11

The bleeding had stopped; that was a blessing. But Dean's temp continued to rise. He had slept, for wont of a better description, for a little while after his ordeal. But he awoke, thirsty and hot. Bobby fed him sips of water, and tried to distract him from his pain.

"So why were you and Sam here anyway?" he asked. "What kept you in this crossroads instead of going on to Bradford?"

Dean shook his head, struggling with the confusion of fever. "A case. I was going nuts and I just needed something else to think about. Sam wanted to sleep, but I wanted to check this thing out."

"What thing?"

Dean concentrated. It was an effort; he didn't feel strongly connected to the plane that Bobby inhabited at the moment. "Accidents...something weird going on. They were talking about it at the store, and I went out to the place where shit was going down, and I..." He stopped and closed his eyes.

"Go on, Dean."

Dean ran a shaky hand through his hair, remembering. "His name's Nate. Nathaniel Willard. Or Willard-Buell, I guess...He lived at the clearing. They farmed it, but the dad was a bastard... Nate had to bury his mom, after his dad beat her to death. He ate her sins, with apples."

Bobby didn't know what he was talking about. "Ate her sins? What does that mean? And when-?"

"I don't know...maybe around 1900, 1920 or something. They got some sorry bastard to eat the sins of the dead around here then, when they died, to save their soul. Ask Sammy..." He was fading, but Bobby felt the need to keep him conscious.

"And your Nate?"

"He was just a kid...he was twelve or something. His old man beat them both and left. The kid had to bury her, but he was hurt, and he couldn't do it right. He ate her sins because he couldn't get her into town, the dad took the horses..."

"Then what?"

"Nate survived the winter alone. He walked into town in the spring, but there was no work, so he ate other people's sins for money. Sonsofbitches that didn't deserve it- He died after he refused to do it for his old man, and they buried him on the farm...and he's still here."

"Here? Where, Dean?"

Dean was growing fretful. His emotions were now so close to the surface; exactly as he'd warned and feared. "Bobby, he did it for his mother. He's afraid to go on, he's hanging around here. He's lonely, he deserves better-"

"It's ok, son."

"No, it isn't. He deserves to see his mom again, but he's afraid to go. He thinks that because he's been the Sin Eater, that he'll go to Hell. He's wrong, Bobby! Christ-all he did was sacrifice, and now he's afraid to accept his reward, because he doesn't believe he's worthy."

Bobby put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close, wanting to be a comfort. Dean's words grew too quiet to understand, and finally he simply wept quietly against his shoulder. The elder man didn't know what to say now. He was getting a bit of the picture regarding Nathaniel Willard. And a little more regarding Dean Winchester.

Dean returned to the telling. "He helped me, when I was pinned by the backhoe... I have to fix this for him." he choked. "He lived such a crappy life, and now he's afraid to go where he can finally be happy! It's not fair, Bobby! Jesus, it's not right-"

Bobby held him tighter. He knew what this was really about. "I know, Dean. We will. We will."

When Sam and Russell returned, Dean was asleep, and Bobby was sitting, watching the darkness that yawned behind them with a weary intensity. He turned around and greeted them hopefully. "You find any thing?" he asked.

Sam answered. "Yeah, Bobby, we found the exit. It's not all that far, but it's pretty blocked." He sat down beside his brother, glancing over him. "How is he..?"

Bobby turned his tired eyes to the sleeping Dean. "We had to do something about that bleeding. He's out now, after that. But good news is that we managed to stop it. He's running a fever, though. Don't know how he'll be when he wakes."

Sam sat beside his brother. He ran his hand through Dean's sweaty hair, feeling the heat. Dean stirred a little at the contact; he mumbled something, frowning. Sam spoke to him quietly, nothing of importance, just simple calming sentiment. Dean seemed to respond to it; he settled, and relaxed again.

Russell watched the group in front of him. He liked them, all of them. If it was in the cards, he'd do whatever he could to make sure they all got out safely. He addressed Bobby. "Sam and me, we found where the fresh air was coming in. It's timber framed pretty high and wide, so I think its an exit point, instead of just an air hole. But it's been blocked by rockfalls, probably for ages now. None of them stones are too big for us to haul out of the way, but there's a ton of 'em. Gonna take a while."

"Well, that sure as hell is some good news." Bobby said. "And so far, we haven't heard a peep from back there. Either this Buell is real quiet, or he ain't in this tunnel yet. What do we need to do then? Dean here is out of commission for a while. But I can dig as well as anybody. As long as Buell isn't on our necks, we can all pitch in to clear the doorway. Don't know why he's a no-show, but I ain't complaining. I'm not sure what to make of it, except that it works at the moment."

Russell thought for a moment. "He didn't know that we were in this tunnel, so maybe we got lucky. If we can clear that opening, we can move away from here, find the road. My cell's useless out here, but I've got a radio in my truck, and we can alert the authorities then. I ain't exactly sure where this mine ends up, but if I have a few minutes, I can figure it out pretty quick once we're out."

"Good." Bobby sighed.

Sam and Russell hauled Dean along, as Bobby illuminated the way. They traveled for forty minutes that way, hampered by his weight, and the fallen timber and stone. Dean drifted in and out of awareness. They put him down gently when they hit the blockage.

The two had scrambled over the rock debris earlier. As they'd described, the stones were all of a size that could be lifted, but there were a lot of them. They took some time to pull at them, each man hauled and sweated, rolling and pushing the heavy rock fragments out of the way, until a wider opening was created. Once clear, they found easier passage beyond it. They stopped to rest on the other side. They were very close to pushing through fully; only one more pile of stone stood between them and the fresh forest air. Russell had already squeezed out before, but they needed only to widen the opening enough to accommodate the rest of them.

Dean opened his eyes. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, it glistened by the light of the flashlights. "Sam?" he asked, confused.

"Right here, Dean." Sam held water to his lips.

"I don't feel right-" he protested weakly.

"You're running a fever, Dean. Drink some water. It'll be ok, we're getting out of here."

"Oh." He worked at clearing his mind, and sat up. "How'd I get here?"

"We all carried you."

Dean frowned. He didn't like the image that brought. "Well I can walk-"

Sam smiled. "Relax. Save your strength; you might have to run, let alone walk, later."

Dean rubbed his face and forced himself to stay alert. "No sign of Buell yet?"

"No. Nothing...I think we got lucky."

"Lucky...yeah." Even in his fevered state, Dean didn't trust that. In his experience, luck was usually of a negative variety. "That's kinda too lucky, don't you think?"

Russell looked at him. "Maybe. I know that bastard is single-minded and vicious, but christ, he's not psychic. He never saw us go in; why should he even figure we came through here? It's pretty damned obvious that nobody's been through here in years; it ain't like it's some well known short-cut. And I already went out and scouted around; nobody shot my crown off. I think we're ok to head on down. Buell farm is just below, and the highway is just down from that...so unless the Sin Eater boogeyman decides to show up, I'd say we're home free."

But Dean remained wary, and unconvinced. "No...no, this is too easy-"

Sam answered now. "Easy? You're kidding, right? Do have any clue how much freaking rock the three of us have moved? Tons, Dean! There was nothing easy about any of it!"

"No!" Dean insisted. He was an experienced judge of character; he knew men like Frank Buell. They didn't give up so easily. He struggled to get up, to be seen as an equal rather than a burden. "Listen to me, alright? Buell knows this land cold, you said so yourself, Russ. He's up to something; he didn't follow us in the tunnel for a reason. We can't assume that they're just off chasing the wrong trail!"

Russell was frustrated, freedom seemed so close now. "Why? They never knew we were in here in the first place! And anyway, what the hell does it matter? There's no benefit to staying in here now, we can see the route out from the exit! The farm clearing is just a half mile below, and the highway ain't far past that. We ain't heard or seen Buell or his men for hours!"

Bobby and Sam agreed. But Dean was still discomfited. "You're sure they aren't hanging around just waiting to play whack-a-mole as soon as we each stick our head outside the tunnel? I mean, doesn't it seem too good to be true that they didn't follow us in? Christ, we made enough noise; how the hell could they have missed that?"

Russell knew he had a point. But it was irrelevant now, they'd already made their choice and they had to move forward. "Well what do you suggest then?"

Dean had no options to offer. All he had were misgivings and what seemed to be irrational fear. "I ...I don't know. Maybe we should wait here, where it's safe, until he makes some sort of move. I just have a bad feeling about this... Maybe I'm just paranoid, I don't know." He wished he felt sharper. The pain in his arm was making him feel ill; it took all his concentration just to keep from puking, and his fever was fogging his thinking.

Russell could see he was having difficulty. "Listen; I hear what your saying, and it makes sense. But we'll lose any advantage we have if we let him move first; it'd be just the same as if we'd stayed behind and never taken this tunnel. Right now we have our only chance. And I've been out there already, scoping things out. Trust me, I know the woods. If I can't see or hear any sign of them, then he ain't out there."

Dean nodded. He was weak and sick, and this was Russell Adams' territory. He had to let him lead.

It took only a short time to widen the entrance. But they were silent now; they carefully pulled away each stone and placed it gently onto the tunnel floor, to minimize any noise. They felt a collective tension, with safety within their grasp, and Buell remaining hidden. Russell went first again. He crept away from the tunnel opening, and made his way silently through the brush. The silvery light of the coming dawn illuminated his way now, and the air was already considerably warmer than underground. He was glad of that, especially for Dean Winchester's sake. He retraced his earlier path, and crouched on a rocky promontory, viewing the countryside that fell away below him. Nothing moved below. He carefully scanned the perimeter of the farm clearing, but he saw nothing to cause any alarm. Satisfied, he crept back to the others.

"Seems clear. How is he? Can he travel on his own? It's pretty steep from here down."

Dean raised his head and answered for himself. "I can move on my own."

Russell eyed him for a moment. -tough SOB- "You sure? Cuz I don't want to give up our location by you falling down a hill and yelling curses to high heaven all the way." He was half smiling as he said it, but he was serious nonetheless.

Dean swallowed hard and blinked the sweat from his eyes. "I'm not your worry, Buell is."

"Ok then. Let's go, and everybody keep it zipped from now on. And take the safeties off, just in case."

He led them down the rocky hillside, following nearly invisible deer trails. They moved with careful stealth. The light grew, it was hinting at a brilliant day, and the warmth was increasing as the sun rose higher. Several times Russell stopped, holding his hand up, at an errant snap of a twig, or some unidentifiable noise. They stood, holding their breath as he listened and watched. Each time he relaxed, and they moved on. Dean stayed true to his insistence that he could travel, but he relied heavily on Sam's support. As long as Sam could keep him upright, he would spend his weakened energy placing his feet carefully, so he wouldn't stumble or make noise. Only once did he falter, slipping to his knees. Sam held him as he retched, overcome by his illness, and the deep and pervasive ache that stretched from his fingers to his neck. They gave him water, and after a brief rest, he got up with a grim determination and staggered on along with the others. Bobby insisted that he take over now. Sam needed a respite from Dean's weight, and Bobby needed to feel that he was somehow helping his friend. With the warmth and the disturbance, mosquitoes formed a persistent cloud around them as they passed through the undergrowth. They hardly dared to swat at them now; they were the lesser of the threats facing them. They were drawn to Dean in particular, with the aura of elevated heat radiating from his skin. Bobby tried his best to wipe them away when they landed. Dean hardly noticed them.

After what was surely an eternity, the ground levelled off. They had successfully managed the descent, and the tall grass of the abandoned Buell holding stretched out before them. Russell cautioned them to stay in the periphery while he crept forward, making sure the way was clear. He skulked through the grass, listening, scanning, gun at the ready. But the place was quiet and peaceful. Birds sang intermittently, and a soft breeze combed the grass in silky, meandering waves. He hadn't been here in years; he would deny that he had any superstitions, but still, he avoided it just as everyone else did. But he knew what was supposed to be here, and the dark shape out by the apple trees was definitely new. It was a car, parked in the grass. An old model, black, gleaming in the morning sun. He remembered his mother had said that the boys' car was gone. He crept back to where the others waited tensely.

"Nobody's there, as far as I can see. You boys drive a dark, older model sedan?"

Dean snapped up at that. "Yeah, I do! Sixty-seven Impala, black-" He stared with a fevered intensity at Russell.

"Yeah, looks like that's what's parked down there."

"Is it...I mean, did it look ok? No numbers painted on it? Or orange paint?"

Russell looked at him oddly. "Well I didn't go right on down and check the oil, but there weren't no numbers or anything. And like I said; dark, not orange."

Dean closed his eyes with a passionate sigh of relief. -Baby was safe.

Sam had to smile, as he witnessed his brother's reaction. Thank god for little victories. "I have the spare keys on me, Dean." he offered. Dean's grateful smile was genuine.

Bobby returned them all to the issue at hand. "So? Should we go down there?"

"Yeah." Russell smiled. "Let's get the hell home. I still have my after-work beer waiting for me, and damned if I ain't earned it!"

"You all ready?" Russell demanded, turning specifically to Dean. He nodded, and Russell held the spare rifle out to him. Dean shook his head. As much as he would have preferred to be armed now, he was aware enough of his limits to know that he couldn't manage its weight anymore; it was all he could do to simply keep up with them. Sam took it instead. Bobby kept his own pistol close in his coat, but he had his hands full supporting Dean. They stepped out of the safety of the trees and walked warily through the tall grass. Russell led the way.

He was headed for the road at the end of the property, and they seemed poised for success. But when he turned around to make sure they were following, he saw that he'd already lost most of his entourage. Bobby was right behind him, but Dean had veered in the other direction, and was stalking purposefully through the grass toward the Impala. Sam was hissing at him to get back, but in his fevered state, Dean would have none of it. After what Frank had mockingly described as the fate of the car, Dean was not about to let her slip through his fingers again.

Sam turned to the others, his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. Russell didn't see the humour; he swore and waved for him to steer Dean back. They may have left the forest, but they weren't out of the woods yet.

The pain of his arm momentarily forgotten, Dean loped the remaining distance. He was now a dozen yards ahead of the others. He approached his car, filled with an indescribable relief at finding her intact. He wasn't thinking clearly, and all he wanted, more than anything at that moment, was to feel the comfort of laying his hands on that sun-warmed hood. But he stopped cold several feet short of her, squinting. His heartrate leapt and he took a nervous step back, watching for a repeat of what he'd seen. The white flash briefly reflected in the shining black paint... It could have been anything, his imagination- He turned and glanced back, and Sam caught his expression. He stopped too. Dean turned back to the car and focused hard through the interior at the passenger side mirror. From his position, the view wasn't fully clear. But the image he saw wasn't the golden grass that surrounded the car, it was something else. He couldn't make it out, and seconds ticked by...until a shape caught his eye. Something- The mystery reflected there turned, and instantly he recognized it. A reversed Penn State logo; Buell's dirty white baseball cap. At that moment, Frank looked up and locked eyes with Dean.

"It's Buell!" Dean shouted frantically. He dove sideways into the grass in desperation as Buell and his two men leapt from around the car, where they'd crouched for hours in waiting. Frank Buell put his rifle to his shoulder with the rapid speed and empty conscience of a veteran sniper, and fired at the first target he saw. Russell Adams stood in the centre of the grass, caught off guard by the sudden crisis. He grunted and staggered back in shock as the bullet struck him. Bobby and Sam had thrown themselves into the grass and were scrambling to pull their own weapons free now. Sam rolled and rose above the cover, and fired back at the figures, who were spread out now and running toward them. Never a crack shot, he missed Buell, but it caused one of them to drop into the safety of the grass and take cover. Bobby ducked as bullets whistled through the stalks. As he dove back down, he witnessed with horror as Russell fell forward and disappeared from view.

They played bullet tag for several more minutes, but the hay in which they hid made it nearly impossible to get a bead on any one man. Finally Frank Buell had enough. He snarled an impatient curse, and shouted at his men to cover him as he leapt back through the grass, following the flattened trail of crushed stalks until he found what he was looking for. Dean Winchester lay, un-armed and pressed as close to earth as he could, furious and helpless while the world spun around him with a sickening speed. He'd hit the ground hard when he saw the trap, and crawled as far as he could, until he couldn't do it anymore. He panted against the cool earth, holding his injured arm tightly to his side with his other. When he turned, the blurred image of Buell filled his view. He choked out a curse and raised his foot against him, but Buell kicked it away and hauled him up to his feet by a handful of hair. Buell had what he needed now. He threw an arm around Dean's throat, near-strangling him, and yanked his injured arm high up behind his back. Dean nearly passed out at the pain, but Buell dragged him along, shouting out to the others.

"Show yourselves, you f~~king bastards!" he screamed. He was wild-eyed and spitting with fury. "Do it now, or I swear to god, I'll blow his head off right here!" He twisted the wounded arm tighter, forcing his captive to drop to his knees with a strangled cry.

"Don't do it!" Dean managed to yell, before Buell hit him and tightened his grip at his throat. He struggled briefly, but was spent.

Bobby stood slowly, raising his hands, his gun held high. Sam did likewise, his rifle held between his outstretched hands. "Don't, please, don't!" he begged. Buell ignored him. "Where's the other one?" he demanded of Bobby.

"Dead! You blew half his head off, you miserable sonofabitch!" Bobby spat.

"Good!" Buell turned to Martin Colter. "Get them tied!"

Colter grimly pulled a handful of nylon cable ties from his coat and fixed their hands tightly behind them. Buell shoved his hostage to the ground, and Dean gasped as his hands too were wrenched behind and tie-wrapped. The third man, the weasel, stumbled up and joined them now, face bloodied, winged by Sam's lucky shot. He stomped toward the younger Winchester and delivered a vicious kick. "That's for the kiss you gimme, you blind bugger!" he snarled. Sam saw stars, and went silent.

Desperate to avoid any more bloodshed, Bobby tried words of diplomacy, but before he could make his plea, he was silenced by Buell; and left winded and gagging in the grass. Buell was consumed by fury. He paced back and forth in the grass, growling to himself. He was used to unquestioning obeisance from those around him. No one ever defied Frank Buell. But now, his illicit empire had been severely threatened by these outsiders, and it enraged him to an irrational level. Martin Colter had seen him like this before, and he wisely stayed silent in the background. But the weasel was of the same ilk as Buell, and was perfectly happy to fuel the fire; he enjoyed the entertainment value of Frank's capacity for cruelty.

"Frank; there's kerosene in that car trunk-" He knew he didn't have to explain further.

"Get it." Buell took hold of Bobby's arm and dragged him through the grass as the older man fought off his vertigo. He continued to drag his struggling burden, up and onto the splintered pile of weathered, grey wood that was once the tack shed. Bobby tried to roll off, but Frank tied him to a fallen beam. The weasel returned with a tin half filled with accelerant, and he and Buell dragged Sam's heavy and limp carcass onto the woodpile next.

"Go get that other bastard!" he barked to Colter.

But Martin Colter stood still, in shocked horror. He couldn't believe what Buell was about to do. "Frank, come on now! This ain't right-" he faltered.

Frank turned and snarled, "I said get him!"

"No, listen to me! I know you're pissed, and these jackasses are the reason, but just put a quick bullet in 'em and be done with it!"

Buell turned and stepped toward his underling now, seething with menace. "Get-Him-Now!" he ground out.

Colter swallowed hard and tried one last time. "No, please, Frank! This is sick, it ain't right-"

Frank Buell drew his pistol from his coat and shot the reluctant dissident point blank. Martin Colter's brief moment of character cost him dearly; he was dead before he fell into the grass. Buell stalked away and scowled at the remaining weasel. "You got anything to say?"

The man smirked. "No Sirree."

"Then help me throw that last piece of shit onto the pile."

They dragged Dean through the grass and tied him to the pyre with the others. While that ugly little vignette was playing out, Dean had been whispering hard, calling the name of Nathaniel Willard-Buell. "It's your daddy all over again," he murmured, "Nate, please-he's a Buell, just like your old man! His same rotten, murdering blood runs in those veins. Be beat you once and won, but you can stop it this time!"

"Shut up!" Buell barked. "Prayin' ain't gonna help you now!" He picked up the kerosene can and dumped its contents over the dry tinder and his captives. He pulled a lighter from his pocket, struggling to get it to light.

"Don't do this, please!" Bobby begged. "Please, for the love of god!"

Buell ignored him, shaking and cursing his lighter. He flung it away in fury, and the weasel rummaged around and tossed him another. Sam was silent, still mercifully unaware of what was about to befall him. Dean didn't make any plea. He knew it was useless. He cursed Buell with a vengeance, a litany of condemnation of his lineage, his character, his actions, hell, even his mother. He ended it by howling Nathaniel's name one last time. Buell was so focused on what he wanted to do that he let the diatribe go unanswered. He had success with the second lighter. He tested it, and the weasel sniggered as he bent to touch it to the woodpile.

-sinner-

Buell whipped around. "What?"

"I didn't say nuthin."

The air temperature suddenly, frighteningly plummeted.

-Sinner-

Buell scowled at his toady. "Quit that whispering!"

"I said I didn't say nuthin, Frank! It ain't me!" The weasel had heard it too, and he breathed out a cloud of vapour in the icy air, glancing back at his boss with confusion. "Christ it's cold all of a sudden-"

The third time, it was louder, and perfectly clear. Both men stood staring nervously at each other. Buell shook it off, and turned back to the task at hand, until something struck a sodden blow to the back of his head. "What the f-k!" he muttered. He bent down and picked it up. An apple... He flung it away, demanding; "Did you throw that at me, you ratty little sonofabitch?"

The weasel shook his head. He was wall-eyed with terror. "No! No, Frank! I didn't, I swear! He did!" He pointed a shaking hand past Buell.

The trio on the woodpile, moments away from the agonizing hell of immolation, watched in breathless anxiety as a mist formed and took shape. Nathaniel Willard Buell slowly materialized in front of them, in all his final glory, shocking his uncomprehending relation. Buell and his lackey stood staring, open-mouthed at the hideous vision. The long, matted hair, the translucent white skin, and shrunken, emaciated form. And the blood, the terrible view of his exposed innards-

Sin Eater raised his hand and pointed now. He screamed the word this time, loud and filled with rage. "SINNER! " It reverberated around the clearing, echoing off the trees.

Buell froze at first. But he staggered back as apples began to strike him. They came from everywhere, and he ducked and covered his head. More and more flew at him, bursting into sodden bits against his body. He screamed and howled in terror, crumpling under the onslaught.

Nathaniel did not relent. As Buell crawled through the grass, desperate to get away, the angry wraith sent the apples ever harder against his opponent. The air hissed with the word that he breathed over and over. -sinner-sinner- One wormy, yellow fruit struck Buell in the mouth, and he gagged as it shattered in a pulpy sweet mash and lodged in his windpipe. Before he could eject it, another followed, and he clawed at his face and neck, trying to expel the choking pieces. Nathaniel forced more and more into his mouth, until a froth of apple fragments and saliva bubbled over Buell's chin and out of his nose, and he began to turn purple. The weasel stumbled backwards, whimpering in disbelief at the scene. Buell kicked and rolled, clawing desperately at his throat, suffocating, but still the Sin Eater forced more fruit into his gasping mouth, until he stopped thrashing, and the kicking legs went limp. Buell shuddered, and lay still in the grass, his face ashen, his dead eyes bulging in abject terror.

Finally Nathaniel stopped. His misty form stood over Frank Buell, and he stopped the whispered mantra.. He spoke now, instead. "Eat your own god-damned sins!"

He looked up and met Dean Winchester's eyes. His face was a mask of rage and hate, and tears streaked his translucent, white cheeks. But his eyes were those of young Nathaniel. Haunted and confused, angry and pained. Lost. His fury spent, Sin Eater disappeared into a mist, and was gone.