The Devil You Know

Chapter Nine

Dean clung to the wall with shaking fingers as he stumbled down the stairs, Sam's yells of protest echoing in his ears. He steeled himself to ignore them. It was the only way: he couldn't deal with another situation like the one on the roof – he was only up to one disaster at a time, if he could even manage that. Sam, Lucy and Michael could all three stay in the closet until the necklace was disabled or destroyed, and then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have to scrape any of them off the sidewalk. The necklace itself felt hot in his pocket, burning him through the fabric of his jacket; he was painfully aware of its presence.

Every step jolted his wound violently, but he gritted his teeth and kept up the painstaking rhythm of heavy steps, all the way down to the ground floor. He was relieved to see the end of the stairs, even if it was through blurry eyes. Clutching tense-fingered at his bloody shirt with one hand, he pushed away from the wall and staggered towards the exit, trying to co-ordinate his steps despite the drunken swaying of the corridor.

The first sound he heard, he assumed was just a particularly loud protest from Sam, or a change of pitch in the buzzing which filled his ears. The second time, though, he turned.

A man stood in the doorway, with a shotgun trained on Dean. He was in his thirties, with hair already greying at the temples, and tired lines around his eyes. He wore a hooded sweatshirt over his pyjamas, and stood half-hunched in fright. Dean raised one palm, reluctant to let go of his stomach with the other. The man waited uncertainly, staring at Dean. Sighing, Dean pulled his hand away from the wound and raised it, turned towards the man in the doorway to show he was unarmed. It dripped, slowly: he watched mesmerised as the scarlet droplet picked up the minimal light and fell away, landing on the floor with a quiet, final sort of sound.

'What are you doing in my house?' demanded the man facing him, in a slightly shaky voice.

Dean said nothing, trying to think of a way to explain himself quickly and simply. The world swayed, and he lurched sideways, snatching at the wall and leaning against it heavily.

The man in the doorway frowned; his face lit from the side, and took half a step forwards. 'Are you ok?' he asked, a sense of the surreal plain in his voice. He reached out for a light switch, and the cold, harsh fluorescent tubes on the ceiling flickered on, illuminating Dean's white face and scarlet stomach, the scarlet hand which he still held out in front of him. 'Jesus.'

'I…' Dean shook his head, giving up. 'I can't explain. But something's been going on in this town, man, and I'm trying to stop it. You're just going to have to take my word for it…'

The man's face contracted strangely, struggling between suspicion and compassion. He approached, letting his arm relax so that the shotgun hung awkwardly at his side. 'You better sit down,' he said quietly, steering Dean into the eerily quiet café, and pulling chairs down from the tables. He disappeared, leaving Dean slumped, and returned with a first aid kit, which he thrust into the other man's lap before backing away rapidly, his hand still tight around the gun barrel.

'My name's Andrew Zaretta. I own this coffee shop,' he began curtly, his eyes searching the intruder's face in confusion. 'I live in an apartment above… I heard people moving around over an hour ago, but I ignored it at first, but then I heard more later, and I went down to search the shop. I've had people trying to break open the cash registers at night before. No-one there, so I went back up, and then it sounded like people were talking on the roof. My little daughter's bedroom is above mine, though, and we sometimes leave her tapes playing; it helps her sleep. Couldn't get back to sleep, though, so I went down for a drink and then I heard someone yelling the house down from up in the roof. Just about to head up there and I find you on your way down.' He finished, and lapsed into silence, staring at Dean, waiting for him to speak. When Dean was silent, he spoke up again, sharply. 'Is there anyone else here?'

Dean nodded, wearily. 'I locked them in a closet, by the door to the roof,' he muttered.

Andrew's eyes widened in alarm. 'I'll call the police-,' he said, starting to move.

'Don't,' Dean choked out, desperately.

'Why not?'

'Look… this town has more than its fair share of murder and suicide, right?' Andrew nodded impatiently. 'Well, something makes people act like that, people who would never usually be violent, and it suddenly makes them turn.'

Andrew raised a cynical eyebrow.

'I don't have time to convince you,' Dean told him bluntly. 'I told you, you're just going to have to believe me. The people who broke into your house were… are under the influence of this… thing. If I can get rid of the thing that's causing it, we can let them out… but right now... They're a danger to themselves.'

'And to other people?' Andrew asked urgently, scepticism slowly evaporating from his voice. 'My family…'

'Mostly themselves,' Dean sighed.

Silence gathered.

'Say I believe you… can you stop it?'

Dean ignored the question, because he didn't know the answer. 'Can you tell me anything about the woman who killed herself in this town in the 30's? I think her name was…'

'Marianne Holden? What about her?'

'Where she's buried,' Dean replied flatly. He was too tired, in too much pain to be subtle.

Andrew glared at him. 'Why?'

'I need to know, so I can stop her spirit making people homicidal and suicidal,' Dean replied, equally bluntly. His voice was raw and uneven, punctuated with awkward breaths.

The other man's frown deepened; his hostility mounting as he wondered if Dean was mocking him.

'I'm not crazy, and I'm not lying,' Dean grated out fiercely. His breath caught in his parched throat, and he shuddered violently, drawing his arms protectively around his stomach with a whimper. Andrew's expression softened in sympathy.

'You need a hospital, man…'

Dean shook his head determinedly, meeting Andrew's stare with desperate eyes. 'Please, just humour me… for, I don't know, a few hours. Marianne Holden…'

'I don't know where she's buried. Her daughter might – she still lives here. Grace Holden. But I don't know if she'll see you. She's been through a lot recently…'

'What?' Dean asked sharply.

'Her daughter married a man called Hartshorne. They had a son. All three have died in the last year. Her husband was murdered, and it looked like Annie did it. She didn't go to jail, though – she just went off the rails, and she was in a mental hospital for a while. But she killed herself a few months ago. And then… not even a week ago, her son Paul was murdered by his girlfriend.'

'Annie Hartshorne is Marianne Holden's granddaughter?' Dean asked incredulously. Andrew nodded. 'Can't you see the pattern?' he demanded, now trying to convince Andrew despite his resolve not to bother. 'Marianne's spirit made Annie kill her husband, then herself. Then, it made Lucy Henshall kill her boyfriend…'

There was some lingering doubt in Andrew's eyes, but it was fading. He met Dean's eyes sincerely. 'I don't think I can understand… or, accept… whatever it is you're trying to say. But I know something's wrong in this town. You'd have to be blind not to notice. So I'll help. If I can.'

Dean nodded gratefully. 'My brother, Lucy Henshall and a nasty little shit called Michael are locked in your closet. They've all been exposed to Marianne's spirit. Please make sure they don't get out. I'll be back.' He placed his palm flat on the table and pushed himself upwards until he was standing reasonably upright.

'Grace Holden lives at number 64, two streets over. But – you really need a hospital, man. You can't just go out there on your own.'

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him, frowning in mock anger. 'Last person who told me that's locked in a closet.'

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Sam cursed and slumped back against the door, panting and hoarse from shouting. He met Lucy's eyes, and she shrugged. 'Idiot… I don't believe he did that,' Sam muttered distractedly.

Lucy said nothing, settling herself on an upturned bucket and studying the backs of her hands.

Sam was restless; he spun round and slammed the heel of his hand against the door in frustration. Suddenly he rounded on Lucy. 'Did you know he was hurt?' he demanded.

She looked up at him in surprise and fear. 'He made me promise not to tell you,' she admitted, in a tiny voice.

Sam's eyes flared dangerously. 'We have to get out of here.'

'But – he's right. We're a danger to ourselves, until that necklace is destroyed.'

'I don't care!' he shot back at her, with a force that frightened her.

'He's trying to protect you.'

'Yeah? He can't protect himself, out there on his own, bleeding all over the place. He won't get to the end of the street.'

'For Christ's sake, Sam! You're both as bad as each other!' Lucy exclaimed, lurching to her feet so fast that she kicked the bucket backwards into Michael's inert head. Sam was taken aback, and, momentarily, silenced. She rushed on. 'You don't care if you walk out that door and it takes you again straight away and you throw yourself off that roof. He doesn't care if he leaves his life's blood in a trail behind him all the way to the grave, as long as you're safe. Do you really think you'd be helping him by getting yourself killed?'

'Dean thinks he can help me by getting himself killed,' Sam countered petulantly.

'Exactly! You're both suffering from severe man-logic,' she retorted. She started to blurt out something else, but stopped, biting her lip, and sighed. 'You'll kill each other, at this rate,' she added, quietly.

Sam slumped against the door, his anger chastened. 'It looked bad, though. We can't just let him walk off like that.'

Lucy raised an eyebrow at him. 'Good luck with that door, then,' she said wryly.

Sam glanced at it. His shoulder was aching already: it was a very solid door. He couldn't just stop trying, though. He stepped back, as far as the limited space would allow, and raised his foot.

'Hang on!' Lucy yelled. He stopped, turned. Michael was stirring, and Lucy was half bent over him, but unwilling to touch him.

Sam grabbed the teenager roughly by his skinny, black-clad shoulders, and propped him against the wall.

Michael frowned, looking around him dazedly, grunting as he tried to raise a hand to his aching head and realised they were tied. He looked at Sam, then at Lucy, and back at Sam. 'What… happened to that necklace?' he asked.

Sam glared at him, and turned back to studying the door. Somehow, it felt better to blame Michael for everything. Although, blaming Dean had been quite satisfying, too.

Lucy looked at Michael. For all she knew, he'd been a fine, upstanding citizen before he put the necklace on. He had knocked her out, and tried to push her off a building. The sight of him made her skin crawl uncomfortably, but she felt sorry for him. After all, she knew what it felt like to wake up not knowing what you'd done.

'It's all right,' she told him, uncertainly, not meeting his eyes. 'You didn't kill anybody.'

Michael looked at her, confused. Sam made a tiny, involuntary sound of anger, and balled his fists at his sides, without turning round. Lucy swallowed, and glanced back at Michael.

'Not… as far as we know, anyway,' she amended, in a bare whisper.

Michael said nothing, but wriggled his arms, testing Sam's knots, glaring fixedly into the opposite wall.

A strained silence filled the closet. Lucy felt stifled. She wanted to break the silence, but she doubted that Sam would appreciate it if she burst into song.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and halted, shuffling hesitantly, on the landing outside. All three were holding their breath. The steps were too strong and confident to be Dean, returned for help.

'Is there someone in there?' demanded a suspicious voice.

Sam frowned. 'Mr Zaretta?' he asked, uncertainly. Lucy looked a question at him. 'The guy who runs the coffee shop?' she mouthed to him, and he nodded.

'Yes…'

'I came into your shop yesterday, looking for a necklace,' Sam reminded him.

'Oh yeah. Did you find it?'

'You could say that.'

Andrew shook himself, trying to shake off the surreal feeling which was creeping up on him again. He hoped this was just a bizarre dream. 'What the hell are you doing in my closet?'

Sam sighed. 'Long story. Can you let me out?'

'Sorry man. I got instructions.'

'You saw Dean?'

Andrew shrugged. 'Guess so.'

'Please, Mr Zaretta. He needs help. This is ridiculous. What did he tell you?'

'Whole lot of nonsense.'

'I can explain, if you let me out,' Sam tried again. Lucy was glaring at him. He wondered how Dean managed to get everyone on his side, even when his actions made no sense at all.

'Sorry, man,' Andrew repeated. 'You can tell me from in there. I got all night.'

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The streets were deserted in the grey light before dawn. Dean kept close to the wall, for support, more than to hide. All those infected with Marianne Holden's special brand of homicidal madness were either dead or locked securely in Andrew Zaretta's closet. He was almost proud of that achievement. He'd eliminated every enemy except for the spirit itself. And the wound in his stomach, of course. At the moment, that seemed his most dangerous foe.

Continued pressure from his hands had slowed the bleeding to a trickle, but he lacked the strength to stop it. He'd zipped the jacket to hide the majority of the blood, but there were specks of it on his lips, and the top of his jeans. One hand was stained with scarlet, turning brown as it dried. The fingers of his other hand dragged along the wall, as thug its solidity would keep him grounded.

He was floating, now, his mind wiped of any thought other than the urgent need to destroy the spirit, and remove its taint from his brother and Lucy. Other than that, he was numb. He knew he didn't have long. But he was determined – stubborn – and he could force himself to stay conscious, just – long enough.

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Until next time ; )