Battle of the Bulge

Summary: Sam and Dean are trapped on a farm with some unusual residents…

Right… Answers were promised. Let's see what we can do about that…

Chapter Four

"All right, Tommy, no more crap." Sam stalked over to the man allowing him to see every bit of his anger. "Where's your wife buried?"

The man shook his head stubbornly. "You're insane. This is insane."

"Denial really doesn't work when your dead wife just ripped the door off its hinges," Sam snarled. "Clara just took off with my brother and he's already hurt. Tell me what you did with the body so I can do something about it!"

"Tommy?" Annie asked brokenly. She had backed away from him, running into the wall, her eyes horrified.

Tommy looked at her and then back at Sam. "I… I didn't mean to do it," he said defensively.

"Moot point, Tommy." Sam had to order himself not to knock the guy's block off. "You did do it and now we have to deal with it before she kills us."

"You don't understand," Tommy said. "She just wouldn't listen to me. I told her and told her. I warned her. I begged her. But she let herself go and wouldn't do anything about it."

"I don't care why you did it," Sam bit out. "I just need to know where you buried her. You did bury her, didn't you?"

The man shrugged. "Sort of."

"Tommy, if you don't tell me, I'll break the salt line." Sam was seeing red and had half a mind to do it anyway. Clara would leave Dean and come back for her real target. "I'll let her rip you apart. Now where's the body?"

"I…" Tommy sagged back against the wall in sudden defeat. "I put her in the septic tank."

Annie let out a muffled cry and slid down the wall to sit on the floor. Sam spared her a glance and felt yet another distinct twinge of pity for the woman. She looked beyond horrified. She was bereft, simply staring at her husband.

"You put Clara's body in the septic tank," Sam said in disbelief.

"Yeah." Tommy appeared almost embarrassed. "You ever read the package on the stuff you have to put down the toilet every so often to keep the septic system working? The bacteria and the enzyme stuff in those tanks, it'll eat through clothes, skin, hair… almost anything. Bet it'd have a good go at bone too. By the time the septic guy comes to pump out the tank five or six years later, no one'll know the difference."

No real body, nothing Sam could do anything useful with anyway. He had to get to Dean. Sam picked up Dean's rock salt-loaded shotgun and left the kitchen at a run.

Ow.

Dean really couldn't force his mind to process much more than that. Ow. His whole body felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending screaming for his attention.

Burns were pain. Dean had a sudden terrifying thought and felt his heart beat painfully in his chest, blood roaring in his ears blocking everything else out. His year was up. Hell. Burning. Burns. He couldn't keep himself from remembering how Meg had described it. A prison made of bone and flesh and blood and fear.

Dean's eyes flew open. He was in a barn. He was pretty sure Hell wasn't in a barn. Though as near as he could tell it just might be in Arkansas. It was certainly the armpit of the universe.

Dean groaned. He was lying flat on his back, but couldn't seem to make himself care. His body had already been on overload thanks to the burns and then the ghost had dragged him outside, scraping him raw.

"I can help you."

Dean tilted his head toward the sound of the raspy voice. The dead woman was standing several feet away looking down at him. Her hair was ratty and matted and her clothing looked moth-eaten. "Well, you've done a bang up job so far."

"They've made you what you are, but I can help you."

Dean sighed and struggled into a sitting position. "Lady, I'm a self-made man." What was it with the ghosts and the armchair psychoanalysis? Ghost had issues. He had issues. So they wanted to talk 'til the cows came home. Thankfully they were in a barn so that should be soon. The cows seemed to have it in for him anyway.

"Your father and brother, they made you hard, a fighter so that you could protect them. They ordered you, begged you to protect them and now Sam blames you when that is all you know how to do."

Dean snorted. "I tried that flower-arranging class, but it didn't really take."

The ghost continued watching him, her steady gaze boring into him until Dean shifted uneasily under the intense scrutiny. "You hide what you really think, what you feel, ignore women you could grow to love, all for their sake and Sam calls you emotionally detached, antisocial, calloused…"

"If you call me a sociopath with a heart of gold I'm gonna hurl," Dean cut her off.

"They made you this way," she said, her hoarse voice grating on Dean's nerves. "You deny yourself to your own hurt because they have always demanded it of you. But denying your own needs is killing you. You are counting the days. You are following orders until it kills you, just like it killed me."

"I seriously doubt it's just like it killed you," Dean frowned.

"Hide behind your humor. I did, too. You are no happier with who you are than I was," she said coldly. "Your father trained you to protect Sam at all costs. Since he was a child, your brother has turned to you for protection, begged you to save him time and again, has taken it for granted that you would. Now you will forfeit your life. You will give up everything because they require it of you."

"Lady, it's called sacrifice," Dean said harshly. "It ain't a sacrifice if it doesn't cost you anything."

But she wasn't listening. The ghost looked away toward what Dean assumed was the house. "Tommy said he loved me. He promised to love and protect me. And I promised to obey."

"What happened?" Dean saw Sam appear in the doorway and quickly motioned for him to stay put. He did register, however, that Sam was holding Marigold, aiming her steadily at the ghost. Dean's favorite sawed-off shotgun was always a welcome addition to any situation.

"I tried to get the weight off," she confessed quietly. "I tried and tried, but Tommy kept after me. He was so cruel. I starved myself trying to please him. He called me a cow. He was so obsessed with his miniatures. He always wanted smaller. Everything had to be smaller and he was stuck with a fat wife."

Dean really looked at her for the first time. Beneath the ragged clothing, Clara wasn't a large woman. She wasn't thin though either. Pleasantly plump, he would probably say.

"Tommy screamed at me, called me everything he could think of. He broke me and then blamed me for being weak. I hated him. I hated myself. One day I was so miserable, that I drove straight to the store and bought a box of donuts. They were chocolate covered, cream filled. They were like heaven."

Dean just waited. He knew what was coming.

"Tommy caught me eating them and bashed my head in," she said, her gaze distant, seeing another place and time. "He used the trophy for his mini-moo. I've always resented that."

Her sorrow-filled eyes returned to Dean. "Don't give up everything just because they tell you to. You are what you are. You can't let them make you feel like you have to do it or that you're not right somehow."

Dean cocked his head to one side. "Did you just call me a battered housewife?"

"They turn on you anyway. They always turn on you. Whatever you do it's not enough, not good enough, or it's your fault somehow. Sam is angry with you for making the deal." Clara turned and looked at Sam, startling him. "Sam's like Tommy." Her voice dropped to a low, angry growl. "He blames you for being the person he has made you."

"Sam, please tell me you know where she's buried," Dean pleaded. "She's making my head hurt."

Before Sam could even open his mouth to reply, the ghost let out a screeching howl. Sam was pulled in and flung to the hard-packed dirt floor. Clara knelt over him and held him flat, her hand splayed across his chest.

Dean grit his teeth in frustration. Sam had fallen on top of Marigold. Dean really wanted his shotgun right now, but he had a dead woman and a huge brother blocking him.

"I warned you, Sam," the ghost hissed. "Your brother isn't the only one who needs to be taught a lesson." Sam gave a shout, abruptly cut off as he fought to get away. "Dean is killing himself for you. You've made him what he is, a miserable self-sacrificing creature all because he loves you."

"Clara, stop!" Dean said, anger flashing through him, giving him the strength to fight his way to his feet. Still, she paid no attention. Clara held Sam, refusing to let him budge. Sam clutched at his chest, helpless to stop her. Dean could see Sam's shirt being eaten away beneath Clara's fingers, knew burns were forming on Sam's skin.

"Did Dean beg you not to go to college? When your father went missing, did Dean beg you to stay with him or did he drive you back to your door? No, Dean accepted what you wanted even though he disagreed. And now you have the nerve to be angry that he made the deal."

Dean tried to move closer, knowing all he had to do was get to Marigold, but Clara held him back with a wave of her other hand.

"You blame Dean for being what you made him," she continued. "You blame him for what you asked him to be. He brought you back, sacrificing himself because that is what you and your father taught him to do. Tommy made me what I was. I obeyed and obeyed until I was starving to death and then I made a decision Tommy didn't like. My husband killed me to show me how wrong I was. Will you let Dean die just to show how wrong he was to make the deal?"

Dean heard Sam whimper in pain, one of the most bloodcurdling sounds Dean knew. He couldn't move, but there was always one thing he could do. He could talk. "Sam, you're too freaking tall."

The ghost didn't stop what she was doing, but Dean could tell she was listening.

"You're a freak of nature. You're a sasquatch. It's a wonder we can find clothes to fit you." Dean laughed, a purposely cruel sound. "Good thing there are Big & Tall shops for weirdoes like you. Are there chick sasquatches? Be easier to put you in dresses."

Clara turned to him. "I know what you're trying to do. It won't work. I know the truth."

Dean fought the urge to swear. It was so much easier to lie to things that couldn't read your mind. Dean took a deep, steadying breath ignoring the pain as the burns stretched. Apparently he was going to have to get meaner about this.

"Sam, you're a bleeding heart," he growled. "You don't have the stomach, the smarts or the stamina for this job." He took another breath and plunged on seeing the ghost start to falter. "I've tried to train you since you were a kid and you still suck. Look at the mess you've gotten yourself into. You're just dragging me down."

The woman screeched and released Sam, rounding on Dean. "You're protecting him, like you're protecting Tommy! Didn't you understand anything that I said to you?"

Dean couldn't help a smirk. "I am what I am." Even if she didn't believe him, she'd let go of Sam and that was all that mattered.

Clara suddenly looked up as if she'd heard something Dean hadn't. He felt her hold on him dissipate and had the sudden sinking feeling Tommy wasn't behind his salt line anymore.

"Tommy," she whispered as she walked out of the barn. "You're mine."

Remember people. They're just donuts. They're not love. That said, I think I still need one! More tomorrow…