4

Sam checked his watch again, growing annoyed. Be back by three he'd said to Dean. He'd made the triple-feed of kraft dinner that he'd promised; the stuff had a limited lifespan and it was already congealing into a gluey mass as it cooled. He picked at it, waiting impatiently. The scent of May Adam's roadkill stew was starting to waft over, and he was loathe to admit that it really smelled good. Finally he broke down and called, resigned to the ribbing he'd have to endure about his wifely nagging. When there was no answer, a cold worry began to overtake his irritation.

Dean's brush with despair was brief. He shrugged it off after a few moments, took stock and became practical again. He was aware that his phone was somewhere other than where he needed it to be, which was bloody typical. No doubt it had flown into the leaves somewhere down the slope. He was stuck where he was for now. He knew that he was losing blood, he had to stop that first. He reached down to his boots, trying very hard not to disturb his shoulder. He slowly unlaced both, and using his teeth to hold one end, he tied the cords together into something longer. Resting for a moment, he cleared his thinking, and pulled the sticky knit fabric of his sleeve up past his bicep, puffing with the effort it took not to yell. Instead, he laughed, struck by the absurdity of his situation. He wound the lace around his arm above his elbow, and knotted it. He knew he couldn't tighten it enough that way, so he felt around for a stick, and finding one that was solid, he slipped it under the cord, gritted his teeth and twisted it around and around, until the pinch began to hurt in earnest and he could feel the tell tale coldness creep down the offending limb. He held his breath and watched, squinting against the mounting pain, until the bleeding slowed to a tiny trickle. Satisfied, he pulled his sleeve back down over the stick to secure it and keep the cord tight. That task done, he leaned over and gave in to nausea, retching into the leaves until he collapsed back with exhaustion.

..god it hurt... He'd lost a lot of blood. Under different circumstances, he'd keep trying to push his arm down, away from the metal tooth to free himself. Eventually he'd be able to pull away. But with his shoulder out, he couldn't bear the resulting movement on the displaced joint. Everytime he summoned the grit to try it, the sheer agony sent a black curtain across his senses. Finally he gave up and rested. He drifted off for a time, which was a blessing.

Sam paced as he called and called. -stupid!- he berated himself; how could he have let him go there on his own? These things never worked out, he should know that by now. He couldn't believe that he'd been so selfish and short-sighted. A nap...just so he could take a bloody nap! Dean was clearly in a mood for trouble, and now it looked like he may have found it. And here he was, without wheels, stuck in the farmhouse while...

"Screw this!" he growled to himself. He threw on his jacket and left, jogging to the highway. He had no idea how long it would take, but he vowed that he was going to walk, run or hitch-hike his way out to where Dean had said he was going, hostile locals be damned.

"...Are you dead..?"

He turned slowly and squinted toward the whispered voice. "Sammy?"

Sam didn't answer. No one did, the frosty air was still, and silent. Apparently the speaker's question was answered. Dean froze, wide eyed now, and his heartrate leapt in intensity. -aw, not now, jesus!- He knew the spirit was near; it was unnaturally cold. He struggled to sit up a little, fearful that his current jeopardy had just been eclipsed by something worse. A searing pain shot through him; it dizzied him and he lay back down, fighting the urge to heave again. He lay still for a long time, shutting his eyes and waiting for the agony to wane. He was at the spirit's mercy now, there was nothing he could do about it, and at the moment, he almost didn't care.

"Dead yet?"

Dean roused himself with difficulty. "Why do you care?" he groaned under his breath. He wasn't expecting an answer, but he got one; a whisper, barely audible, breathed into his ear. He shuddered with the chill, and the unnerving sensation of the close presence.

"Can't save the living."

Dean thought that a talking spirit was better than one that was attacking. All he wanted to do was sleep, the shock and blood loss were taking a toll. But he mastered his fear and continued the unusual conversation. "Did you save Bert Munro?"

The spirit seemed to back away for a moment; the air was warmed briefly, but after a time, the voice sighed out a response. "He is saved. I ate his sins."

Dean remembered. The odd little pile of apples. The sin-eater. "Did you kill him?"

The spirit didn't answer for a time. When it did, it was almost too quiet to hear. "Didn't mean to."

"What happened..?"

The silence stretched out again before he replied. "He was gonna take my stone. Stone's all I got."

Despite his pain, Dean was intrigued, and it took his mind off his predicament a little. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Sin eater."

"No, your real name."

(pause) "...I am...Sin eater."

"Don't you have a Christian name?"

Sin Eater was silent for a long time. Finally it whispered. "Nathaniel. Nathaniel Willard is my christian name."

-Now we're getting somewhere.- Dean thought. He swallowed hard, and collected himself. "So Nate, why are you hanging around here, saving our undeserving souls? ...Don't you wanna go to heaven?"

Sin eater sighed... a long, drawn-out sound, heavy with pain. "Pearly gates will not open for me. I am reviled."

"Reviled? By who?"

"the Lord."

Ah... "So you stay here..."

"Don't wanna go to hell."

-Amen, buddy.- Dean shifted a little, feeling the cold creeping into his bones. It brought such blinding pain that he couldn't help but cry out. He grimaced and waited for it to fade.

Sin eater spoke again. "You're hurtin..."

"Yeah." Dean whispered, still clamping his eyes shut.

"You want me to stop it..?"

Dean's eyes flew open at that. "What...what are you asking me, Nate? Do I want you to finish me off?"

"Yes. ...So I can save your soul..."

Dean recoiled painfully from the source of the whisper. "No! No, thanks anyway, I'm fine! Besides, Nate; you'd have to eat a mountain of apples to save me from my many sins, trust me."

"You are not a good man..?"

Dean snorted. "I'm good enough. But good men do bad things, and bad men do good, Nate. It's not always cut and dried."

Sin eater wasn't convinced. "Don't matter what you done, I can save your soul, if you let me..."

Dean's heart rate spiked with renewed fear. The conversation had been going so well, but it had taken a dangerous turn. "No. I don't wanna die today, Nate."

But the sin eater was singular of purpose. It was all he knew to do, offering the service for which he had been both sought out and reviled all his life. "Ain't gonna hurt you... But I will save your soul. I must."

Dean's panic rose. He spoke urgently to the empty space in front of him, his voice growing hoarse. "No, Nate! You can't! You can't save my soul, ok? It's not possible!"

"Why?"

"Because..." he sighed. "..because I sold it already, to a crossroads demon. The Devil owns it now, it's a done deal, you're wasting your efforts!"

That was met by lengthy silence. Dean's heart calmed a little, and he shivered in the shadows. He shifted again, trying to alleviate the pain that pulsed from his wrist to his neck.

Sin Eater picked up an apple from the ground beside Dean's head, it hurled through the air, shattering into bits against a black trunk. Dean shivered, afraid to breathe while the spirit ranted.

"All them sinners, all hell-bound cuz of their own greed and lust and meanness... all they wanted in the end was for me to deliver them from their due. Their kin would come; all cryin, all begging it of me like I was the blessed Saviour himself! I took their pittances and tarred my soul for all of them, though none of'em ever deserved their reprieve. But you! You damned yourself! Why? why would you do this terrible, terrible thing..?"

Dean found his eyes watering for a moment. "To save my brother." he whispered.

Sin eater seemed to calm. It sighed again. "Family is a worthy cause, I guess. Mostly. Are you afraid.?"

Dean almost snorted. "I'm lying under a damned tractor, bleeding out, and arguing with a ghost why he shouldn't gank me. You're gonna have to be more specific."

"Are you afraid...of hell."

It was Dean's turn for silence now. Finally he answered. "Yeah."

The spirit had nothing to say for some time. Nor did Dean. Finally its whisper came again. "Then I will not send you to where I'm scared to go."

"I appreciate that, Nate."

He really did. He shifted again, trying to sit up, but he was too weak now to withstand the resulting hurt. He groaned and curled up a little, feeling so chilled in the gloom, out of the sun that still warmed the clearing. And Nathaniel Willard's presence dropped the temperature significantly. He closed his eyes and drifted for a while.

Sam trudged along the sunny road, feeling nothing of the late sun's warmth on his back, and hating himself more with every step. He tried his brother's cell endlessly, but was met each time with a long period of ringing, and then the damned voicemail. He'd tried Bobby as well, but he too wasn't answering. He stopped leaving messages, worried he'd run out of juice. He turned toward the road again, hoping someone would drive past. Cicadas were singing back and forth in the tree tops along the roadside, as if chastising him, decrying his poor judgement. And of course Dean would be smacking him on the side of his head if he knew he was thinking this way. He'd deride him for even believing he had any control over what his elder brother did. But right now, that didn't matter, Sam shouldered the heavy blame and walked on. Finally he heard the dry sound of tires on gravel. He faced the road again, holding out his thumb hopefully...

Dean awoke with a start, shivering violently with cold. He didn't know what had pulled him back to the present, but he vaguely remembered strange sounds...small hollow thumps. He glanced up the hill, hoping desperately that it was Sam. It wasn't. Apples were rolling down the embankment, the limbs above shaking, dropping their misshapen bounty. He watched, mesmerized, as the golden yellow fruit bounced and rolled with purpose toward him. -ok, that's weird. He wondered if he was hallucinating, and glanced down at himself, as the apples continued to find their way toward his prone form. There, on his stomach, was a little pile of them, with more and more eerily adding themselves to the collection. Wasps buzzed over the sweet, ripe flesh, angry at being disturbed by the activity. He swept them all off in horror as he heard the sin-eater's whispered words:

...I give easement and rest now to thee, friend. Come not down the lanes or in our meadows. And for thy peace I pawn my own soul. Amen...

"I'm not dead, Nate."

"Oh. Thought maybe you was."

Dean moaned a little, struck by the futility of it all. "Yeah well; soon enough, I guess. ..And I told you not to bother anyway; you can't save me. Why don't you do something useful and move this damned machine instead?"

"Can't. ...too big."

"You pushed it down the ravine-"

"I didn't. ...only held onto my stone. ...didn't mean for it to roll."

"Bert Munro died by accident then?"

The spirit seemed to fade again. Dean was struck by a lonely sadness. But after a time it returned to answer. "They bashed in his head, while he lay under it... begging them to help him."

Dean's attention sharpened. "They? Who, Nate? ..and why?"

"Them that skulks in these woods."

"Who, people? Living people?"

"Yes. The living. Nothing but evil..."

Dean was growing weaker; he felt light-headed, the cold dulling his thinking. "Somebody's doing something out here? Something they're hiding maybe..?"

Nathaniel's affirmative came as a frosty sigh on the wind.

"Who, Nate? Who's out here, up to something-?"

"His name...is unknown to me."

Dean got no further information from his ethereal companion. There was silence for a long time, but he knew Nate was still there; his own warm breath still condensed in the unnaturally chilly air. He was damp with the sweat that blood loss brought, and losing body warmth too fast. "Fine, Nathaniel Willard; you can't move a backhoe. Well how 'bout some dry leaves then? I'm freezing here."

Nate didn't answer. But a soft swishing sound floated down from the lip of the clearing, and soon, dry, golden leaves swept toward him, as if pushed by breezes. They collected around him, building into a pile that eventually covered his shivering body. It was creepy as all hell, but Dean was grateful. It lessened his chill considerably. He whispered his thanks.

Nathaniel said nothing. He began to grow restless."They're comin'..."

Dean was sleepy; his thinking felt fuzzy, and unclear. He turned wearily toward the sound. "What, Nate? Who's coming-?"

"Them that wants to take my stone away... It ain't right, ain't fair, doin that. It's all I got."

The icy air that had accompanied his new aquaintance suddenly lifted. Dean knew that Nate had gone. He realized now the significance of the sin eater's words. Someone was coming up to the clearing, and Nate was determined to ward them off, just as he had the others. But what if it was Sam? Nathanial Willard wasn't evil, but he had already proved that he would do violence to protect his sanctuary. At least one man was dead because of it.

"Nate? Nate! Nathaniel!" he cried out after him, but there was no response. Dean swore, terrified that Sam was in jeopardy, and he gritted his teeth, rolled over and pushed his pinned arm down hard into the hollow. It was flaming agony. He howled in pain and frustration, streaming tears as he felt the flesh and bone move off the crusted metal. But it hurt so much; he was too weak, and he couldn't keep it up. He couldn't get clear of the point, and he fell back with a sob. He choked out Sam's name one more time but it came out as a whisper. His abject panic sapped him; he lost sensation and a roaring black wall silenced everything.