One of these days I'm going to learn never to let chicks talk me into things that my gut tells me are a bad idea. But, apparently, today's not that day 'cause here I am going over Dad's journal looking for anything remotely applicable to our situation, my cell phone on the seat next to me. Neither Lindy nor I could bring ourselves to drive off and leave Sammy here, so we're sitting in the Impala with the car idling. By some miracle of technology, Lindy has picked up the faint traces of a wireless signal (why the hell is there wireless Internet in a ghost town?) and is able to get Internet on her laptop as long as she doesn't try to move at all. This is how I know my life has gone to hell: even demons can get access to AOL.
Come on, Dad. I know there's got to be something in here that'll free Sam without forcing me to send in a girl to kill this thing while I stand around distracting it. You know, this is really not how this is supposed to work. Sam and I are the ones who are supposed to come to the rescue. I wouldn't mind being the bait and letting Sam finish the job. Sam's been taught since he was old enough to hold a gun how to face evil. He wasn't just clued in and suddenly caught the hero bug despite a lack of training. I mean, Jesus, has she watched too many reruns of Buffy or something? You can't just pick up a stake and hope for the best.
I've been through Dad's journal twice now and the best I can come up with is still the same exorcism ritual Sam and I used on the plane. I glance at my watch and inwardly groan when I realize that my hour of research time is almost up.
"Find anything?" I ask the suicidal amateur demon-hunting reporter in the back seat. Seriously, what the hell? First, this girl can't even want to talk to me, then I have to spend all afternoon convincing her that the evil stuff really exists and that I'm not just trying to scare her, and now I have to spend all night convincing her not to go throwing herself into harm's way squaring off with one of said evil things. Why do I always attract the crazy ones? And why are they never Angelina Jolie?
"It may all be bogus, but there's some stuff on here about focusing on one fear, getting the demon to materialize in that fear. Then, you can beat the fear and beat it. Seems a little Disney fairytale-ish to me." Lindy shrugs.
I have to agree with her, but I notice that whatever she's reading is basically outlining the same plan that the exorcism I'm looking at details: force the demon to materialize in order to kill it. That would be all fine and dandy, too, if it wasn't for the fact that making the demon material makes it twice as powerful. I wonder if Lindy knows that.
"How about you?" she asks.
I frown at Dad's journal and then at my phone feeling like maybe, just maybe, Dad's sort of letting me down on this one, "Sort of."
Lindy scoots forward and looks over the seat at the journal, looking almost excited. That really worries me, but I don't know what to say so I push the worry to the back of my mind and try to forget it. I tilt the journal so that she can read it in the light of flashlights plus car lights.
"Uh, Dean? My Latin's a little rusty." she says after a few seconds of squinting at the page.
"It's an exorcism ritual. Sam and I have used it before. Forces the demon to manifest so you can kill it with the rest of the ritual." I explain.
Lindy nods as if that makes perfect sense or something. Then, she frowns as if something's troubling her. Her gaze leaves the journal and travels up to my face, "You know Latin?"
I'm a little offended by the surprise in her voice, but I shrug it off, "Just the important stuff."
I can't just sit here and small talk. Sam's in there going through hell right now. I suddenly can't even sit still, so I throw the door open and jump out. I can't believe Dad hasn't called me back yet. Of course, he never called when Sam told him I was dying in the hospital. But he must have had a good reason. He must have been in the middle of something that wouldn't let him take a time out to call his boys. There has to be some all-important reason why he's not calling me now, too.
I pace back in forth next to the Impala, my eyes glued to the building down the street. I want to walk back there, march right through the front door and just tell that damn demon to bring it. Anything but sit here while Sam's stuck in there with it. I mean, I know Sam is strong enough to fight his fears, but I've spent my whole life protecting him, trying to shield him from those same fears. I can't just stop now. He's my kid brother for Christ's sake.
I hear a car door closing quietly behind me and feel Lindy approaching cautiously. She doesn't say anything or touch me, but I feel her standing close, watching me pace.
"This is stupid. Let's just go back in there, I'll say the damn exorcism, and we'll get Sam out." I snap, although I know as soon as I say it that what I'm proposing isn't really something that will actually work. I felt that demon start to work it's mojo on me or whatever. I could feel nightmare images pushed to the back of my brain being dredged up and pulled before my eyes. It was almost as if I could feel it sorting through the things that I have forced myself not to think about, looking for the worst possible scenario. Makes my skin crawl to remember that sensation.
"I don't think that'll work, Dean." Lindy points out what I already know, "If I thought it would, I wouldn't argue with you. Honestly, I wouldn't. But I saw that thing starting to do whatever to you. I'm sure that if you go back in there, the same thing will happen. In fact, that's what I'm counting on for my idea to work."
What she's saying has a ring of truth to it, much as I hate to admit it. In fact, it's making me really pissed off that I, Dean Winchester, the experienced hunter of all things supernaturally nasty, can't think of something better. I take my anger out on an offending and conveniently nearby tree, punching the trunk and feeling with satisfaction the bark scrap the skin off my knuckles. I'm not sure who I wish I was punching: the demon, certainly, but maybe also Dad for not being here when I really need him, or maybe even Sammy for being such a stubborn shit and not listening to me. I'm even kind of pissed off at Lindy for continuing to point out my failure here, even though I know that's not what she means to do, but I'd never hit a girl. Well, not a human girl, at least.
"Alright." I finally growl, still facing the tree, staring down at my bloody fist, "We stick with your plan, but we're not going to spend all night out here playing teach the reporter to kick ass. I'm not leaving Sam in there any longer than we have to. One hour. I'll teach you everything I can in one hour, and then we go get Sam."
"Okay." Lindy agrees, but her voice sounds a little shaky. Can't blame her, really. I might be a little shaky too if someone just told me that I was getting sent in to kill a demon in one hour with only the skills I can learn in that time. Dad would never do anything this crazy. He'd kill me if he knew what I was doing.
But Dad's not here, I remind myself. He won't even call. So, crazy's all we've got. I turn around and face Lindy, dropping my hand to my side so she won't notice the self-inflicted damage, "Why don't we see how much of that throwing daggers stuff you remember?"
She nods, her face all seriousness, but with worry still clear to me in her eyes. I move back over to the car, turning it off and grabbing my phone before returning to her side. I stuff my keys and phone into my pocket and gesture behind me at the trees, "Pick a target."
She draws one of the daggers I gave her, holding it loosely in her right hand, testing the weight. They weren't designed specifically for throwing, but I know from experience that they can do the job. She switches the position of her hand on the dagger, holding it by the end of the blade. I watch carefully as she holds it up, her eyes focused on a nearby tree, maybe ten feet away. I can tell by the way she's holding the dagger that she wasn't lying about doing this before. She knows the technique, but even before she releases the dagger it's obvious that she's rusty. After a few preparatory motions, she throws. The dagger flies end over end towards the tree, but dips before it hits, barely sticking at all. She looks at me, her face the picture of embarrassment, disappointment, and anxiety. I try not to let my own anxieties about sending her in to fight a demon rear their ugly heads, instead remaining as emotionless as possible.
"Don't just stand there. Try again." I tell her, reminding myself of Dad.
I remember him saying almost that same thing to me when he gave me those and made me do this. The weight of the daggers isn't designed for throwing and I'd made almost the same mistake as Lindy, not compensating. Then, I'd spent the next ten minutes overcompensating. Dad never gave me any clue of what he felt about my screw-ups. He just kept telling me to try again. But every time I missed a target or the blade didn't stick, I felt like I was letting him down. And the more I felt like that, the more upset I got, and the more upset I got the worse I was throwing. Until Dad finally put his hand on my shoulder and said, 'Son, you're not thinking about throwing those daggers. You need to keep your mind on what you're doing and stop thinking about everything else.' I knew he was right. Dad's always right. So, I stopped thinking about everything but the dagger and the target. When I stuck the blade dead center, I looked at Dad. I'll never forget that kind of smile he gave me. Kind of a small smile that said, 'Don't let it go to your head, but I'm proud of you, son.' Out loud, all he told me was to do that again. That had been a good birthday.
Lindy retrieves the dagger and tries again. She's concentrating awfully hard and if the situation wasn't what it is, I might have laughed at the expression on her face. As it is, I focus on how she's releasing the dagger. As soon as it leaves her hand on the second throw, I see the problem. She's not compensating for the weight like she should be. Instead of expecting a downward arc and releasing at a higher angle, she's throwing straight, but with more force. Her blade sticks, but it's not where it should be. I could tell her what to do, but I'm curious if she'll figure it out on her own. That's how Dad taught us, anyway. So, I don't say anything, just gesture for her to do it again. She quickly picks her blade back up and repeats the process. Watching her silently, I find that she kind of reminds me of myself. That memory of me and Dad those years ago won't leave my head. She's even starting to do the same things that I had done, overcompensating and getting increasingly frustrated. So, in the interest of teaching, I decide to sort of channel Dad.
"Stop thinking about me and Sam and everything else." I tell her before she can throw again, "I can tell you know this. You're just over-thinking it."
She cocks her head to one side as she listens to me as if she's weighing my words. Finally, she nods to herself as if she's decided something before taking a deep breath and trying again. She waits before she releases, testing the dagger's weight again. When she finally does let it fly towards the tree, it hits at just about six feet up the trunk, right in the middle. Just about the height of someone's forehead. She stares for a moment at the knife sticking out of the tree, before turning towards me. A huge, somewhat feral grin appears on her face.
"Wait here." I tell her, going to get the dagger myself.
I wonder again why I've ended up with this girl whose five shades of fruitcake. In the words of Queen, she's 'stone cold crazy.' Normal girls don't decide to hook up with ghost hunters. Normal girls certainly don't stick around when those ghost hunters take her to a place like this where a demon's holed up. And normal girls sure as hell don't practice throwing daggers on the edge of a ghost town in preparation for what could very well be a suicide mission to rescue one of those ghost hunters from the clutches of that demon. Then again, a normal girl would be hysterical right now and that's the last thing I need. And when has my life ever been normal anyway? I'm not Sam. I don't play make-believe at college with my cookie-cutter girlfriend (no offense, Jess, don't haunt me). I grab the end of my dagger and pull it free from the tree trunk, grudgingly admitting that maybe what Sam had wasn't so bad. Still, that's not me. That's not the life Dad raised me for.
"If you can do that three more times, we can move on to something else." I tell Lindy as I walk back over and hand her the knife.
I'd like to make her practice more, but time is pressing. Sam's life and probably his sanity are ticking away the longer we do this, so a couple bulls-eyes is the most I can ask. Then, I've got to make sure she can fire a gun, say the exorcism properly, and get her in the right mental state to do all these things in the face of whatever this demon wants to throw at us. Jesus, after tonight I could open up Dean Winchester's School for Demon Slayers.
Hang on, Sammy. I'm doing the best I can.
