15

Dean got up and stretched, cold and tired from the exertions, physical and otherwise. "So...what am I going to need?"

Sin-Eater's voice was still rough with emotion. "You need a meal, to lay on the dead...on me. I guess you gotta dig my moldy carcass up. That ain't gonna be too pleasant, maybe you oughta forget about all this-"

Dean snorted. "It's not a problem, Nate. We've done it a few times before. What kind of meal?"

"Well...whatever you like. This part belongs to you, just like it did to me. You don't just take what they want to give you, or you'll get a bowl of cold gruel, full of beetles, and some skunky beer. You tell 'em what you want. I always asked for pie. I never had that, at home, 'cept for one special time every fall. My momma made it when the apples was ready and Pa was gone for a coupla weeks on the hunt. Her and me would eat the whole thing at once, just the two of us, after supper. We'd feel kinda guilty, but we laughed anyway...it was always our little secret."

"Sounds perfect. What else-?"

"That's it, plus your drink. Bring that, and a shovel. I'll tell you the words you need. When...when will you come?"

"Today, Nate. This afternoon. The day is perfect. It's all perfect, it won't ever be more so. Sam and me will come back before sunset, I promise. Do what you need to prepare, ok? Because this is going to happen."

Nate nodded. He whispered back, something too quiet for Dean to pick up. But the sentiment was clear. The chill dissipated along with his form. Dean shivered in it's wake, and turned towards the place where Sam was standing in the field. "Hey!" he shouted. "You can come back now, all the scary stuff is over. "

Embarrassed, Sam trudged back, noting that Nate had gone. "Got it worked out?"

"Yeah. All good. Nathaniel Willard has seen the light. Now all he has to do is walk into it willingly." Dean pulled his injured arm up a little higher, trying to ease the ache. "Listen, do me a favour, will you? I need enough of those apples for a pie. I don't know how many, so just grab a bunch of the ones that don't look too wormy."

Sam looked doubtfully at what remained on the branches. "Are you sure, Dean? We could probably find a pie or something down at the store-"

"No, these are better." Dean said simply.

Sam filled all his pockets, and Dean's for good measure. "You ready to go back?"

"Yeah." Dean sighed wearily. He wished the car was closer. He was feeling drained after the hike to get here, and Nathaniel's habit of dropping the air temperature while he was present had chilled him to the bone. He wanted to be horizontal for a while. He let Sam haul him to his feet. They trudged through the grass, carefully stepping over the tangle of vines that hid there. Sam wanted to talk while they walked, but Dean seemed determined to keep the conversation minimal. And truth be told, he recognized that Dean was tired, and the subject he wanted to broach was pretty trying. He didn't think that Dean was up to it at the moment. They finally reached the Impala. Sam pulled the door open and Dean slumped into the passenger seat. They drove the short distance to May's in silence.

Once there, Dean settled in to take a catnap. Sam brought the apples he'd collected to May. She eyed them with an expression of distaste.

"For heaven's sake, Sam, I have a bushel of decent apples in the shed. I'll make you a pie, that's no trouble, but I'd rather use those nice Courtlands instead."

Sam shrugged helplessly. "I know, May. They look pretty gross to me too. But Dean insists he wants it made out of these. Think you can do anything with them...?"

She picked over the pile. "Well I suppose so. Heck, these are what good old natural fruit looks like, I guess. We're all so used to the sprayed and pretty modern produce, we tend to forget what the real thing looks like. I'll give it a shot."

"Thanks." he said gratefully. "How long til we can pick it up? And I'll pay you, of course-"

She snorted. "Sam, you've done plenty for me around here. This one's on the house. It'll take about a half hour to put together, and another hour and a half to bake. Come by at four, it should be ready."

"Thanks May, I really appreciate this."

He returned to the room, and saw that Dean was asleep. He took the opportunity to clean and medicate the pin punctures again. Dean frowned but hardly stirred. "..evil nurse." he mumbled.

"Jackass." Sam countered, smiling a little.

He lay on his own bed for a while. He was nervous over the whole Nathaniel Willard thing. If things didn't work out this afternoon, it had repercussions for all of them. He knew that Dean was placing a huge emotional value on this. He understood it, to some degree. He wasn't exactly sure as to why Dean needed so much to feel that he'd personally led Nate to his peaceful passage. But he wanted it too, more now for Dean' sake. It was driving him crazy; the need to air their feelings, grief or anger, or whatever came out after all this. But he knew he would have to be patient. This would all come to a head, and he feared it as much as needed it. But only on Dean's schedule, that much was clear. He glanced over at his sleeping brother. He was curled up on his side, his injured arm resting higher on a pillow. He didn't seem to be dreaming, for once. He was breathing with a quiet ease, getting the rest he obviously needed. Sam's eyes settled on his face. Still pale. Still sporting the circles under his eyes that seemed to plague him since the 'deal'. The familiar pang of guilt gripped him. He had to turn away.

Both were still asleep when May knocked. She peeked in, and greeted Sam, who roused himself at the sound. "Sorry, dear. But you said this was something you needed right away."

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and thanked her. It looked and smelled delicious. "Wow. That's from those road-apples?"

"Yes." she beamed. "You know, after all the work to get the bad bits cut away, they turned out to be the sweetest, finest apples for a pie. I'm inclined to go get some for myself!"

Sam thanked her again, and promised to gather some for her later.

"Well, if you have time, " she said, "but after today, there won't be any to be had. Russell phoned and asked to speak to you earlier, but I didn't want to wake you. He said to tell you that the work was going to start on the farm site tomorrow. I don't know why he thought you would want to know that, but there you are."

"Ah. Thanks for telling us, May. It's a nice spot, maybe we'll take a last hike before it gets plowed under."

"Not with your brother, surely! Look at him, he's still snoring away! I really don't think you should be dragging him around the countryside in his state!"

Dean sat up at that. He'd been feigning sleep to avoid her, but he figured he should probably rescue Sam. "It's ok, May. We won't go far, or for too long. I just want to take some pictures before it's gone."

She sighed and put her hands on her hips. "Well, I'd say you were foolish, but to each his own. Although I will say they have some lovely postcards at the post office if you wanted pictures of this place. Mind you, they're probably fifty years out of date, but it'd save you the walk."

Dean smiled disarmingly. "Thanks, but I think we'll head out there anyway. And thanks for the awesome baking."

"You're a strange thing, you are." She shook her head but smiled, and left them.

They left soon after. Time was ticking, and Nathaniel Willard's fate hung in the balance.

The drive was too short for Sam to try to talk with Dean. He left it on the back burner for now. He parked at the roadside, and again they trudged up the rough road to the field. Sam carried a box of what they'd need. Dean used a shovel as a walking stick. When they passed out of the cool shade of the trees, the sun greeted them with a brilliance that made them squint. But it was welcome. They followed their earlier path through the grass, which snaked in front of them, a flattened, parted line through the softly sighing stalks, passing the remains of the barn, which had almost been their funeral pyre, past Nathaniel's house; charred fragments of wood on a rectangle of carefully laid stone. It ended at the orchard, and they settled by Nate's headstone. Dean stabbed the shovel point into the soil and sat down carefully.

"How's the arm?" Sam demanded.

"Fine." But Dean smiled sheepishly as he said it, knowing he wasn't fooling anyone. "..For an arm that was ripped off Terminator."

Sam leveled his gaze at him but said nothing. "So, how should we call Nate?"

They didn't have to. The air suddenly chilled dramatically, and he whispered a greeting.

Dean answered him. "Hope you're ready, Nate. It's time to go."

The spirit answered. "Yes. I think I am. This ain't a bad place, but...it's real lonely out here. It'd be awful nice to see somethin' new."

Dean was glad that Nathaniel was still on board. "Alright, good. I've got my meal ready here; just need my lovely assistant here to dig up your leftovers. Sit tight, Nate. I don't know how long this'll take; you just can't get good help these days, you know."

Sam mouthed something uncomplimentary and drove the shovel point into the sod.

The digging was surprisingly quick. While most people were accorded the courtesy of at least six feet of soil depth, Nathaniel Willard's burial had been hurried, and Sam hit wood at just under four feet. He cleared away the soil to reveal the outline of a simple rough box. Dean shivered where he sat, despite the sun. Sam was streaming with the sweat of his efforts. "Ok. Done. Just tell me when to pull the lid."

Dean addressed the thin, cold air. "Nate. It's time. Can we open the box?"

"Sure..." he whispered. "I ain't scared of seeing that." The mist formed again, materializing into the Sin Eater. His haggard, bloody form stood in front of them, looking uncertain. "You still wanna do this, Dean?"

Dean assured him that he hadn't changed his mind. Sam pried at the soggy remains of the lid. It came away in pieces, and after a few moments, he'd chucked the bits out of the way, revealing the body that lay within. He hopped out, and for the first time in many decades, the sun shone again on Nathaniel Willard's face.

Sin Eater smiled. "Hope you brought somethin' good to eat."

Dean sighed and covered his eyes. "Nate, seriously; f I have to look at that the whole time I won't be able to eat anything, I'll be too busy hurling."

The spirit looked down at himself. "Oh." he said sheepishly. "Sorry, Dean, I forgot." He disappeared from their view for a few moments, reappearing again as the young boy with the sun warmed skin and bare feet. He sat down, cross-legged at the graveside, curious now.

"That's a lot better, Nate. You don't want to scare your poor Ma when she sees you."

Nate raised his eyes to Dean. The mix of fear and worry and aching hope within them was heart breaking. "Dean..." he asked quietly, "..do you really think-?"

"She'll be there, Nate. I know it."

Nathaniel nodded. He was frightened by it all, but once he had placed his faith in this process, he had no doubt that Dean would steer him home. He shifted forward and peered down into the hole. He took in the sight of his own now corrupt form, lying brown and shrivelled amongst the composted remains of the pine box. "Well that's pretty hard on the appetite, ain't it?" he grinned. "I never had to look at nuthin' like that. The dead was always laid out in their sunday clothes, all neat and tidy and smelling like lavender and rosewater and such. Didn't have no trouble eating what was laid there on them. I'm sure glad I ain't you."

Dean glanced at him wryly. "Yeah, thanks alot."

Sam snorted. "Don't worry, Nathaniel. Nothing ever puts that one off his feed." He opened the box he'd packed. In it was the apple pie, smelling delicious. There was a six pack of beer, and a tray. He retrieved the tray and tied the twine to it, so that they could lower it into the hole without it tipping it's contents onto the ruinous body below.

"Lord, that looks good." Nate said. "I always asked for pie."

Dean smiled. "Yeah, I know."

Sam was looking longingly at the golden, flaky crust. He picked off a little, before Dean slapped his hand. "Aw c'mon, Dean, aren't you going to share? You can't eat the whole thing-"

"Yeah, I can! " Dean turned to Nate. "I don't know. What do you think, Nate? Does he deserve a piece?"

Nate smiled shyly. "You gotta share with your kin. Besides, he can have a piece for me, since I can't taste nuthin' anyway."

Dean cut the pie into quarters. He lifted two off the plate and placed them on the tray, along with one of the bottles. The other two he handed grudgingly to Sam. "So what do I do now, Nate?"

"You gotta put the tray on my belly down there. Or whatever's left. Then you close your eyes and think about the dead person, think about the sins comin' out. And you say the words."

Sam lowered the tray by the ropes. When it was resting on something, he let them go slack and waited.

Dean stared down into the hole, trying to see only the tray with it's tasty contents, rather than the unappetizing view underneath. "Tell me the words again, Nate."

He did so, and Dean closed his eyes and recited it. "Ok, here goes. 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." He opened his eyes. "Is that it?"

"Yes. Now the sins are in the offering. You gotta eat it to finish this thing." Nate met his eyes, worried. "You still want to? Cuz you don't have to-"

Dean sighed with exasperation. "We've been through this, Nathaniel. It won't have any effect on where I end up. You know that." Sam stared hard at the ground, while Dean grinned. "Besides, that pie is mine!"

"Ok then. Hope it's good."

It was. It was spectacularly good. Sam pulled up the tray and they dug in. May Adams wasn't much of a looker, but damn she could cook. Dean finished his off in half the time it took Sam, and he ogled his brother's portion as he quaffed his beer. Sam rolled his eyes and gave him another quarter. Dean traded him another beer in return.

"Ok Nate. There you go, you're officially sin-free. Feel any different?"

Dean regretted his offhand manner as soon as he'd asked. Nate sat, stricken, tears beginning to fall from his sandy lashes. "I don't. I don't feel nuthin, Dean. I should feel...purified. None of that filth felt like it went away, it's still in me... Something's wrong, I know it-"

"Nothing is wrong, Nate...we did it exactly like you always did. If it ever worked for anyone else, then it worked for you. Those sins are mine now, you are delivered, you hear me?"

Nate shook his head miserably. He glanced over his shoulder for a moment, squinting before turning his eyes back. It struck Dean that had seen him do that several times before, and a thought occurred to him. "Listen to me Nate...I want you to look around and tell me what you see, that we can't."

Nathaniel stopped his weeping. He snuffed and spoke quietly. "Just that bright spot. It's always there, in the corner of my eye. I try not to look at it. It kinda pulls at me. I stay away from it."

"Aw, Nate..." His doorway had always been there. All these years, he'd been too afraid to approach it. Dean swallowed the tightess in his throat and spoke to him again. He framed it in a way that he thought the boy would believe. "That light...it's your lantern. It won't hurt you, don't be afraid of it. Walk toward it now...let if take you. Go, Nate; tell me what you see-"

"..Are you sure, Dean? I been staying away from it for so long...I don't know-"

Dean met his eyes. "Trust me, Nathaniel."

The boy got up, and shyly faced the thing that was invisible to the living, who could only watch blind as it played out. He took a few tentative steps toward it. "It's warm..." he whispered. But he turned back to Dean. "It tugs at me, Dean, like it wants me. I'm scared, what if it's the fire, or-"

"It's not fire, kid. No sulphur, no brimstone. Open your mind to it...you can feel it, it's good. Nothing bad is behind that door, I promise you.. It's your reward, you've earned it. Open it."

Nate's image was fading, becoming more and more transparent. They waited, holding their breath, while the spirit walked toward it's destiny. Finally he disappeared from their view. His whisper floated down one last time, so quietly, so reverently, so full of wonder...it was almost lost amongst the rustling of the warm breeze through the golden grass.

"Momma."

They sat in silence for some time, mesmerized by the sweet and poignant passing of Nathaniel Willard into his great reward. Neither wanted to speak, for fear of shattering the perfection of that moment. They finished off the six pack, each listening to the quiet sounds of the world around them, each soaking in the breeze and sunshine of the warm afternoon, as if to store it as a bulwark against other, less pleasant days.

The completion of it all brought some measure of solace to Dean. At least now, whatever happened to him in the end, he would know that it made a difference here. It was a small comfort that he found sharply lacking when he looked at his brother. But he steered his mind away from that bitter quagmire; if he allowed himself to step near it, he could sink too easily into those black and hopeless depths. And he didn't want to address any of that; not here, not now, at any rate. He wished he could bottle that moment when Nate realized the beauty of what he'd finally embraced. He needed to remember it.

He broke the spell first. "Well, I guess he's happy now."

Sam made some small sound of agreement. "Do you think we still need to burn?"

"No." he said, decisively. "He's gone. He won't ever come back to this shithole now. Just fill it back in." He got up with a groan; stiff and tired, and wandered off a little as Sam shoveled back the loose soil. He stood in the soft, waving grass, running his hand absent-mindedly through the golden seedheads, feeling the grains separate from the dry stalks and scatter through his fingers. -don't waste this, Nate- he thought. -don't ever come back here. The bright and beautiful completion of Nate's life was something he would never forget, but it made his own reality fade to a colder shade of grey by comparison. He stared back at Sam, who was packing the last shovelfuls of dirt over the grave, and the grey darkened one more shade. He sighed deeply, trying to ease the tension, the tightness in his chest, but it would not leave him. Finally he did what he always did, he pushed the feeling down into the box and clamped the iron lid down tight, and he turned and walked back.

"Hope you got May's tray out" he said.

"Of course. It's over there, in the grass." Sam kicked the last clods of clay from the shovel, as Dean went to retrieve it. It lay by the headstone.

"What do you figure this thing weighs?" Dean mused, wiggling the stone slightly at it's loosened base.

Sam wiped at the sweat beading on his face, and sized it up. "It's not too big. We've seen a lot bigger. Not very thick either...maybe a couple hundred pounds?"

Dean nodded. "Think you could carry it?"

Sam looked at him quizzically. "Yeah, I guess. If I can get it out. Why, Dean?"

"I don't know...I just think it shouldn't stay here. They'll only break it up, or bury it. It was important to Nate. I kinda think it should go in the churchyard he talked about. Somebody should remember him..."

Sam watched him for a moment. "Sure, Dean...it's a good idea. He deserved that much." He took the shovel and cut out the sod around the base of it, and threw his strength to the task of dislodging it. After some grunting and cursing, he got it pulled up out of the resistant suction of the damp clay, and laid it flat on the grass. Once free of the soil, it's weight was more manageable. "I can carry that. Are you ok carrying the other stuff?"

Dean nodded and gathered the remaining items, and they walked with a slow and awkward pace back through the grass and down the road. When they reached the car, they laid a towel over the upholstery and deposited the heavy stone on the back seat. The rest went back into the trunk. Both were tired. They leaned against the warm black of the Impala. Sam decided that now was as good a time as any, he broached a tender subject.

"Dean, I need to talk to you...about some stuff."

Dean frowned. "No you don't."

"Don't do that! Don't always shut me out when there are important things to-"

"Ow. Time to go, Sammy, my arm hurts."

"Don't play the wounded card! And it's not your arm that's hurting you right now, I can see it in your eyes! That's what I need to talk to you about."

"Lord, here we go. How many tissues am I gonna need?"

Sam roared at the clouds in absolute frustration. He knew he was beat. He could hammer and hammer away, but Dean would never crack and open up. He realized he would never get anywhere while Dean was sober. He needed the confinement of the room at May's, and the bottle of bourbon. He sighed and let it drop for now. He helped his brother into the car, and they drove in painful silence back to May's.