circle on the floor as she could and said to Dean, "Goodnight, sweetie. I expect you to be up in the morning. Quit slacking."
"Ginny –" Sam got up and on impulse pulled her into a hug. "Thanks."
She hugged him back, hard, before letting go. "Go to bed, Sam." Then she ducked out the door.
"Hear the lady, Dean?" Sam said, looking over at his brother. "Wake up… Don't stop fighting, okay? Don't leave me…"
xxxxx
She'd insisted on the loveseat again, but at least she wasn't cuddled against him. Instead she sort of backed into the corner, making herself small (and she wasn't that big to start with), and Dean kept a careful distance between them.
"Tell me about Alex," he said, certain that the subject would get her talking. "What was he like?"
"Oh." She smiled, and it transformed her face. The angry, scorned woman was gone; she was no longer mad with grief, or loneliness, but once again the sweet, lovely girl who had kissed him with such passion.
Don't go there, Dean. Stop thinking about that. You're not sticking around just because she's a great kisser. She's dead.
But not crazy, either, is she, he realized with a pang somewhere in his chest. Just sad and lonely.
"He was so handsome." Her eyes swept slyly over him, and he fought the blush that rose in his face. "But you know that already." And she laughed. "He came into the shop where I worked. When I saw him, I thought I'd never seen anything so fine and beautiful in all my life. He wanted to buy his sister a birthday present, and he asked for my help. He bought her a lacy shawl, and I wrapped it up for him, and he was ever so kind. And then," she went on, as though still unable to believe it, "he came back the next day, to ask me out for tea, and the day after that. Me, Bridget O'Connor! A poor Irish shopgirl, with no one in the whole wide world. A man like that, interested in me…"
"It's not so surprising at all," Dean said gently. "I would have asked you out for tea, too." The words were out before he could stop them, but he found he meant them. He gave himself a mental slap. You're supposed to work on getting out of here, not giving her more reasons to keep you around. Jackass. "Um, what then? He took you home to meet his parents?"
Bridget's mouth quirked up in a funny little smile, showing dimples. "We got married. Then he took me home."
"Well, a man who wastes no time when he sees what he wants. I can admire that."
She laughed, and he grinned along with her. "So he took me home, to this grand house, and wasn't I just the fish out of water then. He bought me fine new clothes, pretty things, not that I needed anything but him, and we were so happy. His sister was lovely, and treated me like her own sister herself. His younger brother was a sweet boy, he adored Alex, and I grew to love them all so much." She trailed off, her gaze looking over his shoulder, somewhere beyond him, into the past.
"What then, Bridget?" he asked softly. "What happened then?"
She was silent for so long that he thought he'd lost her. But she seemed to shake herself out of where she'd gone, and looked at him again, though the sadness was back in her eyes.
"Alex's parents had been abroad all this time, traveling in Europe, the whole Grand Tour," she said. "They didn't know about me, Alex didn't tell them."
"So when they came home…"
"We'd gotten married in June. June 22, 1860. We had a few months together, less than a year, when the war started in April of 1861. He was an officer, you see, a captain then. His parents came home, what with the war, worried about the plantation and the family, and you can probably guess what they thought about me…"
Oh, yeah. He could picture that scenario pretty well. Wealthy family. Snobbish, outraged parents. Young heir marries gold-digging white trash from the wrong side of the tracks. Bet it went over like a ton of bricks.
"Then he was gone, and I was here, alone, with them. Alex's younger brother, Daniel, joined a regiment and went off to fight. His sister, well, she was too young to defy her parents, so when they told her not to have anything to do with me, she had little choice."
"Oh, Bridget." He moved and suddenly she was in his arms, weeping silently on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry. Don't cry, now, it's all right. Shhh." He rocked her gently, his hand stroking her hair.
The tears eventually slowed, stopped, and she turned her head to rest it on his shoulder, but didn't pull away. "The slaves were the only ones who were nice to me," she said in a low, thick voice. "Maybe because they saw that I was as unhappy as they were. I hated the slavery, hated it, but they were so kind to me, especially Jacob, and Abigail. And Isaac and his wife, Penny… Even when, even after…" She couldn't go on, and Dean didn't push. She would tell him when she was ready.
She fell asleep in his arms, and strangely enough, he didn't mind.
xxxxx
Dean must have drifted off without knowing it, for when he opened his eyes, Bridget was gone from his side. The shadows had disappeared from the house. It was once again bright and sunny, and when he looked out the windows, it was high summer with the roses in full bloom. As he wandered from room to room, he had absolutely no sense of time passing; it simply was.
He fretted over Sam, who was no doubt fretting feverishly over him.
He wondered what day it was in the world, in the living world. He wondered if he was in a hospital. While he might feel fine here, out there he knew he was growing weaker, and had been since that first night they'd seen Bridget's ghost. Since she'd first gotten her ethereal hands on him, and gotten in his head somehow…
"I never meant to hurt you, you know," she said, doing that thing where she showed up out of nowhere and startled the bejesus out of him. It only made her laugh when he jumped, and he couldn't help grinning back.
"Hurt me when?" he asked, pulling out a chair for her at the table in the kitchen. He'd wound up here a while ago, amused when confronted by the lack of modern shiny appliances. No coffee maker or dishwasher in Bridget's old plantation kitchen, of course, just a monster of a cast-iron stove and gleaming copper pots and pans. He joined her at the table, and she tilted her head up at him.
"When you came in the first time. I didn't even notice you, until that rude young man came stomping in, all loud and shouting. I was throwing things at him. He'd been here before, and I didn't like him then, either. I'm sorry you got hurt."
"Oh, that's all right. It was my fault. I only meant to push him out of the way. Tripped over my own feet."
"You're very gallant," she said gravely. "Just like Alex. You are very much like him, you know."
"Besides handsome?" he teased.
"Oh, yes. Though," she considered him, "I think your eyes are greener." She looked down at her hands clasped in front of her on the table. "Dean –"
He started. That was the first time he'd heard her use his name.
"Why aren't you trying to get away, like before?" She raised her eyes to his again.
He panicked for a heartbeat or two. What could he say? Sure, sweetheart, just tell me where you're buried, let me get the hell out of this living death nightmare, and I'll go burn your bones and be on my way. Except he didn't quite feel that way, not anymore. What the hell was wrong with him?
"Um, well, I guess I wanted to see what I could do to help you," he managed to blurt. He chewed on his lip, wondering if he dared to bring up the subject again without provoking her wrath. On the other hand, she had asked. "Bridget, you know I can't stay here with you," he said, softly, "flattered though I am by your attention. But if you let us, I think my brother and I can help you…move on, so you can be with your Alex again."
"Because I'm dead."
"Uh, yeah," he agreed, definitely feeling weird about the idea, not to mention hearing her say it out loud.
"And Alex is dead." Her voice was flat.
He nodded.
"I don't know how," she whispered, suddenly looking very young, and very afraid. "I've been alone for so long. I just want to stay here; I know where I am. And I want you to stay with me." She started crying. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it, and I never meant to hurt you. But I was so lonely, and you were there, and I could see the hand of Death already upon you."
"Bridget?" He felt cold all over. Did she mean the reaper? "Bridget, what are you talking about? Do you mean when I was sick? When I was dying? How did you know about that?"
"I don't know!" she cried. "Because of what I am, I suppose. I saw Death on you, and I could touch you, see into you and your dreams. You were so beautiful, and I wanted you so badly. Then when you and your brother came back, and tricked me into that circle, you came with me because we were bound together. Because I'm dead and you were already marked from Death's touch."
"But I was healed, I was all right," he said, uneasy. The guilt rose up to choke him. "Someone else died for me, in my place."
"But then Death touched you again, and weakened your spirit," she said, hardly able to get the words out. "It was so easy to follow, to take your strength, your bright, living soul. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
And the reaper was grasping his head in a cold hand, driving him to his knees in a muddy field, killing him slowly with just a touch, and he didn't fight, didn't try to run, and his life bled away in the dark...
He swallowed, feeling his hands shake from the memory, and for a second his vision darkened. Shit. Dead, dying, trapped in limbo. Why can't anything ever be easy?
"Bridget, please, you have to help me." He got up to crouch next to her chair, taking her hands. "If I'm dying out there, you have to let me go. Send me back. You know I can't do it on my own. I'm not strong enough, not anymore."
"I'm sorry," she whispered again. "But it's too late."
TBC…
