7

The old man quaffed his drink with relish. May rarely let him indulge in such vices, it was she who would have to clean up any aftermath. It lubricated both his willingness to share, and his memories. Sam sat impatiently, awaiting the completion of the tale, and Dean was simply grateful for anything that took his mind away from his injuries.

"Well, I assume you boys know something about it all..."

Sam answered. "We know his name, Nathaniel Willard. And we know how he started sin-eating."

"Willard?" the old man spat. " He was a Buell. Nate Buell. His daddy was a Buell. He growed up on Buell Farm, and came into town after his pa took off, and his mama died. She was a Willard."

Dean wasn't surprised that Nathaniel had chosen to identify himself by his mother's maiden name. Not after what his old man had done. "So it's Buell farm then. We already know he abandoned the holding to come into town, and why. What happened after that?"

Angus had drained his glass. He stuck his stubbled chin out in defiance. "Damned small glass you gimme..."

Sam replenished it, and the old man continued. "Well, that boy struggled, like most of us in those days. He didn't have no skills, didn't know his letters, didn't know nuthin' other than a bit of farmin'. He took work, here and there, when it was offered. Pretty soon he was like so many then, half starvin', and outa choices. He took to sin-eatin. Folks are always dying, no matter how hard they prayed. A man who was willing to blacken his soul always had worth, and he was called to do his chosen task from time to time. Poor bastard never did learn any trade; there weren't no pa or otherwise to teach him nothing useful. He lived in the outskirts of town, in a shed, never had no wife or comforts. Nobody ever talked to him, he didn't mix with folks either. Weren't long before nobody even knew what family he come from. he was just Sin Eater." The old man stared away, absorbed by the images his memories conjured. Finally Sam had to prod him to continue.

"Right. So, anyhow, he went on like that, for a long time. Folks came to know him as the man to hire, when death visited the house. He never earned much; he hardly lived well, like all them others he was savin' from damnation.. But he accepted his place. And the one odd thing was, a man in his position; you'd think he'd take hard to the drink to pass his miserable days, but not him. He wouldn't touch any spirits, or even beer, all he ever wanted at any sin-eatin' was a cup of milk and bread and apple pie. Strange thing...Anyways, it happened one day, there was a death that come to pass, and he was called upon, as usual."

Angus stopped there. He knew he had their attention. Both brothers stared at him, waiting for him to continue. "Hell; it was so long ago. Hardly know if I can remember..."

Sam poured another drink for him. Angus grinned and winked, glad that they had an understanding. He sat back and stretched, indulging in a drawn-out belch before continuing his tale. "Well, it was a man what died; a well known towner. His name was Jeremiah...Jeremiah Buell. He was a big man in Spencerville. He had a fine house in town, and a goodly living in his general store, supplying miners and farmers with his over-priced and shoddy goods. Remarried, with a fresh crop of sons. But for all his money, he died anyway; consumption, or maybe from the drink. And they called in the sin-eater. Well, that raggedy bastard took one look at the dead man laid out in finery, and didn't he refuse to do his duty. He cursed the corpse, and he backed away, and threw their coins back into the family's faces. He wasn't gonna eat those sins, he knew what they were, more'n anybody.. That Buell was his daddy, the same man what used to treat his first wife and boy so bad, who abandoned them at the farm years before. Buell was the devil himself in the sin-eater's eyes. He spat curses at the widow, and at her gathered sons, and he ran out into the street. Buell's brother Henry was so angered by what he done, that he went after him. Nobody saw what happened, but it ended up that Sin Eater was runned over by Buell's buckboard in the street. The poor bastard was laid open by those iron-banded wheels, and he died there in the dust, with nobody wantin' to touch his cursed hide to help him. He laid there for three days, dragged off to the side and stinkin' under a tarp, while they all argued over what to do with him. Since there was no willing witnesses, it was called an accident. The courts said that Henry Buell was obligated to pay the burial costs. So they threw his carcass in a box, made up a stone real quick and buried him back at the farm, cuz the churchyard was denied him."

Dean lay, engrossed in the telling. Sam too was still, listening to the story unfold. Angus's tale explained the basic and unsentimental gravestone. It also explained why it was on the Buell farm, rather than in hallowed ground. Dean had to know more... "Angus, how come the Buells never took back that farm land?"

Angus spat. "Well, it weren't cuz they had enough shame, or fear to leave well enough alone. Truth is; them Buells never had legal title to that land. Those days, you just squatted, you carved out your spread on whatever state land was half-level on them hills. Land was never good enough to think of payin' for official, 'cept in town. And people have gone out there, over the years, hopin' to buy it; rich buggers who want their little acre of paradise to visit. And always they was scared away. I don't know what went on to spook them, but I guess it was enough to give that place the reputation it had. Cursed...haunted, whatever. Nobody really went up there after, least nobody what knew the story. Only jack-ass strangers... Hell, even Frank Buell wasn't interested, til lately. But he lost his chance, bein' incarcerated at the time, when that land finally went to auction."

The name struck Dean. He remembered the one that seemed to be the leader at the post office: they'd called him Frank. "Frank Buell; is he about mid-thirties, kind of a pushy bastard?"

Angus gave him a look that suggested he was an idiot. "Well sure. Frank Buell is the voice of the men around here. Nothing goes on here that he don't have a firm hand in. Does well for himself; him and his group are the only ones around here that seem to be able to make a good livin' while the rest of us are wearin' patches and eatin acorns. Served him right when he was hauled in; guess he wasn't as slippery as he thought he was. He was put away for assault, did eighteen months. He went after some inspector, on account of them big wind generators he got up on the mountain. They wasn't safe, didn't have no permits or somethin', I dunno; but he beat the livin' snot out of him, poor bastard. While Frank was in prison, the auction was held, and old Bert Munro picked it up. Everbody told him he was nuts to touch that tainted ground, but he already had a buyer waitin'. "

Dean was losing the ability to concentrate. He wanted to learn more, but he was fighting weakness, and the pain of his arm was making him feel ill. Sam could see he was flagging. "Dean, c'mon, we can talk more later; you have to get to Bradford."

Dean rubbed his eyes. "I know, Sam...just a few minutes more, ok? I need to know this."

Sam sighed, knowing the alternative was to haul him over his shoulder and dump him into the car kicking. He busied himself by collecting their things to leave while the conversation continued.

"Why does Buell have windmills?" Dean wondered.

"Well how the hell would I know? Frank keeps his business to himself, 'cept for his lackeys. Most likely he don't wanna be part of the government grid, he's particular sore about Feds."

Dean snorted. "So I noticed." He glanced up at Sam, who was waiting by the door, arms crossed, an anxious mother-hen expression creasing his brow. He decided that the rest could wait. "Gotta cut you off there, Angus. I'll save you some of that bottle for later. Sam, you wanna give me a hand getting out?"

Sam nodded, relieved. He moved to the bedside, about to lift Dean and help him to his feet, when they all turned in shock-

The door was flung wide, kicked open with a splintering violence. Three men stood there. One of them was familiar to Sam; he was the one he'd hitched a ride with earlier. The second was some weaselly bearded sycophant. But the centre figure was none other than Franklin William Buell.

"Angus! Get your ass home!" Frank barked.

The old man took exception to the affront. "Now who the hell do you think you are, boy? This is my house! You just-"

Frank Buell pointed his rifle at Angus's belly. " I didn't ask, you stinking old corpse. Get back to the house, or you won't see your next year!"

Angus wisely retreated. "I'm goin'. But you'll have May to answer to, Frank!. She won't take kindly to you bustin' in here!"

Frank tossed him a roll of bills. "Maybe that'll ease her mind."

Angus unfolded the wad. It was at least a hundred dollars, and more. He looked up at the bully in front of him and grinned a toothless parody of a smile. "Well I believe it just might." He shuffled out the open door and retreated to the kitchen. Frank Buell turned his icy stare towards the brothers.

"Hello, boys. Or should I call you Agents? We got some business to discuss."

Dean was frozen, mid-rise from the bed. He was tense with adrenalin and waiting to spring, but with three guns cocked and aimed, he stayed where he was. Sam stood beside him, shocked by the intrusion.

"Who the hell-?

Dean's demand was silenced by the butt of Frank's rifle. It caught him hard on his cheek, and it filled his vision with a splendour of bursting stars. Sam roared his objection, but his rush was stopped by the pummelling fists of the three men. He was hit, more times than he could recall. Disoriented, he fell under the onslaught. Both brothers were trussed and gagged, and hauled into the back of a truck, and they lay in pained and frightened confusion. They had no time to react further before they were transported away from their momentary sanctuary.

It was almost dark when May Adams came home. She tugged the screen door open, juggling her empty casserole dishes and pie tins. It was dark in the kitchen, Angus must have gone to bed. She switched on the light, and noticed that the stew was depleted. It pleased her that her boarders had accepted her offer. As she put down her things, she wrinkled her nose at the strong smell of whisky and frowned. Angus had no doubt gone back and pestered those boys for a drink. It smelled like he was more than successful. She called out to him, and was met only by the cat, circling her ankles and voicing it's complaint of hunger. Angus was supposed to feed him. She tsked and found the kibble, filling his bowl.

When she proceeded to the parlour, she found the old man. He was snoring like thunder, sprawled on the flowery sofa, and stinking of drink. An empty bottle of something lay spilled on the wood floor.

"Oh for heaven's sake! Angus, wake up!" She shook him mercilessly until he finally croaked his drunken objections.

"Waddya want, woman? Leave an old man in peace!"

"You be quiet! Where did you get that liquor?" she demanded.

"Them boys out back." he grumbled, turning over and falling asleep again.

She was none too pleased. She left him there and marched around the house. When she saw the condition of the open door, she stopped. There was no light on inside the room. She called tentatively; "You there; are you home?" When there was no response, she nervously stepped in and switched on the light, and gasped. The room was in disarray. The night stand was upended, a bucket of water tipped over onto the floor. There were towels lying beside the bed, they looked like they were bloodied. She had no idea what to make of it, but she knew it wasn't good. She hurried back and telephoned her son.

Russell Adams had just come in from work. As a game warden, he was automatically an outsider, despite his deep-rooted lineage. The local men treated him with curt civility, and nothing more, and they avoided him socially. It was a product of the job, but a man didn't turn down work if he could get it. He wasn't terribly hurt by it; the men he grew up with were louts and jackasses, as far as he was concerned. He was about to sit down with a well-earned beer when he got the anxious call from his mother. He knew May was a strong and confident old bird; if she was worried, then it was justified. He hopped back into his truck and drove out.

She met him in the driveway. "Oh I'm glad you came." she said, relieved.

"What's going on, Ma?"

"Well your grandad is sotted, but he's fine, but there's something wrong with the boarders. The place is a mess, and...well, come and see." She led him around and the two surveyed the room.

Russell frowned. "The door was broke in from outside. Looks like there was a tussle. Who are these boarders?"

"A couple of young men, brothers; on their way to Bradford. They took the room for the one night. They seemed decent enough. I see their car is gone."

Russell picked up one of the towels, examining it in the light. "This is blood, Ma. Something is real wrong here. I want you to get Grandad up; I'm gonna drive the two of you over to the Baileys' for the night, I don't want you here. Did Grandad say anything about it?"

May shook her head, her face creased with worry. "I just woke him, and he went back to sleep. Maybe you should talk to him."

May hurried to pack a few things while Russell woke the old man up. He rebuked Angus sharply when he complained, and he got a picture of what had happened finally. Angus told them about his visit with the boys, about Buell, and the resulting scuffle. He'd gone back to the room after the men left, to see if things were alright. When he found it empty, he took the bottle back with him to assuage his guilt, and had fallen asleep before he could alert May. "Frank gimme a wad of cash, told me to keep my yap shut. " he whined, handing the money to May.

She threw it onto the counter in disgust. "What about my towels? They're all bloody! Did they say why?"

"One of those boys was hurt; he had his arm all bandaged up. They was up on Buell Farm, nosing around. I think it was the Sin Eater what got him."

Russell growled a curse. "Grandad, I told you that was nonsense! I'd be more inclined to think that that bastard Buell was behind that too. Whatever those boys were doing, they ran afoul of Frank and his cronies. Sonofabitch thinks he can do what he pleases, and law be damned. You two get out into the truck, I'm gonna call the station in Kinburn."

He was about to dial, when a cell phone on the floor began playing a tune.

The road was brutally rough. Neither brother could see a damn thing, the black truck cap all but eliminated any remaining light. They bounced and rolled in the truck bed, helpless to do anything to remedy their situation. If the truck would just stay still for a moment, then perhaps one could find the hands of the other and untie them, but that wasn't happening. The driving only seemed to get worse, they were clearly off-road now. Sam could smell the woodsy scent of crushed pine needles; he knew they were heading deeper into the forest, perhaps up the mountain. They both rolled heavily against the tailgate as the incline sharpened, and Sam's hands found Dean's shoulder, and he grabbed onto a handful of fabric. He was able to touch his face, but he didn't respond.

They were in the truck for some time, Sam estimated it at a half hour or so. He tried to make note of anything that he heard or smelled or felt, in case it would be helpful later. And he worried about Dean, lying limply beside him, as he tried to keep him pinned against the truck side to minimize the battering. Finally he felt the ground level off a little, and they stopped. He didn't know whether to be relieved or not. He heard voices, and the tailgate abruptly dropped, and they were hauled out roughly and thrown to the dirt. Sam looked around wildly, memorizing everything. It was dark, but there were floodlights illuminating the timber-framed doorway to what seemed to be a tunnel, he could see an old rusted metal sign above it. The entrance; an old mine apparently, was newly blocked with a heavy steel door system. There was a reverberating noise filling the air, and a deep hum. He nudged Dean, but still he remained immobile.

"Get up!" someone barked. Sam looked up and met the eyes of his affable driver. His demeanour was decidedly harsher now. He pointed his rifle at him, and Sam struggled to his feet. "You! I said up!" the scowling man yelled, prodding Dean. Dean groaned and got to his knees, as he slowly regained his faculties.

"Don't!" Sam growled. "Give him a second, let him shake it off!" With the gag, however, it didn't translate, but the sentiment was clear.

Frank Buell joined them now. He was disinclined to allow Dean the time to recover his equilibrium, he grabbed him be the shirt back and hauled him to his feet. Dean stayed there, swaying, leaning heavily on the truck and fighting a lingering blackness. A third man unlocked the very secure door, and they were forced inside. Again Sam memorized details as they moved along the descending space. The interior was rocky and non-descript, framed by old, dusty beams, and level-floored. It was clean; it definitely didn't look abandoned. They passed several doors leading off the main tunnel, they were all similarly secured, and had heavy electrical conduit leading to them. He counted his footsteps as they walked. Dean concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other successfully. When they had reached deep into the mine, they were pushed into an alcove, where both were tied to the heavy conduit that ran along the wall.

Frank Buell smiled an ugly, cold smile. "Well there you go, agents. This is what you came to see, aint it?" He turned and barked an order to the first man. "Colter; watch them. I gotta go check the systems."

Martin Colter nodded. He pulled a metal chair over, and sat down, while the others disappeared from view. He kept his gun at the ready, across his knees, and watched the Winchesters. Both sat, quiet for the moment; both secretly tested the security of their bonds, twisting their hands fruitlessly. Colter eyed them unhappily. "You shoulda never come here..." he said. "Shoulda left it alone."

Dean raised his head and swore at him, and even with the gag it came through loud and clear. Martin Colter shook his head and snorted.

They were left there for well over an hour. Colter was growing bored, he fidgeted and shifted in his chair, checking his watch frequently. The taller captive stared at him relentlessly, it made him uneasy. The other one was lying on his side, and was trying to find a comfortable position, and he was moaning every few minutes.. It began to weigh on his nerves, if not his conscience.

"Shut up, over there!" he barked to Dean in irritation. A muffled diatribe came from Sam, but it was unintelligible, which was probably for the better. Sam turned his stare away from his captor and back to his brother. He looked ashen, and in considerable pain. He knew Dean would be loathe to show these bastards any weakness, the fact that he was making any sound at all was significant. He wished he could speak to him. Dean stayed silent for a while, his eyes closed. But after a while he started to react again to the pain in his arm.

Martin Colter couldn't stand to hear it. The guy was either a pussy, or he was seriously hurting. He just wanted this thing to be finished, and wished Buell would hurry up. "I said quit your whining!" He gave Dean a half-hearted kick for emphasis. Dean winced and was silent. He wasn't even aware he'd been making sounds, but with his hands tied so tightly behind him, the twisting pull on his arm and shoulder was excruciating. He was desperate to stay alert, but he was growing weaker, he drifted and moaned softly again. Stir crazy now, Colter stood up. "Jesus christ, he's been going on since he got here! What the hell's wrong with him?"

Sam stared daggers at him and shrugged a shoulder toward his gag with an expression that telegraphed clearly what he was thinking. Colter swore, reached over and tugged it off.

It took everything Sam had to remain civil. He spat out the lint from his mouth and licked his parched lips. "He's hurt, alright? He broke his arm this afternoon, and it's open and bleeding. Look, you've got us now, I get that. But there's no reason to put him through that.. I'm not asking you for anything that'll get you in trouble; just , please...untie his arms and re-tie them in front. If his sounds are getting on your nerves, then that'll help."

Colter snorted. "Oh yeah, sure. Maybe I should untie his feet too, cuz they itch. And while I'm at it, how 'bout I loosen you too, maybe fetch you all a nice cup of tea?"

"Look at it yourself!" Sam roared. "I'm not asking anything for me, just be a little human for christ's sake!"

Colter scowled, but he relented. He rolled Dean over with a boot and shone his flashlight over his arm. When he saw the dark red stain soaking the bandage and his shirt back, and the makeshift splint, he rubbed his jaw and sighed angrily. He was not a man who was by any description decent, but he didn't delight an other's suffering. That was Buell's way, not his.

"Fine!" he growled. "I'll switch them, just to shut him the hell up. But if you make me regret this, I'll kick his goddamn head in, and yours too!" He bent down and removed Dean's gag, since they were deep in the mine, and it no longer mattered. He swiftly loosened the rope. It was sticky with blood, he pulled Dean's hands roughly to the front, holding them there while he rubbed the rope in the dust to dry it off. Dean shuddered at the movement, but he kept his suffering silent as Colter re-tied his wrists.

"Thanks." he said quietly. Colter stepped back and nodded curtly. Having seen the cause of his captive's complaint, he was now intensely uncomfortable, and he decided to find Frank, eager to see this business done with. He left the brothers alone in the chilly quiet.

Sam leaned closer. "Dean? How are you doing, is that any better..?"

"Yeah, thanks." He shifted up to sit against the cold rocky wall, and surveyed their surroundings. "So we're underground. Any idea where?"

Sam shook his head. "No. All I saw was a sign that said Sutler Mines Number Five. Mean's nothing to me. But it must be near those wind turbines; I could hear them. And look at the electrical cables coming in, they're massive. They're doing something down here that they need a hell of a lot of juice for."

Dean grunted. "You think they found something worth digging for again? Doesn't look like coal, there's no black dust around. Maybe gold?"

"Doubt it. As far as I know, this wasn't a gold rush area. Maybe it was silver, I don't know. Freaking cold in here, though."

"Just a bit." Dean agreed, shivering. In truth, he was chilled to the bone, his mouth so dry that he could barely wet his lips. He'd begun to feel a pounding headache, the constant bleeding was dehydrating him. "So, Sammy...what's the master plan?"

Sam sighed and pulled uselessly at the rope that tied him to the conduit. "I was kinda hoping you had one."