Title: Hunter's Crossing
Author: Signs Of Sun
Note: I know I disappeared for a while. Long, but good story. I won't torture you with the details. On with this story instead.
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Hunter's Crossing
Chapter 8
Dean's head clunked harshly into the metal of the Impala's passenger side door only a heartbeat before Sam reached him. Dean's face had flushed intensely then in the next instant he had become pale and unsteady on his feet.
John and Sam had called out to him several times without reaction before it had been clear that Dean wouldn't be remaining on his feet for too much longer. Both had lunged forward in a failed attempt to catch him on the way down.
"Dean? Dean?" Sam asked, insistently, and kneeled in the dirt beside the spot where his brother was slumped back against the car. But he wasn't rewarded with even the slightest form of a response. John squatted down on the opposite side of Dean and made his own attempt.
"Dean? Dean! Can you hear me?" he inquired. When still no response came John lightly patted Dean on the cheek a handful of times, repeating the words with deeper command. After a few seconds though he stopped, paused in the attempt to rouse his son, and placed the back of his hand on first Dean's cheek and then forehead.
"He's running a fever," he commented, glancing over to Sam.
"Let's get him up into the house," he continued and stood up.
"Lean him forward a little," John instructed. Sam obeyed and pulled Dean forward away from the car door by holding onto his arms. His head lolled forward and Sam moved in closer so his brother's forehead was supported by his right shoulder. John positioned himself behind Dean and placed his grasp under Dean's arms. Sam leaned the limp body propped up against him back into his father's body.
"I can carry him," Sam offered, suggesting hauling his brother on his shoulder.
"It's better we do it this way. We don't want to damage the burns any more."
"Right. Right," Sam replied and placed one hand under each of Dean's knees and stood slowly. On a silent count of three they lifted Dean's body off the ground and made their way from the driveway then slowly navigated the stairs. In the confusion the front door had been left standing wide open and they easily entered back into the house and into Dean's bedroom. A small grunt from both men accompanied Sam and John completing the delivery of Dean's limp body onto the bed.
"What the hell just happening? What was that? What is wrong with him?" Sam threw out inside a rapidly fired string of words aimed at his father.
"Alright Sammy. Alright. We need to take a breath and focus here for a minute."
"Focus, Dad? He thought the house was on fire. He believed it so much he literally dragged us out of here! Or do you not remember that part?"
"I remember it. Trust me. But right now we need to not panic. And panicking is exactly what you're doing."
Sam hung his head, resisting the crushing urge to lay into his father. Underneath the anger resided bewilderment, disbelief in how the man remained calm, almost calculating, in situations like these. Most days he excused it as the military trained man his father was, but at moments like this one, when it was his own child at risk, Sam just couldn't swallow that reasoning.
"How in the hell can you be so damn calm?" Sam asked in a soft voice. He diverted his gaze from his father to the still form of his brother.
"Because I don't have a choice! Panic is distraction. And distraction leads to mistakes. And where you and your brother are concerned there can't be mistakes. Understood?"
"Yeah. Yeah," Sam simply conceded and looked back up. His father's eyes held the spark of something, something less detached and composed. If Sam hadn't known better he might have suspected it was worry, but more likely he had misread it. It had probably just been sparks of annoyance.
"Look, Sammy, I know you're worried about your brother. But rushing through figuring this out isn't going to help him."
"I know. It just sc…surprised me is all. I was so wrapped up in unraveling that vision, trying to figure out how to stop it from happening. I guess I kind of freaked out when I saw Dean headed for that grill and then now when he said the house was fire."
"There's an answer Sammy. I don't know what it is yet, but I'll find it."
"We'll find it. We have to."
"We will son. I guarantee it. Hell or high water that vision of yours is not coming to be."
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The darkness was accompanied by a faint familiar hum for Dean. Truly it wasn't even darkness, it was nothingness. He shifted his weight, testing what was underneath his feet. The movement brought the groan of weathered wood. There was a floor below him. Sensing he was standing Dean hung his head and blinked his eyes a few times over then squinted, but where there should have been an image of a wood floor there remained only a visual void.
"What the hell?" he muttered, rubbing at his eyes with his fingertips. When that received the same results he turned slowly in a circle, a tad seasick on his own feet. His eyes sought out any trace of an object, image, or hint of light. They found none.
Only one sound existed, a warm murmuring. Akin to water flowing over the rocks in a stream it was constant and naturally reassuring. Listening intently for a moment he determined it was originating for above his head. Dean tilted his head back, searching. Again visually nothing came to him, but acoustically the low hum existed in all directions above him, haloing his location. He lowered his blind eyes out in front of him. Suddenly his stomach churned roughly. What else existed here that he couldn't see? He loathed the visual nothingness. His vulnerability sunk through to his core, pumping a rush of icy blood along inside his veins.
"Okay. Okay. Focus. Just focus. Don't panic. Panic leads to mistakes," he whispered, commanding himself to fall in line. Sight wasn't everything. Damn helpful, but not everything. He had other skills. Dean was motionless for a few long deep breaths, trying to sense his surroundings. There was space around him, but it wasn't entirely wide open. The place he was in was faintly drafty, the delicate breeze just skimming over his bare arms and the skin of his cheeks. His was the lone presence and with the exception of not being able to see he was physically healthy.
Putting his hands out in front of him Dean took a small step forward, praying that the wood floor would meet the bottom of his boot. He had no way to tell whether or not the floor was fully intact or if there was a step up or down. It was either risk it or stand indefinitely in the same spot, unseeing and vulnerable. Striking out into the unknown was a decision he had not hesitated about. His entire life had been venturing out into the unknown, seeking out what was born out of shadows and darkness. Hesitancy was a luxury a hunter could not afford.
After a handful of careful steps forward along the wood floor Dean had found a rhythm. His right hand poised out in front of his chest would prevent him from plowing face first into anything. His left hand had gravitated to being outstretched to his side, searching for something solid to guide him. Each step started with just the ball of his foot testing for the existence of wood underneath him, the majority of his weight still on his opposite foot ready to counteract if the floor was suddenly gone. A beat later, once the tip of his foot had met with solidity, the heel of his boot would land and he'd repeat the process.
"I must look like a damn idiot," he griped. But necessity wasn't always pretty so he continued on. The progress was slow, but Dean noticed that the murmuring that trickled over the air above him was still there, steady and soothingly clement. Suddenly the palm of his right hand met with something solid. Dean stopped and using both hands felt to identify the object which turned out to be a wall. Directionally he chose to skim his fingers over the surface going left. A few feet and the waning of his patience later his fingertips departed the wall into open air. Feeling around with his arms fully outstretched before him his right elbow bumped something cold and solid. Finally locating the object with his right hand he grasped on to it. Touch told him it was a doorknob.
Dean exhaled heavily. At this rate putting the puzzle together could take an eternity. A chilling thought occurred to him. Maybe this was some warped version of hell, endless searching in the darkness blind and alone. That would certainly qualify as a kind of hell, at least in his book. If he was going to hell he really preferred not to do it alone.
"Get it together Winchester," he instructed aloud.
"Now is not the time to crack up."
With that he stepped over the threshold of the doorway and managed to locate the wall beyond it. He had only taken one step when his shin rammed into something. Feeling out in front of him he found a rocking chair. He proceeded around it and then managed to maneuver around several other pieces of furniture. Just beyond a window sill his hands met with another solid object. This time it took several passes over the item to determine what it was, but discovered it was a bassinet. Between the rocking chair, small dresser, and the baby bassinet one small puzzle was solved. The room was a nursery.
Dean turned slightly to the left and was about to journey on when an intense sensation washed through him. He froze in place, one hand on the side of the bassinet and the other outstretched protectively in front of his chest. He inhaled gently and held it, listening and sensing. Dean could feel it in his gut, suddenly he was no longer alone.
The presence was unmoving just over his left shoulder. He was barely beginning to twist his body around to face it when the murmuring above him intensified and Dean felt himself tugged upward toward it. It's pull was so powerful to him that he was easily engulfed by it.
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"Did you remember anything else from the vision? Any details you haven't told me about?"
"No, Dad. There wasn't anything else. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. If that's everything then that's what we work with. "
"I just…" Sam began to reply quietly, but the thought he was going to verbalize was ended by the groan that came from his brother. John sat down on the bed and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder.
"Dean? You with us?"
"Can't a guy get a little sleep around here? Damn near impossible with you two yapping away right above me," Dean mumbled in reply. Sam couldn't help the smile that lit his face.
"That was just our way of annoying you back into consciousness," John teased, a faint smile escaping to his face too.
"Gee thanks. Back into consciousness?" Dean inquired and finally peeked his eyes open. His gaze landed upon his dad, seating next to him on the edge of the bed then drifted up to his brother when he spoke.
"You were out cold, man. Ran around here yelling the place was on fire. Practically dragged me and Dad out of here. We get outside and you hit the dirt."
"Sounds like a helluva time!" Dean responded quietly.
"You don't remember?" Sam questioned almost disappointedly.
"The fire part is a little fuzzy, but what happened just now, phew, damn clear as a bell."
"Dean, what do you mean what happened just now? You've been lying here on the bed, unconscious, for the last few minutes."
"Oh this is just great," Dean muttered, closing his eyes and shaking his head.
"What?"
"I was in this building, house I guess. I couldn't see anything. First, in a hallway I think then in a nursery. Then…"
"You're sure about this?" John asked. All traces of the slight smile his features had held before had vanished.
"One hundred percent." A silence followed Dean's reply. Sam looked down and studied the floor and John shifted his gaze off towards the window.
"I wasn't here. Least not all of me." Dean commented, breaking the tortuous silence.
"You weren't quite all here There's an understatement," Sam commented under his breath without looking up.
"Laugh it up vision boy."
"Enough! Can we stay focused here? Please. Dean, are you sure you weren't dreaming? Or hallucinating?" John jumped in with. His attention drifting away from his sons for a moment had been focus, concentration, not inattentiveness.
"No. I wasn't. It was real. And I wasn't alone."
"What'd ya mean you weren't alone?" John demanded.
"At first I was by myself, but after a while I felt, sensed, someone arrive. There was definitely another presence there with me."
"Good or evil?" Sam asked. His gaze was now straight at his brother, pleading for the right answer.
"It was right before I woke up. I didn't even have time to tell."
"No read whatsoever?" Sam inquired.
"Could be masking," John suggested.
"Masking?" Sam replied.
"Some entities, spirits, can mask their presence so it's hard to read," John responded and rose from the bed. He began to wander the confines of the room, the gears in his mind keeping pace with his footfalls.
"So that you can't tell they're evil?" his youngest suggested and let his weary body sit down, settling near the end of the bed.
"It's not only evil entities that have the ability. Some good spirits possess it too," John said, stopping by the window.
"Kind of like being unidentifiable to radar?"
"Precisely."
"But it's more likely to be evil. Why would a good spirit want to mask their presence?" Sam questioned.
"From evil," Dean piped in quietly. His eyelids had slid closed again, pulled their by their immense weight, but he had been tuned into the conversation.
"Right. If an evil spirit can't tell whether something is good or evil it doesn't know what it's up against and, therefore, the best way to react," their father continued with the explanation.
"So it could be either."
"You got it."
"That's just great."
"So if we assume it's evil we have a shot at destroying it. But if we assume it's evil and it's not we could inadvertently destroy something good," Sam replied. Frustration was evident in his voice. He took a breath before continuing the thought.
"And if it is evil and we don't destroy it…"
"We're screwed," Dean announced.
"Bingo!" John said, confirming the sentiment and looking away from his sons and off at nothing in particular.
"We have another problem," Sam announced, this time chasing the words with a heavy sigh.
"What?" John prompted for more details.
"Dean is the only one who has had any contact with it and that was in his head. How are we supposed to fight something we can't even interact with?"
"I don't know yet. We don't even know if it's something that needs fighting. But we'll figure it out Sam," John replied in a mixture of gentleness and determination. Scarcely a heartbeat later he had departed the bedroom. It was only then that the sound of the doorbell penetrated the brothers' thoughts. Their father had apparently heard it though and gone to answer.
"You guys can't fight it. But I can. And if it's evil it's going down one way or another," Dean told Sam, meeting his brother's eyes solidly.
"You have no idea how much I hope you're right."
"I am Sammy. No doubt about it."
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John peeked out through the crack between the drapes that hung over the living room windows. A short stocky man probably in his late fifties stood on the porch, his hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets and his eyes directed a eager stare at the closed door.
"What now?" John mumbled and moved to the doorway. He took in a deep breath and opened the door.
"Can I help you?" he stated, sounding disgustingly polite and normal. It was a sure sign he'd been doing this too long, pretending and conning people in the name of his quest.
"Good evenin'. Name's Renmore. Most people just call me Rennie though."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Renmore?" John asked, desperately trying to bury his irritation. He hated small talk almost as much as he hated demons.
"I'm the caretaker for the owner. Saw the lights on. Wasn't aware Mr. Bryant had leant out the place this week."
"I know Chris from New York. I have a running arrangement with him to borrow the place when it's empty."
"Then you wouldn't mind if I check on that?" the man asked, his tone a little too thick with suspicion for John's liking.
"No problem. Come on in." The man hesitated a second, giving John the once over, before walking inside. John laughed silently to himself. The man, this Mr. Renmore, had just sized him up and decided he wasn't a threat. John found himself suddenly assumed by what people thought they knew. While Mr. Renmore pulled his cell from his shirt pocket John closed the door. As the man was punching keys on the phone John made eye contact with Sam who had peered around the doorframe of the bedroom. The silent communication was short, Sam letting his father know they were aware of the arrival of someone who shouldn't hear too much and John reassuring his younger son that he had the situation under control and to return to his brother.
"Yeah. Mr. Bryant. It's Peter Renmore. Sorry to disturb you, but…" the caretaker started, but seemed to have been cut off by the person on the other end of the phone. John got the impression somehow that the man standing before him was a bit of a talker. If John recalled right Chris Bryant hadn't had much time to talk and had generally gotten right to the point, a trait John had thoroughly appreciated. He ran a hand over his beard and then his weary eyes, recalling that talkers were always the hardest to get back out the door once they got inside.
"That's correct. There's a Mr….."
"Lawrence. Eric Lawrence," John responded, grateful he had managed to recall the false identity he had used amongst the hundreds of others.
"A Mr. Eric Lawrence here at the house. He says you two have an arrangement for him to stay here." The man listened intently for a moment while eyeing John who stood just inside the doorway.
"Alright. Thank you sir!" he finally stated and closed the phone.
"I do apologize for that, but it is my job."
"Perfectly understandable!" John remarked, hopeful this would be wrapped up sooner than he had expected.
"I should be going," Rennie said and tossed John a friendly smile. Before moving toward the door he stuffed the phone back in his pocket. Happening to glance down as he did so he spotted the photocopies John had made at the library that morning.
"Tymson. He owned the house near Greenwood, right? Looking to buy the property or something? Somebody needs to knock down that old eye sore."
"Uh, no, no. I'm just kind of a history buff. Wherever I happen to be traveling, wherever my work takes me, I'm always real drawn to catching up on local history."
"You a historian? Teacher or something?"
"You might say that," John replied.
"There's a small community college up the road a piece on Route 7. I have a friend works up there. They keep a lot of records on the history of this area."
"I hate to be rude Mr. Renmore…"
"Rennie. Please call me Rennie."
"Rennie….I hate to seem impolite, but one of my sons is sick and I'd like to get back to him."
"Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry. I wasn't aware."
"Not a problem. Mr. Ren...Rennie," John offered in a pleasant voice, ushering the other man to the doorway.
"One more suggestion on the history thing before I get out of your hair."
"What's that?" John asked, pushing hard to sound interested.
"I don't know a lot about it, but my Dad used to talk about it sometimes when I was a kid."
"Let me guess a local legend?"
"Might call it that. The fire of 1934," Renmore offered and opened the door to leave.
"Sounds intriguing. You said you don't remember a lot about the story?"
"No. I was not into history much back then when I was a kid. My dad was, big history buff. But like I said go down to the community college tomorrow and talk to Professor Manning. If anyone will know it's him. Well, I should be going and let you get to tendin' to your son."
"Right. Right. Good night Mr. Renmore."
"Need anything. Don't hesitate to call. Number's on speed dial on the phone. Have a good night," the older man said quietly then made his way through the door and out into the night. Once John had closed the door and turned back around he found Sam standing by the couch, a mixture of exhaustion, frustration, and worry painting his expression.
"How's Dean?" John asked.
"He's asleep." To this John only nodded that he had heard. He crossed the living room and perched himself on the arm of the sofa.
"Do you think whatever that was Dean sensed will make another appearance?" Sam prompted in a hushed voice.
"Hard to say. But we should prepare ourselves just in case."
"Always prepare for the worst case scenario. Right. What's the plan?"
"Dig into the research we got at the library. Go online. Whatever you have to do, do it. This guy Renmore, he's the caretaker of the place. He mentioned something I need you to research. Look up the fire of 1934. I've got some contacts I've gotta call."
"I'm on it!" Sam responded, heading towards the laptop. He scooped it up, along with the papers that had been spread across the coffee table, and carried them into Dean's room. As he set the materials on the small table under the window the murmur of his father's voice from the living room floated to his ears. His tone was taunt, all business. Sam searched his memory. He came up empty handed for the last time his father's voice had not sounded that way for any length of time longer than five minutes. That hard truth grated on Sam. Wasn't there supposed to be light on the other side of a quest? Wasn't there supposed to be battles won inside the war that brighten the way a little? John Winchester had spent twenty two years on a mission. Two decades of fighting. Thousands of days riddled with darkness and decay. Somewhere along the way it seemed he had been sucked into a black hole. Trapped inside something so massive and with such intense pull that there was no escape, not even for the tiniest shred of light. Their father was journeying to the center of something so powerful he had been doomed long ago to one day be torn apart by it.
The bone deep exhaustion told Sam the arrival of a little light was overdue for all of them. And his heart clenched at the knowledge that it might never come, that only blackness may pave their journey. Sam's vision had thrown at him the images that evidenced that it could quite possibly be a journey traveled without Dean at his side. Sam seriously doubted he would be able to manage it without his brother, at least not manage it with his sanity intact.
"Okay. Alright. There's gotta be something," he whispered, running a shaky hand through his hair then opening up the laptop. Too tired to come up with his own direction he latched onto his father's, searching the internet for information on the fire of 1934. After only a few moments of reading Sam was staring, nearly entranced, at the computer screen. The next item he found was a copy of the text from an old newspaper article. The Montpelier Evening Edition was no longer being published, but some journalism history lover had thrown up a website archiving the articles it had run.
"Uh Dad. I think you need to come in here!" Sam called out, immediately regretting the volume of his voice. He glanced towards the bed, but Dean had not moved at all.
"What is it?" his father asked, rushing in with the phone still in his hand, glancing first to the bed where his son lie fast asleep and then to Sam seated by the window.
"You need to look at this!" Sam replied, turning the laptop at an angle so his father could read the screen John stared at the words of the headline laid out before his eyes in big black bold font.
November 22, 1934.
Mysterious Fire Destroys Entire Town.
Dozens Dead. Few Survivors.
To Be Continued…