~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 17 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean is listening to the floorboards creak overhead. He'd finally managed to scrape the tape off his mouth using his shoulder. His lips are cracked and raw, and he hasn't spoken to Ben much. He's too busy listening. Because it's more than just Phil shuffling above them now. Dean had heard the front door creak open a little while ago, and there are a few extra pairs of footsteps shifting over the tile now, which means that if...when they escape, they'll have some demons to kill. Dean's looking forward to it. He's still wondering about Phil, though. If there's a way the psychic will survive this. Given what Phil's just done, Dean finds it surprising, how much he still half-thinks they can find a way to neutralize Phil without offing him.
Sam was psychic too, once.
And Phil's bad news, that much is obvious. But he's not an outright monster, and this isn't Purgatory, as Dean has constantly had to remind himself. The rules are different here (starting with the fact that there are rules), and Dean's doing his best to abide by them. He glances over at Ben, who is sitting slumped within the salt circle, his back to Dean, spine curved over his knees as he stares fixedly at his gym shoes. The kid had run himself completely ragged in the last however long it's been (Dean had purposefully stopped keeping track of time in Purgatory, and it's a skill he's yet to rediscover) trying to somehow zap his way back to Lisa and Sam to warn them of Dean's current predicament.
Dean inclines his head toward the boy. "How you doing over there?"
"M'okay," Ben mutters, kicking his feet out to the very edge of the salt line he can't move past. "I'm sorry, Dean."
Dean narrows his eyes in confusion. "What the hell for?"
The kid still isn't looking at him, is instead trying to scatter a small heap of dust in front of him with his fingertips. The pile doesn't budge. "I shouldn't have brought you here."
Ben, if you hadn't, your mom would be in danger right now," Dean reasons. "I'd rather it be me. And I know you feel the same."
"Dean…" Ben tries to argue. The hunter cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head.
"I just mean I'll be okay. It's gonna be fine," Dean nods, partly to himself. "Sam'll put the pieces together. They'll find us."
"But Phil's a psychic," Ben says, a small shudder running over his spine. "He knows…"
Dean tries to ignore the latest signal that something is wrong with Ben. "He can't know everything," he answers, a little too urgently. "The future changes every day. Every second."
"Dean?" Ben asks. He shifts on his heels, scooting around until he's facing Dean, arms wrapped around his knees.
"Yeah, bud?"
"I wish you hadn't taken our memories. I wish you had just stayed," Ben says. There are tears glistening against his cheeks, translucent and shimmering. "Or even if you left, I wish you would've just...left."
Dean ducks his head for a moment. Nods. "I know, Ben. Me too."
"Do you think, if you had to do it all over again…." Ben bites his cheek nervously, not sure he wants the answer to the question he's asking. "Do you think you would stay?"
"That's complicated," Dean answers, rubbing absently at his aching wrists."My life...I didn't want you and Lisa to have to live the way I do. To die the way you did. You should've had a life, Ben. I took that from you, and that's something I can never fix, no matter how badly I want to."
"I got so mad earlier," Ben says, shaking his head. He makes sure Dean is holding his gaze before he continues. "But Dean. I forgive you."
Dean scoffs wearily. "You shouldn't," he insists. "You don't even know all you've lost out on. If you did, you wouldn't even be able to look at me."
Ben unwinds his arms from around his legs, placing both hands gently on the tops of his knees. He picks at a stray thread. The thread doesn't move beneath his fingers. "Don't get me wrong, I'm pissed. I'm pissed at you for what you did," Ben says, giving up on the thread. "But I forgive you, Dean. Because I know you're not going to forgive yourself. And the thing is, being dead allowed me to keep my mom safe."
"Ben…"
"Yeah, that's it," Ben interrupts suddenly, a revelation forming inside his head. "Don't you see? This. This is why I couldn't leave. To keep Mom away from Phil. To help you keep her out of harm's way."
"Ben, I…" Dean pauses mid-sentence, listening. "Do you hear that?" he whispers after a long moment of silence. As he says it, the basement door opens, a shaft of light illuminating the doorway. Phil's heavy footsteps clunk slowly down the stairs. When he comes into view, he holds a water bottle and what looks like a ham sandwich. He shrugs bemusedly, head inclined in what Dean imagines is a sad and pointless attempt at a peace offering. Phil approaches slowly, watching Dean's outstretched feet.
"What's the plan for when I have to take a piss?" Dean asks. "You gonna hold it for me?"
"Ah, good point," Phil says, placing the sandwich next to Dean's bound hands. Dean lets him. Phil's eye catches on the piece of duct tape curled up on the floor, as if he'd forgotten for a moment that his hostage had been gagged the last time he'd seen him. "I'll grab a bucket from the kitchen." He straightens up, patting at Dean's knee.
Dean growls, kicking his feet out suddenly and without warning.
For a tiny moment, Dean thinks he's somehow managed to make contact and not feel it.
But the sound is from upstairs, and it comes again a moment later. A muffled impact with the floor. Then another. An unmuffled shout, followed by what can only be Sam's voice, words Dean can't quite decipher. But the message is clear enough, easily interpreted even from a floor below. The gist is: Where's my brother?
More muffled shouting, the scrabbling of boots on tile, the tell-tale signs of a fight. Dean, Phil, and Ben are frozen in surprise, listening for any hint of who has the upper hand. And then Dean's heart stops.
"Lisa?" he whispers, her shrill yell coming in clear through all the chaos going on above them. "LISA!" Dean yells in the next moment, pulling at his handcuffs with renewed purpose. "SAM!" he screams. Part of it is desperation, but Dean also uses the scream to cover the sound of a joint popping out of place, the sharp stab of pain that lances up through his now-broken thumb. He'd thought about it earlier, of course, but fighting off what sounded like five demons above them with only one hand and no weapon hadn't seemed liked the best odds at the time. But now, Sam and Lisa are here. The thought fills him with both optimism and dread.
Phil leaps away from Dean as he begins to yell, moving for one of the objects that Ben threw in his direction earlier. It is the long, ugly scythe-shaped blade from the tools lining the wall. Ben growls, attempting to push up against the salt line closest to Dean as Phil crouches next to the hunter, sliding the blade behind his head until it wraps snugly around his neck, biting into skin.
"Bastard," Dean snarls, shifting uncomfortably against the blade.
"Shut up," Phil growls back. "Shut up or I'll slice you open right here."
Dean quiets, swallowing hard. He shifts his fingers inside the cuffs, squeezing his eyes shut against the sharp pang of his dislocated left thumb. Slowly, painfully, he eases his thumb free of the cuff. Ben catches the movement, immediately shifting his eyes away in case Phil is watching him. But Phil is focused on the top of the stairs; gaze steady, though Dean can feel him shaking a little against him. A moment later, Phil stiffens. Dean moves his attention to the top of the stairs where first one and then a second, smaller shadow have appeared in the doorway.
"S…" he tries to warn, but Phil wraps a grubby hand around his mouth, silencing him. It takes everything Dean has to keep his now-free left hand in his lap.
The two shadows move slowly, deliberately down the stairs, the black shape of their guns obvious and imposing.
"Phil?" Sam calls when he's about halfway down, right before the stairwell opens up to the room. He pauses, listening.
"This wasn't supposed to happen," Phil whispers to himself, or maybe to Dean. There is true fear in his voice now, and despite his earlier thoughts, Dean can't find it in himself to feel bad for the guy. Dean can feel the thundering of Phil's heartbeat, the unsteady in-and-out of his scattered breath. It takes Dean back for a moment, plunges him straight into Purgatory with its pumping blood and clanging pulse.
"Don't try anything or he dies!" Phil shouts, suddenly, pulling Dean back to the present. He removes his hand from Dean's mouth, and Dean coughs in a much-needed breath. "I'll kill him, I promise you that."
"Okay. Okay, hold on," comes Sam's voice. He moves another step down the stairs, and Lisa's shadow follows after him. They both appear in plain sight a few seconds later, guns raised high above their heads in surrender. "Just let my brother go. I'm sure we can figure something out, here."
Sam finds Dean's eyes, and Dean wastes no time glancing down into his lap, twitching his free hand in Sam's line of sight. Sam nods his affirmation; barely a jerk of his head, but Dean sees it easily enough.
"Look, Phil, I'm not quite sure what all this is about, but I promise you I'm open to talking about it," Sam soothes, moving the rest of the way down the stairs. Lisa is glued to his side, her eyes roaming the room and finally landing on Ben. A million emotions flicker across her face before she settles on angered relief. She nods in his direction, smiling reassuringly. Ben smiles back at her from where he now stands inside his circle of salt. He reaches out a hand to her, and she reaches back, an invisible thread connecting them from across the room. She closes her eyes against the impossible feeling of it, the warmth that floods her fingertips. When she opens her eyes again, Ben is staring at her with fiery determination.
"Hey Phil," he says, eyes still on his mom. She stiffens beside Sam. "You wanna know the worst thing about you?"
Phil shifts his gaze to the ghost on his right. Only minutely, and only for a moment, but it is enough.
"You're a psychic, and you still couldn't see this coming," Ben growls. He winks.
Everything happens very fast.
Dean takes advantage of Ben's distraction and shifts his free hand up between his throat and the blade, sliding the scythe from around his neck in one, smooth movement. Phil stumbles a little in his crouch, his balance thrown by the sudden shift. A gunshot rings out along the walls of the basement then, the bullet from Sam's gun slicing deliberately through the air and sliding neatly between Phil's eyes. The psychic doesn't even get the courtesy of a last breath before he's slumped against the back wall, eyes open wide and unseeing.
Dean, Sam, Lisa, and Ben stare at each other for a moment, gathering a collective breath.
"You guys okay?" Sam asks, breaking the silence. He slides his gun into his waistband, already moving to where Dean is. Dean nods as Sam kneels beside him, smiling tiredly and reaching for his little brother's sleeve, handcuffs still dangling from one wrist.
"You're bleeding," Sam says disapprovingly, like Dean can help it. A new slice has opened up across his palm from where he'd redirected Phil's blade. Dean rolls his eyes, patting reassuringly at his brother's forearm. His gaze slides over to the unmoving man on the floor.
"He's dead," Dean says stupidly, swallowing hard.
Sam nods grimly. "Him or us," is his regretful explanation before he catches sight of Dean's rapidly swelling thumb, even as the older hunter attempts to slide it out of sight. Sam hisses in sympathy, his next words on his tongue, but they never make it past his lips. Lisa speaks first, a shrill, panicked exclamation.
"What's happening? What's happening?"
Sam follows where Dean's eyes already are, spinning on his knees on the cold floor of the basement to find Lisa. She is standing several feet away from them within the scattered salt-lines of Ben's former prison, her hands resting on her son's small shoulders. But as Sam and Dean stand together to get a better look, they see that Lisa's fingers aren't actually making contact with anything- they're sliding right through Ben's shape. Even as they watch, swirls of dust pull themselves up from the ground, wrapping slowly around Ben's gradually dissolving feet.
Dean takes several deliberate steps in the kid's direction and then stops, eyes wide in horror. "Ben…" he whispers, the dull clink of his handcuffs resounding against his hip in the darkened room. But Ben just smiles, focused only on his mom.
"It's okay," he says to her, fear evident in his expression, even as he tries to reassure. "It's time for me to leave now. This is what I had to do."
"Sweetheart," Lisa says, and it is a plea. She reaches a hand out to touch Ben's face, her fingers resting just over the translucent skin and not actually touching. "Don't go…"
"I wish I could stay," Ben says, tears welling in his suddenly colorless eyes. "But you're safe now. You're all safe."
"You should be proud," Sam says, nodding at Ben. "You're a hero, Ben." Sam is watching Dean from the corner of his eye as he speaks, praying his brother doesn't crumble just yet. They'd known this was coming, after all. Doesn't make it any easier, of course, but nothing in their lives ever has been, and for now, Dean is still on his feet, jaw clenched as he stares at the disappearing ghost in front of them. He seems beyond words.
Ben smiles at Sam. "Thanks," he says, and then his gaze shifts to Dean. "Hey, Dean?"
"Yeah, buddy?" Dean rasps.
"You still owe me that machete."
Dean lets out a surprised huff that almost sounds like laughter and nods. He looks like he might answer, but before he can, Ben gasps, all of the barely-concealed fear suddenly leaving his face. Instead, he looks serene, lost in a dream made only for him. "I see it," he whispers. Around him, the dust has made its way up to his torso, swirling like a minuscule tornado. "There really is a light."
"Ben," Lisa sobs, reaching out for her son one last time. Ben's last words are for her, a whispered 'I love you, Mom,' before he fades into the dust completely. The particles that are left twist from gray to white to blue, a beautiful array of colors that twirl themselves into the air, illuminated from the inside by the light of Ben's soul. It is gone in the next moment, twisting upward and fading into the ceiling above their heads, leaving only Sam, Dean and Lisa standing together in Phil's basement.
Lisa lets out a gutted noise, falling to her knees on the cold floor. Dean moves for her immediately, but Sam stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "Just give her a minute," he insists at Dean's incredulous stare. "Let me see your wrists."
"Sam…" Dean starts to protest, but Sam shakes his head, reaching determinedly but carefully for Dean's hand, the one with the displaced thumb and the cut across the palm. He pulls a handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans, pressing it to the bleeding wound, careful to avoid the rapidly swelling finger.
"Just let me stop the bleeding," Sam insists, working to do just that as he talks. "Then you can go to her. But she needs a second. Let her have it."
Dean glances back to where Lisa kneels on the concrete, soft, silent sobs shaking her frame. He rips his arm from Sam's grasp, and he goes to her. Pulls her into him and feels her latch onto him immediately, curling her fingers into the folds of his shirt. They stay like that for a long time. Distantly, Dean can hear the sounds of his brother making their presence scarce, but the only thing that matters is the woman wrapped in his arms. After a while, Dean's not sure how long, he feels a light pressure on his shoulder. He turns to find Sam a few inches away.
"You should take her home," he says. "I'll finish up here."
"You sure?" Dean asks.
Sam nods definitively, already going back to scrubbing Dean's blood from the floor. It takes several more minutes of coaxing, but eventually Dean pulls Lisa up from the ground. She leans into him a little on their way out of the house, but does most of the work for herself.
Dean walks Lisa to the Impala slowly, hand at her back, guiding her. She feels like a fragile thing beneath his palms, a sculpture ready to crack apart. They drive in silence because there's nothing to say, but when Dean pulls into the driveway, Lisa is already opening her own door and climbing out with what seems like purpose. Dean knows it isn't, but he lets her lead the way back into the foyer anyway, pausing in the entryway when she does. He doesn't have to wait long.
Lisa stands in the middle of the house with her arms at her sides, allowing the emptiness of the space to fill her up like a punishment Dean knows she doesn't deserve. She exhales slowly, letting her shoulders slump as she turns to face him. He remains silent, only slightly surprised when she takes two long strides towards him until their lips are close enough to touch. She kisses him with a grief that slides between his teeth and almost chokes him with its intensity. And as much as Dean wishes he could just keep kissing her, could just keep swallowing a little more of that pain for her, he knows she'll hate herself for it in the morning. He pulls away.
"Lis, no," he murmurs against her ear. "This isn't what you need right now. I'm not what you want."
"I can't have what I want," she sniffs, gaze to the floor. Tears are sliding down her cheeks like an afterthought, and she doesn't bother to brush them away. She wraps her arms around her own shoulders, and Dean takes another, small step away from her. He nods, even though she's not looking at him.
"I know. I'm sorry."
They stand like that for a long moment, caught between the walls of an echoing house that doesn't hold the things it should.
"I wish I'd never met you," Lisa says after a while.
"I know," Dean repeats.
Lisa sighs. "But I need you to stay. I need to not be alone tonight."
"Lis…" Dean chides.
"Not like that," Lisa clarifies, shaking her head. She glances back up at him, catching his eye for a moment. "I just mean I need you to be here. I need someone to be here right now."
"Okay," Dean agrees, because there's no other answer he could possibly give.
They share the couch, blankets wrapped around them and bodies twisted together. Dean cries, too, once Lisa's no longer awake to see it. Tries not to let his body shake against hers as he cries for what they've all lost. All the things she and Ben should've had until he'd come along. He's not sure he'll ever be able to get to sleep, but it finds him before long, exhaustion outweighing everything else.
Sam finds them there when he walks in the door a few hours later, passed out together on the couch. He slides a wayward blanket back over both of them, careful not to wake them. There is sorrow on both their faces, that much is clear, but it's also perhaps the first time since Purgatory that Dean isn't twitching wildly in his sleep, lost in the throes of a nightmare. Sam watches them for a moment, wishing for...something. Not quite sure what that something is. He walks slowly towards the guest room, gathering his clothes for a shower.
He slides beneath the spray, trying to let the day slide from his skin, but it sticks to him like the memory it will always be for all of them now. Just one more weight to carry. One more burden to bear. He wishes the feeling of another failure wasn't so familiar by now. It keeps him awake for a while, but eventually Sam, too, falls steadily into dreams he won't remember in the morning.
One, final chapter next week. I would apologize for all the angst in this chapter, but alas, I feel like it's what the story called for.
