Well, here we are again. You guys are awesome as usual, and as payment for you're awesomeness I'm posting another chapter. Pay a girl back with those wonderful reviews! Thanks bunches.
"I don't think I can leave him tomorrow." The first words out of Sam's mouth as he followed Missouri and Bobby into the psychic's motel room spoke of fear and confusion as he sank, deflated, into the old armchair crammed into the corner.
Bobby cocked his head, a mixture of understanding and concern filling his face as he crammed his hands into his pockets and sat on the bed across from the youngest Winchester.
"I've been over it in my head a million times," Sam continued. "And there's just no logical excuse I can come up with that will come even close to explaining our absence."
Missouri sat on the bed beside Bobby, hands folded in her lap as she nodded in hesitant agreement. "Maybe you could try telling him the truth?" she suggested weakly, knowing the answer before the words had even left her mouth.
Sam snorted. "Maybe I could just put the gun to his head and pull the trigger myself."
The woman shrugged, somehow not in the mood to scold the young man for his inappropriate response.
"No. There's no way we can tell Dean what we're doing. The best case scenario is that he forbids me to go and people keep dying. But with his emotions running rampant the way they are, there's no telling what the worst case would be. He just can't know what he's missing out on."
They heard a creak from the other room and all three went silent, fearing that somehow Dean had figured out a way to listen in on their conversation. When all went silent again, three breaths were let out simultaneously.
"So what do you want to do then, Sam?" Bobby leaned in closer, lowering his voice more. "I don't sense that you want to forget about this hunt. I hate to say it, boy, but you just can't have it both ways."
Sam shrugged despondently. "We've got to go. I just don't have a single clue how."
And Missouri had smiled, evil, wickedly satisfied. "You just leave it to me, boys," she smirked. "I'll keep him occupied. Just make sure you two are out of the area before Dean wakes up tomorrow and I will keep the questions at bay.
Missouri Mosely had a plan.
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So Sam and Bobby were up and out of the room by 4:00am the next morning with Dean snoring softly in his bed. Missouri's door was left wide open and she could hear every sound coming from the next room. Sam had hesitated as he approached the car, hand lingering on the door handle just a touch longer than normal as he looked back to the motel. Am I doing the right thing?
"Come on, boy, we've gotta get a move on." Bobby's gentle but gruff voice broke him from his trance and he didn't hesitate any longer, opening the door and climbing into the beat up truck.
A week's worth of research had still left them with gaping holes in their story and a theory on how to stop the spirit that lacked any conclusive evidence. Five days earlier, in a short lived epiphany, Sam had gone behind the motel and salted and burned the leather pouch. There was a bone in it, after all, and even though he knew there would be more out there somewhere, he had hoped it was the only bone left. But then two days later some hikers came upon three more mauled bodies that had most definitely been dead only a few hours, and Sam knew the burn had been unsuccessful.
So they had gone back to square one, deliberating and analyzing, throwing out idea after idea until finally Sam had stumbled across a site on the internet that talked about spiritual curses and all that Shaman mumbo jumbo and he discovered that there would have been four pouches, each with its own mixture of herbs and dusts and each holding one solitary bone. It would have taken four to create the curse, four to amplify the powers of the spirit; and it would take destroying all four to get rid of it. And the only thing Sam could determine about finding the other three was that they would have been in a perfect square when they were first placed and at least one would have been placed over sacred ground. But how great the distance they were apart, how deep the remaining three were buried, how much they had been moved from their original position; there were far too many unanswered questions that they just wouldn't be able to figure out until they were out there.
The plan was to be in and out before darkness fell, regardless of how successful Sam and Bobby were in their search. If need be, they would return another day, but the risk was far too great to stay out at night. And Dean would never forgive them if either one got hurt. That was why they had set out before the sun even rose in the sky. If the two hunters could set out with dawn just on the horizon they could make the most of the day.
Bobby pulled up at the rangers station just before five am. He and Sam both got out to register, ignoring the stares the ranger gave them. The man recognized the two hunters, knew the taller of the two had been pulled out of the woods not three weeks ago, bleeding profusely, unconscious, near death. The older one had been in and out of his station more times in the same time period than he'd care to count, most of those times frantically panicking about the mauling's, the deaths, that had been plaguing his crop of woods. And yet here they both were, calmly signing up for a day permit as though it were the most normal thing in the world to knowingly walk into a death trap.
The hunters walked fast once they met the mouth of the trail, each carrying their selection of weapons, some water, and enough food to supplement them for the day. In their haste to make the most of the day Sam and Dean's record of four hours to the original site was fast beaten with a record breaking three hours and eleven minutes. But that's when the whole world slowed down; at least for Sam.
Focusing on the challenges of the search and the hunt had occupied Sam's mind throughout the initial hike. He'd spent the time running over and over and over the problematic possibilities, questioning what could go wrong and how he would prevent them. One could only guess that Bobby had been doing the same thing, because neither one had been very chatty on their hastened trek. But then the clearing had come into view, and everything Sam had been thinking on and considering disappeared from his mind and the only image flashing in front of his weary eyes was that of the past.
Blood. So much blood. And Dean's leg, barely attached to the rest of his body. His brother writhing and screaming in such un-Dean-like agony Sam had nearly lost his mind right then and there. He hadn't seen the gory sight in the daylight, and yet standing on the same grounds where the whole fucking nightmare had taken place seemed to bring all those unseen images to light.
Sam's eyes scanned the forest floor in choppy stills.
Flash. A soaked-in spray of blood in a pile of leaves off to his right and suddenly he could see Dean dragging himself along the ground to rescue Sam.
Flash. A blood stained rock directly in front of him and Sam saw himself staggering backwards as the wolf lunged for his throat and he smashed his skull against the jagged protrusion of Flint on the ground. He could envision himself lying passed out, motionless, on the cold ground and the vividness of the image was unnerving.
Flash. A dark square of cleared brush where the tent had been and Sam watched Dean's unflinching determination to drag Sam's unyielding body back to safety, inch by agonizing inch.
There was just too much to see, too much to remember, too many blanks to fill in and Sam sank to his knees. He caught himself with his hands, palms flat on the ground, and recoiled when he felt the dry sliminess under his right thumb. Pulling that hand up he found another bloody clump of matter and was soon dry heaving off to the side as he realized it was a chunk of muscle from his brother's mangled leg. It must have pulled free when Dean had been dragging himself along the ground. God Dammit!
Bobby was in no greater shape visually. What Sam had needed to fill in after three weeks worth of wind and rain and natural elements had distorted the evidence, Bobby had witnessed directly the blood and gore and carnage that had resulted from that fateful night. He'd seen the blood splattered campsite in all it's crimson glory. He had pulled Dean and Sam's pale, lifeless bodies from the tent and had spent precious minutes pacing nervously like a caged animal as the trained medics assessed John's boys and loaded them onto backboards, no doubt in his mind that Winchester would come back from the dead and haunt his ass if he'd arrived too late.
But Sam needed him more, and there was no time to dwell on the vividly painted picture that streamed through his mind as he placed a shaking hand on the youngest Winchester's slumped shoulder.
"You okay, boy?"
Sam sniffed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he nodded. "Yeah. Just needed a moment. Sorry about that."
"No problem, Sam. We just need to get moving. Got a lot of ground to cover in a very short time span." Bobby sounded sincerely apologetic, but his voice held firm. There was no time to be weak.
Climbing slowly back to his feet, Sam took one final look around the campsite and composed himself. "We found the first pouch along that trail," he announced, pointing across the campsite to one of two trails that branched off from it. His voice shook, and Bobby wasn't so certain the young man wasn't crying. "I guess we should start there; at least we can get our bearings straight."
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Dean awoke just before nine, groggily squinting his eyes as he tried to focus on the room. It seemed quiet; too quiet for his liking, and it took him very little time to realize the silence was attributed to the lack of any other presence in the room.
"Sam? Sammy?" he called out, hating the desperation that seeped into his wavering voice.
Within seconds, Missouri rushed through their adjoining door to his bedside. "Dean, honey, you're awake!"
"Where's Sam?" Dean demanded.
"Honey, he's not here right now," Missouri replied, sitting beside her young charge on the bed. "I sent your brother and Bobby away for the day." The lie flowed out of her mouth like water through a sieve; smooth and fast.
"You did what?" He cried out, sitting up faster than his weakened body should have and sinking back against the pillows almost immediately. His eyes closed as he tried to quell the nausea that began to overpower his mind and body. He asked it again, quieter this time, weaker. "You sent him away?"
The plump woman smiled tenderly and set a hand on Dean's good leg. "I thought you and I might spend the day together. Thought we could talk."
Dean snorted, flashing the first smile Missouri had seen from him in a long time, and she cringed because it was wicked and sarcastic and not at all happy. "Sorry, Missouri. I'm just not in the sharing, caring kinda mood. So if you could just please call Sam–"
"Dean Winchester, I've known you since you were just a little pip squeak in overalls and I've never known you to be in a sharing, caring kind of mood. Heck, if I waited for you to be in that kind of mood I'd long outlive my life expectancy. I didn't ask you if you wanted to talk. You and I will talk, even if I have to beat it out of you, boy."
"Missouri, please, I just want to be alone."
"I'm not taking no for an answer, young man. Now come on. Go get dressed; take a shower if you want. You and I are going out for breakfast." She stood, grabbing the crutches from their place propped against the bedside table and handed them to Dean with an air of finality.
But Dean wasn't done. He swatted at the hated contraptions, knocking one of them from Missouri's loose grip, but she maintained her hold on the other and thrust it out to him again, face waxed firm and unyielding.
"I just want to be left alone!" Dean raged, once again swinging out as he tried to knock the other crutch from Missouri's grasp as well.
She held tight, to both the crutch and to her convictions. Her tone remained calm and steady, betraying none of the anxiety the woman was feeling. "Dean, honey, you know I can't do that. I'm worried about you; we all are. And whether you like it or not, you've got some heavy emotions weighing you down and you need to figure out some way to get them out. Now either you're going to talk to me or you're going to choose someone else to talk to. That's your choice."
"Talking isn't going to make me feel any better."
Missouri shrugged. "It won't make you feel worse, either. Give it a try."
Crossing his arms tightly against his chest, Dean sunk further down on the bed and tried to turn away from the demanding woman. "You just wouldn't understand. No one can."
"But I can try," Missouri insisted softly. "You can' t do this on your own, Dean. I know you want to. I know that every fiber of Winchester gene in you says to suck it up and move on with your life, and I also know that doing so is next to impossible."
She paused, the silence long and hard and drawn out, waiting patiently for him to say something. But when more than a minute went by filled only with the sounds of heavy breathing, the air thick with tension, she decided to speak again.
"You're terrified." Her voice came out in a hushed whisper, and it was gentle and wise, and as much as Dean didn't want to, he reacted. He flinched, shoulders taut, hands reaching out to clench the bedspread. He could feel the woman staring daggers into the top of his head, daring him to tell her she was wrong. But he refused to look up; refused to meet her eyes.
"You think your life is over," she continued. "That there is nothing left in this world for you. You have no clue what you're going to do without the hunt; but you don't know how you can hunt either. And you're scared to death that someday the demon is going to come looking for your brother and you will be helpless to stop it. ...am I coming close?"
Dean quivered, nerves afire with rage when he realized that Missouri had hit every nail dead center on the head. He finally looked up, raising his head slowly, hatred and betrayal filling his eyes. "How dare you... How dare you get into my head," he snarled. "Those are my private thoughts. MINE! They're not for you to hear, or Sam, or Bobby, or some shrink, or anyone else. How could you!"
Missouri recoiled, drawing her hand to her heart as she pursed her lips in contemplative nervousness. Guilt overwhelmed her as she remembered the few seconds of mind invasion she'd subjected him to the previous day. But this conversation, these realized thoughts, hadn't stemmed from that intrusion. She hadn't said anything that he had thought yesterday, although she supposed they were all one and the same in the long run.
"Dean I...I..." What was she to say. She couldn't tell him she hadn't read his mind, because technically she had. But not this time; not for those thoughts. The boy was so transparent. Even when he wore a mask of stoicism, flat out refusing entry to his innermost thoughts, the boy still wore his heart on his sleeve and anyone who knew him well knew what he was thinking. "I wish that I would have had to read your thoughts to know your pain," she finally said, deciding that it neither admitted fault nor denied it.
He stared at her, harsh and unyielding, for several minutes. She met his gaze, willing to hold on for as long as he needed her to and in her steadfast gaze was compassion and safety. Talk to me, Dean. Let me help you. Don't push me away.
And then Dean seemed to break, his entire body beginning to shake as his chest heaved in and out. He collapsed against the pillows, no longer able to maintain the stone wall he'd spent so many years building around himself, and his emotions finally poured out of him as though a damn to the ocean had just broken.
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Finding the spot where the original pouch had been found was easy; the rest proved nearly impossible. Sam pulled out the map of the park and he and Bobby spent several minutes staring at the blues and greens splattered all over that indicated water and land. The night before, Sam had plotted out the locations of all the attacks, and came up with a very rough estimate of the area the spirit could possess. From that, the best he and Bobby could assume was the approximate direction they should take off to find the other pouches. Each took their position, branching off in a 90 degree angle from each other, hoping they were at least going in the right direction.
Sam felt as though he'd been walking forever, his foot brushing arcs in the dirt, splaying branches in low trees and separating bushes in search of the prize. The further out he walked the wider his arcs became as he fought a very rational fear that he was just inches from missing the spiritual pouch. And then there was the nagging consideration that the others were well below the surface and that they might never find them. Then what?
But he had to push on; his own presence of mind depended on him knowing that he had tried absolutely everything in his power to get rid of this newest perception of evil.
"-am. You fin- any-ing yet?" Bobby's voice came through broken in the static of the walkie-talkie's they each held.
He pushed the button on the side. "No. You?"
"No- ing -et. I'm at... sma- -tream. I- goi- to -ross."
A stream. Sam grabbed for the map, opening it quickly and scanning for the closest stream to Bobby's location. The hunter had walked close to two miles and that gave Sam an indication of his own lengthy hike. Two miles and nothing. Dammit.
"Alright, well just keep me posted." Sam looked down at his watch and cringed. Almost two o'clock and they were no better off than when they had started this wild goose chase. They had less than four hours to reap success before they absolutely had to get out of the woods. Sam took a deep breath, renewing his determination that they had to find these pouches. It was the only option.
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More than an hour passed as Dean shed silent tears into Missouri's comforting, motherly embrace. Together, they leaned against the pillows, the older woman sitting upright as she stroked the young hunter's hair. He leaned against the maternal woman, head in her lap, arms wrapped tightly around her waist as he finally let himself go. Whether he realized just how long he'd lain there, entwined with the woman as he sobbed like a baby, Missouri didn't know. But she willingly allowed him whatever time he needed, graciously remaining silent minus the odd 'shhh, baby, everything's going to be ok. Let it out...just let it out.' everynow and then.
When he finally collected himself he pushed up with red, bloodshot eyes and a tear streaked face. He drew a hand across his face to dry the moisture as he glanced over at Missouri, noticeably thrown and discombobulated. "God, Missouri, I'm sorry. I just...I don't know what came over me."
"Shhh, child. You have nothing to apologize for, Dean. It's a natural response–"
"Not for me, it's not," Dean interrupted, suddenly reverting back to his angry stubbornness. "I just– I can't– This didn't happen. Please, Missouri, Sam can't know–"
Missouri shook her head somberly. "He doesn't have to know," she assured the distraught hunter, gently patting his shoulder as she pulled herself from the bed. "This will be our secret, Dean. I promise."
He looked at her with wide eyes, uncertainty over whether or not he could trust her still teetering on an edge. The fact that she had invaded his mind was still a prevalent thought in his mind despite his hour long sob fest in her arms. He wanted so much to trust her; needed to know that he hadn't just bared his soul to a woman who might then turn around and tell his little brother. Because he feared what Sam would do, what Sam would think, if he found out what had just happened.
A part of Dean knew that Sam would be angry, jealous, that he had dared to reveal to Missouri what he was loathe to reveal to his own little brother. And Dean couldn't blame him, because it would have been a rational reaction; not for an everyday civilian, but for a Winchester. Because had the tables been turned Dean would have been furious with Sam for talking to someone else, crying to someone else. So Sam couldn't know.
After studying Missouri intently for the better part of a minute Dean decided he could trust the woman and he sat up a little straighter. And Missouri seemed to know when it was time to move on.
"You must be hungry, baby," she cooed, leaning over to retrieve the haphazardly strewn crutches and attempting, once again, to offer them to Dean. "Why don't you get yourself cleaned up and then we can go get something to eat."
Finally, Dean accepted the crutches, grasping them tightly in his hands before hesitating. "I– I'm not really...ready to go out yet," he said quietly, almost pleadingly. "Can we just...order something in?"
Missouri heaved a big sigh as she contemplated her answer. "Dean, you know you're going to have to get out there some time."
"I know, Missouri. Just not today...please."
"You can't put this off forever, Dean. It's just going to get harder the longer you wait."
"I'm just not ready yet," Dean insisted, gripping tighter on the handles of the crutches, preparing himself for the daunting task of dragging himself into a stand. But he waited, unprepared to put up a fight with the stubborn woman as he struggled to balance himself.
Missouri sighed, taking in the sight of the imploring young man in front of her as she realized there was no way she could deny the man now. He'd been through too much; even just that morning. There was plenty of time to encourage him later. She finally gave in, although her reluctance shone through. "I'll make you a deal, baby. You go get yourself a shower; clean yourself up, get yourself dressed. And if you do that, I won't force you to go out today. How's that sound."
Dean heaved a noticeable sigh and even forced a weak smile onto his face in gratitude. "It sounds like a fair deal."
Bracing himself, Dean pulled up on the crutches, locking his forearms into the metal cuffs. He made sure he was balanced before he took off, paying no attention to the fact that Missouri followed dangerously close as he made his way across the room to the bathroom. But when he made it safely to the door he paused and glanced back at the woman.
"I've got it from here, Missouri. Thanks."
She hesitated, eying him up and down as though he might break just from standing there. "Are you sure?"
Dean nodded, portraying more confidence than he felt. "Positive."
Missouri nodded in apprehension. "Alright. Let me just get you a change of clothes."
She returned with a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt and laid them on the closed toilet lid before backing out of the bathroom and leaving Dean alone behind the closed door. He breathed a sigh of relief that he was finally alone, but the relief soon returned as he realized the difficulties that still lay ahead. The fact that Sam had respected him enough to not get a handicapped room had not gone unnoticed and he'd said a silent thank you when he had first arrived. But as he looked in at the slippery looking tub, noticed the lack of hand holds, realized the innumerable possibilities for slipping and injuries, Dean felt his throat tighten.
He sank down onto the edge of the tub, slowly removing his clothes as he desperately tried to calm his frayed nerves, once again berating himself for his blatant inability to do anything. He loathed this constant feeling of helplessness, despised feeling so incessantly dependant on others, and he absolutely detested these girly feelings of fear and desperation and pain that seemed to never let up. He couldn't call for help; not from Missouri. It had been hard enough getting help from Sam, and pure torture getting help from the nurses and aides in the hospital, and he'd be damned if he called Missouri into the room to provide him balance. With her arthritic knees the woman could barely balance herself sometimes, and it would be just plain humiliating to have her holding him up in the shower.
Why he didn't just run a bath could only be explained by the same illogical fact that 'Winchester's simply didn't take bath's, because bath's were for girls.' And the only times Dean could remember being submerged in a bath in his adult life were times where he was barely conscious and only partially alive. So instead, he stayed on the edge of the tub, turning the shower on so Missouri wouldn't know the difference. Spinning around, Dean turned so he faced the inside of the shower and grabbed for a washcloth and unwrapped the bar of soap and proceeded to the best job he could from the edge of the tub.
It wasn't the best solution, and he found that quite a bit of water managed to make it to the floor of the bathroom before he was done, but in the end Dean was clean, and that was truly all that mattered.
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The rest of the day went by relatively uneventfully. Missouri made no more attempts to get Dean to open up, feeling as though she had made enough progress for one day, although she did insist wholeheartedly that he eat every meal she placed in front of him. And because, just for today, every meal was hamburgers and fries and some of the fattiest southern cooking you could find in a northern restaurant, Dean ate it all hungrily and willingly.
He spent the majority of his day in bed, flipping through the channels on the surprisingly clear television screen in a zombie like trance and finally settled into a 'The Godfather' movie marathon in the early evening as he found himself wondering for the hundredth time just how long Missouri had sent Sam and Bobby away for.
And when he finally thought he might just go stir crazy sitting around waiting for the two men to return, he heard the loud slamming of a car door just outside their room. Dean breathed a sigh of relief, anxiously waiting for Sam to burst through the door so he could yell at the kid for listening to Missouri's order and leaving him alone all day long.
But he was unprepared for the bloodied mess that confronted him as the door slammed open and Bobby and Sam staggered into the room.