What's Dead Should Stay Dead
Disclaimer: I am not now, nor will I ever be, affiliated with the CW, Eric Kripke or any of the other fine folks at Supernatural. Bummer deal.
Thank you: To Wysawyg for not letting me wimp out on the angst, your help is invaluable.
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Dean watched the ceremony with trepidation and little hope. It certainly seemed like a very simple ritual that was designed to offer solace for the family, but little help for the sick. As the incantation drew to a close for the third time, Sam drew in a long shuddering breath and then – nothing. His chest was no longer moving.
Dean was not sure how it was that he was still standing. He knew he wasn't breathing and that his heart wasn't pumping any blood. He had felt the blood rush from his face and his chest, pooling in his useless hands and wooden feet. He could not possibly be breathing; his heart could not possibly be beating. That was why it surprised him that he could hear the echo of his heartbeat resounding in his ears and pounding in his brain. That was why he could no longer hear anyone around him and why the world took on a watery, blurry appearance. That was why he did not even hear the whispered prayer uttered from his own lips.
"Come on, Sammy, breathe."
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Whispered voices beckoned him down the corridor. The corridor was dark and unfamiliar, but Sam was not afraid. He knew who was at the end of the corridor and he was looking forward to seeing them again. He wondered if that meant he would not see Dean for awhile, but when he turned back around he found the corridor behind him was no longer there. There was only black, swirling mist and silence.
He continued walking towards the end of the corridor. Light now shone through the darkness sending shafts of illumination through the closed door in front of him. He could hear the voices louder now and knew he would find the door unlocked when he approached.
Sam turned the doorknob and slowly swung the door open. He closed his eyes against the intense and sudden onslaught of light. After his eyes adjusted to the light Sam opened them, smiled and started to walk through the door when it abruptly slammed closed and he felt himself being pulled quickly backwards through the corridor.
Sound came rushing back when Dean saw Sam's chest expand with life. It hit him with such force he staggered under the sheer volume of it. "Dean!" Bobby yelled, his face looming in front of Dean's and his fingers gripping Dean's arms painfully.
Dean did not tear his gaze from Sam. The shallow but beautiful rhythmic breathing of his little brother mesmerized him as he stood silently watching. "Dean!" Bobby shouted again. This time the sound penetrated Dean's awareness and he spared Bobby a quick glance. Hands tried to steer him away from his vantage spot, but Dean resolutely stood his ground.
A chair hit the back of his legs and he felt a push on his shoulders urging him to sit down. "Is he okay, really?" Dean asked no one in particular. He leaned forward and grasped Sam's arm. It was still very warm from fever.
"He is no longer dying," the caretaker replied cryptically, patting Dean on the shoulder. "But he still needs to fight to live."
Dean did not even look up at Bobby when he felt his shirt cut open. "You couldn't just ask me to take it off?" Dean grumbled.
"It's a total loss, trust me," Bobby replied, not pausing in his task.
"What do you mean he still needs to fight to live?" Dean asked. He scanned Sam's face hoping for some sort of reaction. "Is he still in danger?"
"Not from death," the caretaker replied. "Only from not living."
Dean growled deep in his chest and the caretaker stumbled backwards. Even Bobby stopped poking Dean's shoulder and eyed him warily. "Would you stop speaking in riddles like some damn Chinese fortune cookie and tell me what is happening with Sam?" Dean snapped.
"Death is no longer coming for Sam," the caretaker explained. "But your brother was dying and he needs time to fight the poison in his blood and for his body to repair itself and be whole again."
Bobby sighed and clapped his hand down on Dean's shoulder as he started to rise, forcing him to remain seated. Dean groaned lightly. "Dean, he's just sayin' Sam needs some time to get better. Now sit still and let me stitch you up," Bobby explained.
"Yes, yes, that's exactly it," the caretaker agreed bobbing his head. "But he was very close to death; he could hear it calling him. It is going to take quite awhile, if it happens at all."
Dean grunted when Bobby flushed the cuts on his shoulder. "Quite awhile? If it happens? Is he going to be okay soon, or should we be finding medical supplies?" Dean asked through gritted teeth.
"It is impossible to say," the caretaker replied moving about the table and stepping into the small space between the brothers, temporarily obscuring Dean's view.
Dean moved to get up a second time and Bobby pushed him down again. "You mind, movin'?" Bobby asked. "You're blocking the view." He bobbed his head in Sam's general direction and then back to Dean.
"Oh," the little man replied, moving out of the line of sight. He tilted his head to the side and gave Dean an appraising look. "You are this one's protector?"
"I'm his brother, yeah," Dean replied, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep. "We look out for each other."
"But you, you are the oldest?" the caretaker asked.
"Ow! Yeah," Dean replied, temporarily tearing his gaze from Sam to glare at Bobby.
"Sorry," Bobby murmured insincerely, pulling through another stitch.
"Oh dear," the caretaker moaned. He flitted around the table, fiddling with the items around Sam and arranging them in a precise order. "Oh dear."
"What?" Dean asked, grumpily. He was about two seconds from tearing the blasted needle out of Bobby's hand and poking the strange caretaker in the eye with it.
"I knew you were brothers," the caretaker said moving closer to Dean again. "I just didn't realize how close you were to matching what he is looking for."
Dean rolled his eyes. He really was too tired for this. "You done there?" Dean asked, looking up at Bobby. "I'd like to get Sam moved to a bed."
"No!" the caretaker shouted.
Dean narrowed his eyes. "You mind explaining why?" he asked.
"Sam should stay in the area of healing until he is stronger," the old man stuttered. "He is safer there and he will heal faster."
Dean stood up and staggered towards the only bed in the one room abode. He pulled the blankets off the bed and grabbed the pillow. Stalking back to the table he placed the pillow under Sam's head and covered him up to his waist with the blankets. Dean looked up at the caretaker when he put his hand over Dean's preventing him from pulling the blankets up any further. "Sam needs to be kept warm to prevent shock and to help him stay comfortable so he'll rest and heal," Dean said.
"You need to leave the oil undisturbed until he is stronger," the caretaker explained. He moved towards the small stove and poured boiling water into three tea cups. "We will keep him warm with heated rice bags. When he does awaken, I have a special tea for him. It is important you are both ready when the time comes."
"When the time comes for what?" Bobby asked, walking up beside Dean and pulling out a pair of scissors. In one quick movement he snipped the thread and retrieved his dangling needle from Dean's shoulder. Slapping a bandage over the top he pressed down all four pieces of tape securing it in place.
"I'm not the only one who speaks to the dead," the caretaker moaned. "The Necromancer does too. He must know. I'm sure he knows." He handed Dean a cup of the tea and moved back to the oven. He pulled three cloth bags out of the oven and juggled them to keep the heat from burning his hands. He placed them around Sam's head and chest.
Dean drained the cup of tea and sat back down in the chair near Sam. He was so tired and this game of, 'riddle me this, riddle me that,' the caretaker seemed hell bent on playing was wearing. "Know what?"
"Excuse me?" the caretaker asked from his position near the stove. He was pouring Dean another glass of tea.
"The Necromancer knows what?" Dean asked, blinking his eyes rapidly to keep them open. Wild, white hair appeared in his vision and Dean swatted at the wiry strands. Voices swirled in vibrant color and sound slowed and lengthened until individual words could no longer be distinguished. He looked up at Bobby's blurry form and tried to focus his thoughts. Someone needed to watch out for Sam and he was afraid he would not be able to.
"I got it covered, Dean," Bobby replied, reading the naked need on Dean's face. "Don't worry about Sam."
Something of what he said must have made it through to Dean despite the fact his eyes looked unfocused and glassy before they closed. Dean slumped forward and Bobby caught him by the chest, holding him in place on the chair.
"Did you drug his tea with something?" Bobby demanded angrily, grasping Dean under his good arm and steering him drunkenly towards the rumpled bed.
"He needs rest," the caretaker replied unapologetically. His blue eyes flicked between Dean and Sam. "They both do."
"You're right, but I ain't taking the heat for you when Dean finds out you drugged his tea," Bobby replied, his tone softening a tad.
The caretaker's eyes widened at the thought before he turned away from Bobby and placed three more rice bags into the oven.
Flatt Plains Community Cemetery, Monroe Family Mausoleum
The Necromancer howled in frustration and slammed his fist onto the altar. He had been so close, so very close to success. He had planned for this and worked for this for so long. The amulet had been reclaimed after the debacle that had caused it to fall into the hands of the chosen one. The attempts at the hospital had been thwarted, but in the end he knew he would be successful. Even when the protector arrived and returned the chosen one to the cemetery, he believed victory would be his.
Now, however, the chosen one had been ripped from him at the last moment. He could still feel the residual trail left by the other in his wake. Even now it led him directly to the chosen one, if only he could follow it to the source. But something was blocking his efforts and preventing him from gaining access to the chosen one.
He considered himself a patient man, a true spider carefully spinning a meticulous web in which to catch the perfect prey. What he had not counted on was how far the protector would go to save the other. He had not realized the power he hoped to bottle for his own consumption was too strong to be captured so easily. It was not a mistake he would make again.
Flatt Plains Community Cemetery, Caretaker Residence
Dean crawled out of his subconscious and back to awareness as the sun was setting. He blinked lazily out the window from his spot on the bed trying to clear his muzzy mind. The time of day seemed wrong and in a moment of lucidity Dean recalled the events leading up to his sudden departure with reality.
He sat up quickly and scanned the room for any sign of the caretaker. He instantly regretted the action as his stomach rebelled and rumbled loudly in protest. He felt light-headed and the room spun wickedly out of control. He supported the weight of his head in his hands and breathed deeply willing the world to right itself. It was just his luck, a hangover without the fun that came the night before.
"You okay?" he heard Bobby ask. Dean lifted his head and this time managed to keep everything in the room in its rightful place. He did not immediately see Bobby, but finally spotted him wedged in between the stove and the back counter on the other side of Sam.
Dean did not answer, but pushed himself to a standing position on unsteady legs. He waited until he suppressed the shaking in his limbs before attempting the fifteen foot trip to the table. He rested his hands on the table to balance him and took a good look at Sam.
Sam had regained a small portion of color in his face. He seemed to be breathing easily and deeply even though someone had removed the nasal canula. "He hasn't been awake yet," Bobby remarked from his chair.
Dean looked over at Bobby. "How long?" he asked simply.
"Nearly ten hours," Bobby supplied. "If you're able to take over here, I'll liberate some medical supplies from town. The charms and herbal satchels hung around here should ward off anything that may come around."
Dean nodded and flashed Bobby a brief look of gratitude. "Thanks." Dean jutted his chin in the direction of a stack of books balanced precariously on the edge of the counter. "Did you find anything?"
"Sam found out the markings on the amulet were ancient Hebrew pictographs. The symbols for life on one side and death on the other," Bobby answered.
"Hebrew? That's different," Dean remarked. He took a seat in his former chair and straightened Sam's blankets as best as he could from that position.
"This is old time necromancy," Bobby said. "We're talking old enough to be hinted at in the Old Testament, King Solomon and the witch of Endor old."
Dean squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. He wasn't sure what he believed anymore, but Bobby seemed to be headed the right way for a lightning bolt to strike him. "Isn't necromancy considered demonic in origin?" he asked finally.
"Sure - now," Bobby agreed. "But in its earliest incarnation it was considered a valid way to talk to the dead and to gain wisdom from the dead. It was later the belief switched to demonic forces having a hand in it and even later that a spirit could be forcibly fixed in the body of someone who had recently died." Bobby stood up and walked over towards Dean on the opposite side of the table.
Dean did not look up as Bobby's shadow fell across Sam, but asked, "Did you have anything to do with spiking my tea?" The words were calm and precise, a sure sign that Dean was upset.
"Nope," Bobby replied. "But I can't say I was entirely against it either."
Dean did look up now and shoot angry green sparks in Bobby's direction. "I can't watch out for him if I'm drugged to the gills, Bobby."
"Can't disagree with you there," Bobby replied. "Course, you can't watch out for him if you collapse from injuries or exhaustion either. I'm here to help share that load."
"He's mine to protect. He's my brother," Dean stated, giving Sam's arm a gentle squeeze.
"Dean, sharing the load doesn't make it any less yours, it just makes it lighter," Bobby replied. Sometimes Bobby was chock full of homespun wisdom. Other times he was chock full of bullshit. It seemed to even out over a period of time.
"Whatever, Bobby," Dean grumbled, managing to sound quite a lot like Sam. He brushed Sam's too long bangs off his forehead and rested his hand there for a bit. His temperature was still warm, but it was not radiating heat as it had in the Impala on the trip over.
Sam stirred under the gentle pressure of Dean's hand on his forehead. "Sammy?" Dean asked, removing his hand. "Come on, Sam open your eyes for me."
Dean was rewarded with the sight of Sam's expressive hazel eyes slowly opening and turning their gaze on him. Sam silently mouthed Dean's name and his eyes filled with fear. "It's okay," Dean said. "You're gonna be okay. You're just having a little trouble right now because you were hurt. You remember, don't you?"
Relief flooded Sam's eyes and he nodded almost imperceptibly. He struggled weakly to sit up, but Dean easily held him in place. "Sam, lie still," Dean commanded. He softened his tone and asked, "Do you think you could drink something?"
Sam made a face. He certainly did not feel up to drinking anything. He felt different somehow, not bad or sick, just different. It took him a moment to place the feeling. The pit in his stomach was gone. Sam moved his hand to his stomach and pulled it away with a surprised look on his face. He held it up for Dean, questioning the substance on his hand and stomach.
"Olive oil and herbs," Dean replied at the look of confusion on Sam's face. Dean chuckled at the disgusted look on Sam's face. "I think he got the cure out of a Betsy Cooker book," Dean said, trying to make light of the situation to put Sam at ease.
"That's Betty Crocker, Mr. Stewart," Bobby quipped. He looked down at Sam and added, "Let's get you sitting up a little more." Bobby bunched up one of Sam's blankets and Dean carefully lifted Sam's torso so Bobby could slip the blanket under Sam.
Dean rearranged the pillow and stepped back to evaluate their handiwork. Sam was slightly inclined on the table, enough to allow him to drink, but not so much that it would pull on his staples. Sam was gripping the table and it was obvious the movement had hurt him despite how careful they had been. "I'm going to get you something to drink and Bobby is headed to town," Dean stated both to explain the situation to Sam and to effectively dismiss Bobby.
Taking his cue, Bobby said, "I'm going to stop and get supplies, if you think of anything other than the obvious, call me." Bobby started to walk out the door when he called over his shoulder, "I left my machete on the counter for you. Take care of it. It's my favorite."
"Bobby!" Dean called to the empty doorway. "Take care of her and we'll consider it even!"
Bobby chuckled on his way to the car.
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The grizzle-haired caretaker knelt down next to the black lab engaged in conversation. "Bojangles, those boys are in danger from that group of miscreants. I want you to stay here and guard the house. I'll be back," the caretaker instructed. The lab whined sadly and tapped the caretaker's knee with his forepaw several times. "No, stay here," the caretaker insisted. "I'll be back soon."
Bojangles moped back to the house and the caretaker walked off towards his herb garden. The younger boy would definitely need a pain relieving and healing tea. They would also need more satchels of herbal protection for the entry points into his home. He scurried off as fast as he could to the garden. His cupboard was terribly under stocked for necromantic invasion emergencies.
The caretaker quickly picked the herbs he needed for the tea and the satchels and headed back to the house. He moved stealthily through the brush and trees, not pausing until he was almost to his home. He pulled up short and squinted through the lengthening shadows of dusk. The others were here. He was too late.
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Dean steeped the tea that had been clearly labeled with block letters, 'FOR SAM.' He was distrustful of the tea labeled, 'FOR DEAN' after his Rip Van Winkle impersonation earlier today and opted instead for a glass of straight tap water. Once the tea was sufficiently cooled he took a seat in the chair near Sam.
"Hey, Sam, wake up," Dean urged, gently shaking his little brother.
Sam aroused easily which led Dean to believe he had only been resting and had not truly fallen asleep. "Drink up, pup," Dean teased with words he used on Sam when he was small. He tipped the cup slowly allowing Sam to drink at his own speed.
Sam frowned over the brim of the cup. He was annoyed with his dependence on Dean and frustrated by his inability to relay words from his brain to his mouth. He drank slowly and stopped several times as his stomach protested the introduction of liquids after remaining empty for so long. Sam could feel his eyes growing heavy and the pain that wracked his body lessened considerably.
Dean was putting the cup into the sink when the first thud against the door occurred. At first, Dean thought it was the caretaker or that Bobby had somehow made it back without Dean hearing the Impala, but when the thud happened again, Dean suspected the truth.
The next knock was against the wall by the bed and Dean saw the boards bend inwards before snapping back to their original position. One of the satchels strung along the walls fell off onto the bed and another knock against the wall shook the dishes in the kitchen.
Glass shattering in the bathroom catapulted Dean into action. He grabbed the machete from the counter and the salt shaker from the back of the stove. Dean did not think salt would repel a ghoul, but at this point he would try anything to keep Sam safe.
He was laying a circle of salt around the table when Sam grabbed his arm. Dean read the emotions that moved through Sam's eyes and face. He was scared and confused. No doubt in his semi-drugged state he felt he could not defend himself.
Sam was scared. He knew Dean would protect him and he had complete faith in his brother to do so. He also knew that Dean would put himself between Sam and the evil trying to break in and that he stood a very good chance of getting hurt. Dean seemed to collect knocks to the head the way some people collected state quarters. Sam knew one day even Dean's hard head would not withstand the blow.
"I got it covered, Sam," Dean reassured him. "Trust me." He pulled Sam's fingers loose from his arm and peered out the kitchen window. He could see the gray, clawed creatures in the small amount of light remaining. There seemed to be only two of them, but they were taking turns running towards the house and smashing into the walls and door testing for weakness.
Another thud on the door sent Dean's last nerve dancing. "That's it," Dean announced. "We're not going to sit around here waiting for them to come and get us." He walked over to the kitchen drawers and started pulling them out and slamming them closed searching. Finally, he pulled an Ulu knife out of the drawer. It wasn't ideal at all, but he was not leaving Sam completely defenseless either.
"Here," Dean said, placing the handle of the knife in Sam's palm. "You're not going to need it," he reassured him making eye contact with Sam and willing him to believe. Sam nodded and Dean turned back to the door. "Are you ready?" he asked looking back at Sam. Sam nodded again and Dean swung the door open and stepped outside, shutting the door behind him.
The two ghouls rushed together towards Dean within seconds. One ran at Dean from behind a rose bush. It swooped in close with rose petals flying, but made the mistake of running past Dean on the left, the hand in which he tightly held Bobby's prize machete. One swing of the long blade later and the ghoul's head neatly fell to the ground and rolled under the foliage.
The ghoul on Dean's right made it all the way to him, knocking him back into the door. The wood creaked and before Dean could fully recover, it was back for a second strike. Claws grazed his shoulder pulling loose some of Bobby's hard work and opening the wound anew. The third knock into the door caused the door to splinter and Dean's ribs to burn.
Dean squared his shoulders and prepared for another assault. The ghoul rushed him again, but despite its greater speed, it was outmatched and it too fell in a headless heap on the ground. Dean stood there with eyes scanning the yard for any traces of activity and his chest heaving. The smell of death permeated the air and the wind tinkled the chimes in the doorway, but there were no signs of any more ghouls.
Once Dean was sure it was safe, he went inside and rejoined Sam. He wiped the blood that was trickling down his arm and off his fingers onto his jeans. "Told you, you wouldn't need the knife," Dean quipped, tossing Sam a smile.
The corners of Sam's mouth twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile, when his eyes opened wide and he stared at something in the doorway. "Dean," he whispered. Dean whirled around to face six hooded figures in black cloaks.
"There's only supposed to be one Sith Lord and one apprentice," Dean remarked, gesturing to the lot of them with a sweeping arm movement. He moved closer to Sam. "This is awkward," he muttered.
Sam rolled his eyes. Why was Dean's first line of defense always to poke the bear? "Dean," Sam whispered again.
Dean took two more steps towards his brother and raised the machete. "Stay back," Dean ordered in a clipped, military style reminiscent of the eldest Winchester.
Sam saw the arm of the man closest to Dean raise his arm and the springs from the taser gun hit Dean in the chest. Dean fell to the ground, unconscious, his arms and legs still involuntarily twitching in small shivering bursts. Oh God, Dean!
Sam lifted his eyes when one of the hooded men stood in between Sam and Dean. "I've been waiting for you," the pale-faced man stated. He reached out and ruffled Sam's hair. "You've been chosen."
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The caretaker crouched in the bushes, his arm wrapped around his lab, watching as the men carried the Winchester brothers out of the house and deeper into the cemetery. "Follow them," he whispered in the dog's ear. The black dog ran after the men and disappeared into the night.
The lights from the Impala shone on the house and Bobby could plainly see the door was ajar. Dean would not leave the door wide open, inviting danger into the house. Bobby killed the lights and turned off the engine. He sat in the car for several moments debating his next move. The best reaction was action he decided and slipped from the car and headed for the house.
"They're gone," a quiet moan came from inside the house.
Bobby stepped over the threshold and found the caretaker sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. "Where's Dean?" Bobby asked harshly. "Where's Sam?"
"They're gone," the caretaker moaned again, looking up at Bobby. "He took them."
TBC
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AN: This was one of those rest, recover and regroup chapters…don't worry - the action and conclusion are on the way soon.
As always – feedback welcome!
ANx2: I will be flying back to MN this week to visit my sick grandmother (hoo boy, I didn't realize how much that was going to sound like an excuse for not doing my homework). Anyway…I will be taking my computer with me, but I don't know what kind of access I will have to Internet. I'll post the next chapter as soon as I can. As always, thanks so much for reading!