Threefold
Chapter 3
The air was full of stale cigarette smoke, a thin brown film covered the windows and the table top was sticky with the residue of a thousand greasy meals. Sam noticed none of this. He did not notice the handful of weary travelers dotted around the truck stop or the fact that his coffee cup had just be refilled.
He lived in a constant state of disassociation, rarely making eye contact and only speaking when it was absolutely necessary. A big part of him knew that he was pulling away from life, the real world as witnessed by the people around him. He often felt as if he was slipping from one dimension to another; he was becoming part of their world, it had only happened a three of four times so far, but he could tell just by looking. Once he had been able to smell it. Possession. Demons hiding in plain site in the flesh of others and this time it was more than that. Driving along, going nowhere and he had felt it, he could see it in his minds eye like a noxious mist hanging over the land keeping the fresh air out and corralling the rotting presence he knew to be a demon. He had pointed the car in the direction he had sensed it and kept going, the sensation growing stronger with each passing mile.
Gas tank low, he had been forced to stop and without much thought wandered into the diner. As usual he kept his head down, and concentrated on the pinpointing exactly where his next encounter would be. It wasn't far now, the feeling was strong, a thorn in his side, not overwhelming but constant and uncomfortable.
He gulped down the rest of his coffee, threw some change on the table and left.
He found the small house three miles down the road. He parked the Impala a few hundred yards further down the road, under the cover of a small stand of trees and climbing over the property fence, approached the house from across the fields. Sam crouched, hiding in the shadows of one of the outbuildings, something had changed. He sniffed the air. It was still there, its energy somehow subdued. Someone else was here, other hunters perhaps. He started to backtrack, he would wait, he wasn't going to get involved if others were there, but his feet dragged, seemingly reluctant to leave and against his better instincts he slowly and cautiously found his way back to the side of the small cottage.
S s S s S
Dean tapped impatiently on the molded plastic of the truck door, it was on the tip of his tongue to inform Bobby that there was no need to drive like a little old lady on a grocery run. Bobby glanced sideways at him.
"Contrary to what you might be feeling Dean, I am not in a hurry to get there," Bobby remarked grouchily.
Dean stilled his fingers with a guilty start. He didn't blame Bobby, they had been on the road since early morning and Bobby's steady and consistent pace was wearing on his nerves. He had suggested that they share the driving, eager to get behind the wheel and feel some control, to respond to the growing sense of urgency that was battering at him, demanding action. He needed to be doing something, anything to distract him from the ever expanding emptiness that had suddenly started to gnaw at him.
Working with Bobby, the job and friends at the bar, while something he enjoyed, was not he was beginning to realize enough to make up for the fact he did not know who or what he was. Yes, he knew his name, where he came from, but he didn't feel it. He had been trying for the last three months to get a grasp on who Dean Singer was, some things came easily and he felt an immediate kinship; cars, girls, Bobby and yet as the weeks had passed the promise of joining Bobby on his ghost hunting jaunts was something he had found taking up more and more of his thoughts. Bobby's reluctance to involve him was a slow burning wick of irritation that had flared up brightly at Willa's house. He might have no memory of his previous life but he needed to do this.
"Sorry Bobby, I guess I'm getting a bit antsy." Dean tucked his hands under his thighs in an effort to curb his fidgeting.
"Nervous? Look Dean, we don't have to do this, probably save us a heap of trouble if we don't." Bobby said, staring straight ahead, concentrating on the empty road.
"I'm not scared, I want to do this." Dean objected loudly and then admitted, "Goddammit Bobby, I have to do this. Man, it's been driving me crazy. Maybe it's something the demon did with the memory spell." It was more than that, an indefinable compulsion that sprang from deep within and if anything that was what frightened him, not the threat of unknown supernatural entities but his own forgotten potential.
Bobby didn't say anything, hunching over the steering wheel and pressing his foot down on the gas, the truck lurched forward. Dean peered out of the side window; a blue sign on the side of the road announced their arrival in Kansas. Dean wondered if he'd ever been to the state in the past.
They found the cottage about an hour later. Bobby parked the truck along side the main gate, blocking its access from the road and the house, and reaching behind his seat pulled out a large folded cloth, running his fingers carefully over the folds and creases.
"Have you ever tried this before, I mean like this." Dean asked leaning over and lightly caressing the fine texture of the linen piled on Bobby's lap. It was cool to the touch and Dean could almost imagine that he felt the faint tingle of electricity course through his fingertips.
Bobby shook his head. "Not like this, no. Can't see any reason why it won't work, ' course depends on what we're dealing with. If it's a common garden possession we should be able to hold it in a devil's trap, even one like this. Anything else and we're out of there." Bobby eyes were hard. "No questions asked, okay. If I say it's a bust, that's it. We, you, don't need any more trouble."
Dean nodded dutifully, no point getting Bobby's hackles up, just yet. "Where did you get an altar cloth anyway?"
"Willa. She found a whole stack of bits and pieces left at the chapel. Funny that." Bobby traced a finger over the faint markings that now covered the cloth. "Do you know who St. Hubert is, Dean?"
"Dead?" Dean replied helpfully.
Bobby gave him an old-fashioned look, "Yeah, that too. He's the patron saint of hunting, if you believe in that sort of thing."
"Oh, that's nice," Dean responded carefully, wondering what that had to do with anything. "Shall we do this?"
In reply Bobby opened his door and slid from his seat, altar cloth tucked under his arm.
Dean had been secretly hoping for their tactical planning to involve an element of subterfuge and stealth and had been disappointed at Bobby's decision to take a startling direct approach to the whole concept of trapping the demon.
Bobby marched up to the cottage, climbed the three steps to the wrap-around porch and banged on the door.
"Go around back; make sure it doesn't leave by the back door. Use the holy water if you have to."
Dean raced around the side of the house, stumbling as he stopped himself quickly at the side door; he gently tried the old brass lever, the door opened. He knew he was supposed to wait, Bobby's instructions had been very specific about what he could and couldn't do, he stepped in the dim interior.
He was in the kitchen, dated appliances and garish orange wallpaper a testament to the age of its inhabitant. Off the kitchen through a small archway was the living room, a dark brown couch covered by a ratty crocheted blanket faced a small TV and a folding table leaned against the wall, it was all very ordinary and at that moment empty.
Upstairs, floor boards creaked. Someone was walking above his head; Dean crept forward, through the living room to the stairs at the back of the house. He looked up, on the landing stood an old man, his blue jeans hung off his thin bandy legs and a red checkered shirt swallowed his upper body. His white hair was slicked back and his heavily lined face showed nothing but surprise at the discovery of an intruder in his home. He looked every inch the old country boy.
"Who's there? Who is it?" It was an old reedy voice full of fear and defiance and Dean wanted to believe that they had made a mistake, that Willa's friend had it all wrong and whatever changes had overcome the old man were nothing more than the natural ravages of age corrupting the mind and memories of someone already infirm.
He wanted to believe that because it would mean the rush of cold terror that swept over him was only his over-active imagination, that the foul smell of rotting flesh and excrement that filled the room, burning his nostrils and making him gag was an illusion. For a moment his vision grayed and the walls of the cottage dissolved leaving him suspended in an enormous void filled with a sickly yellow light, his chest erupted with a blaze of pure agony. He cried out and he was back within the confines of the cottage and gazing down at him were the black eyes of the demon.
The old man grinned and skipped nimbly down a couple of steps. "Well lookee here, fancy meeting you here, Dean." Its voice was rough with human age but spoken with an unsettling force and despite Bobby's repeated and rather tedious warnings about demons and their ability to see inside people's heads Dean staggered back at the unexpected violation.
He did the most sensible thing he could think of under the circumstances, he turned and ran, through the living room, into the hallway heading for the front door, before he could reach it a firm hand shot out, dragging him sideways into a small room, not much bigger than a closet.
"Sshh. Stay put," Bobby mouthed and glanced downwards. The sigillary cloth lined the hallway floor. Dean took a shuddering breath trying desperately to dispel the weight of his fear and vision, the devil's trap was worryingly small. Bobby stepped into the hallway, Dean moved to doorway.
"Hello, hi there." Bobby called out confidently and then he was backing up slowly. Shuffling footsteps sounded along the walls and Dean pressed further into dark of the small room, pinching his nose at the noxious smell wafting through the air.
"Another one, what a busy place this is. Do I know you?" A cheerful voice asked.
"Can't say I've had the pleasure." Bobby was at the front door, hands behind his back.
"Ooh, a washed-out old hunter, just for little ol' me. You really shouldn't have." The voice came closer and then Dean heard a low angry hiss and he could see Bobby relax and bring his hands to the front, tightly grasping a small black book, he nodded in Dean's direction. Dean crept forward.
The old man stood in the middle of the altar cloth, the ghostly shimmer of the ancient marks binding him to the spot.
Dean squashed up next to Bobby, resting on hand on the door lock. Bobby flicked open his book and began to read, his pronunciation needed some work, Dean decided and then wondered how he knew that to be true. A soft noise coming from the back of the house caught his attention; neither Bobby nor the possessed pensioner seemed to hear it.
"Stupid pathetic humans, it'll take more than that to get rid of me," the demon sneered, "Don't you think we've learn to deal with your kind. Useless, weak flesh. Weak minds. Can't deal with anything, life or death, always crying for your mommy. Isn't that right, Dean?" It leered at Bobby. "Is it working yet?"
Bobby kept on the droning Latin; Dean could not see any obvious effect. The devil's trap held firm but the exorcism showed no sign of purging the demon from its frail host.
"Oh, give it up. We'll see who lasts longer, me or you." Its black eyes glinted in the streak of daylight that spilled down the passage from glass pane above the front door. "So, Dean. How are things? You can tell me. It's been a while since I was there, how is it down in …" It stopped, choking on its words, eyes bulging with shock and pain as it dropped to its knees.
"Bobby?" Dean asked uneasily, Bobby hesitated and lowered his book as a tall figure appeared in the doorway at the end of the hall.
"I'll take it from here." A young man stepped into the light and Dean blinked in surprise. He was a kid, no more than 20 or so. Long and skinny with a wild mess of dark, shoulder length hair, his skin was sallow and his eyes dark and bruised. His clothes looked like rejects from goodwill and a good meal probably wouldn't have done him any harm.
Who the hell does he think he is? Dean thought indignantly. "Hey buddy, this is our gig, so why don't you toddle along and we'll finish up, okay," he drawled, striving for cool and collected now that his earlier fear and revulsion were fading.
The kid stared at him intensely for a moment and then casually stepped over the huddled form on the floor, letting one hand trail over its bowed head. The old man and his unwanted visitor sank to the floor, moaning brokenly.
Bobby gaped and then gathering his wits about him greeted the stranger.
"Hey, Sam. I didn't realize you were still working," Bobby's voice wavered and he reached out, Sam drew back slightly and Bobby dropped his hand.
"I could say the same to you. An exorcism, Bobby?" Sam asked blandly, his face expressionless. "Who's the hired help?"
To Dean's amazement, Bobby was uncomfortable, even a tad flustered.
"My nephew. Dean Singer meet Sam Winchester." Dean's upper lip twitched and the Winchester kid ignored him. "Sam, this was just a one off, a favor for my sister."
Dean couldn't believe it; Bobby was behaving as if he owed the jerk an explanation. What an asshole, his parents had obviously neglected to teach the boy any manners.
"Now look here, Winchester," Dean began angrily.
"Get out," the boy said flatly.
"What?" Dean was incredulous, he wasn't going to be pushed around by somebody who didn't look old enough to drink or in this case feed himself.
"Get. Out." Sam repeated meeting his gaze, Dean felt a trace of fear return at the strange light that shone in the kid's eyes, the flecked green painted with madness and pain.
"It's okay Sam, we're going." Bobby quickly agreed and gestured to the body lying across the hallway. "Do you think the old guy will make it?"
"No." Sam bent down and pulled the altar cloth out from under the old man and handed it to Bobby. "Neat trick, but I don't need it. See you around, Bobby," and he turned his back on them.
Bobby tugged open the door and pushed Dean bodily onto the front porch, slamming the door behind him.
"What the fuck, Bobby. Are you just gonna let him order you around. Who the hell is that guy anyway?" Dean spluttered, overcome with a sudden fury, resisting Bobby's attempt to propel him down the front steps.
Bobby's dug his fingers into his arm and getting so close Dean could feel his breath said tightly, "He's a hunter and whatever he's doing in there I don't want to know and neither do you." Bobby's eyes, wide and pleading were only a few inches from his own. "Please Dean, trust me. Let's get out of here."
Dean relented and let Bobby herd him along the path to the gate and as they reached the truck a shrill scream echoed from the house, moments later the front door opened and Sam Winchester stood on the porch, watching as they drove away.
This time Bobby let Dean drive. Dean suspected it was to try to placate him over their interrupted exorcism; he drove with a grim determination, keeping well above the posted speed limits. Bobby said nothing.
"So how old is that kid, anyway? He looks barely out of diapers." Dean couldn't get the image of that haunted face from his mind.
There was silence and then Bobby said reluctantly, "He's in his early twenties." He offered no more information.
"And?" Dean asked impatiently. "He's a bit young for this isn't he; it doesn't look as if it's doing him any good."
Bobby sighed. "I knew his father, a hunter. It's the way the boy was raised, he doesn't know anything else."
"What's this 'hunter' crap. Ghost hunters, you mean? Sounds kind of pompous. Hun-ters." Dean drew out the word and a chill trickled down his spine. "I guess that explains the crazed Rambo look that kid had going for him." Dean slowed the truck, pausing at an empty intersection. "I mean, he must be a few cents short on the dollar, right, if he does this on his own. And what's his schtick, anyway? How did he manage to get the upper hand on that old dude or that demon, Bobby?" Dean couldn't contain his words and the anger that accompanied them, he stamped his foot on the gas pedal and the truck leapt across the crossroads.
Bobby clutched at the dashboard. "Hunting can ruin you if you let it, Dean. Sam Winchester's not the only one who's gone down that road. That's why I've always kept my distance from them. I've seen plenty of good men and women forget who they are and get caught up in the shadows. You've got a lot going for you, kid, don't fool yourself that hunting's anything other than a dirty dangerous life for people who ain't got nothing else."
Dean steered the speeding truck around a tight corner and Bobby slid across his seat as Dean glanced at him, curiously. "What is it you're so afraid of Bobby?"
"Nothing," Bobby snapped, "it's just common sense, you mess with bad things, they mess you right back. Now shut up and drive." For once Dean held his tongue, he realized this was not the time to push the issue, Bobby radiated tension and Dean could sense his fear, he would wait.
When they arrived home it was late and Bobby stomped upstairs and locked himself in the bathroom, when he emerged he grunted a taciturn 'goodnight' and told Dean that they would debrief in the morning, he slammed his bedroom door shut and left Dean standing in the empty hall, alone and increasingly frustrated. Dean went to bed.
S s S s S
The kid looked up at him with big round eyes and then grinned broadly reaching out a small hand, tugging at his sleeve.
"Hide and seek. Come on, Dean. You promised." The kid blinked familiar green eyes and turned and ran, ducking behind the burnt out shell of an old car and then popping up again waved through the glassless windows.
"Dean," he whined, "you've got to count to twenty."
Dean wanted to play, he longed to run after his small companion, dodge and weave through the tumble of motor cars old and new, he tried to move but his feet were glued in place. He looked up, the clear blue sky arched overhead curving into the horizon and squeezing the landscape together, the bright sun glinting off exposed metal. He felt as if he were in one of those small glass globes filled with water and tiny pieces of drifting glitter.
He was dreaming, he was sure that it was the first dream he had experienced since waking up on the floor of a stranger's house covered with blood.
"Deeean." The kid called again, further away this time. It was the boy in the photograph. It was Sean, his long-dead little brother.
"Coming, ready or not," he yelled and the air shook. The air filled with the grating sound of metal on metal and a cry echoed up through the battered cars.
"Dean, help me," Sean whimpered, somewhere out of sight.
Dean wrenched himself forward, muscles extended to their limits but even as he moved the world around him stretched further and further away. The wretched sound of sobbing bounced off the cars.
He opened his mouth to scream his brother's name, but his mouth wouldn't form the word. He tried again, this time the name erupting from his lips.
"Sammy," he choked and everything disappeared into darkness.
Dean jerked awake, stifling a cry, his heart racing in panic. He lay still for moment and then brushed his fingers across his face, rubbing at a slight irritation. His fingers met with warmth and moisture, he was crying. He sat up and flicked the light on, feeling unnerved. The dream made no sense, he decided to go downstairs to the kitchen, a drink of something would ease his troubled subconscious.
The lights were on at the bottom of the stairs and he found Bobby sitting at the kitchen table staring bleakly into middle distance. His eyes were red and swollen.
"Bobby?" Dean stood in the doorway.
Bobby turned his head, slowly letting his gaze focus on the man before him and he shook his head. Dean sat down beside him.
"It's that Winchester kid, isn't it?" Dean said quietly. The chance encounter had unsettled them both and Dean knew instinctively that the young hunter had been on Bobby's mind as much as he had been on his own.
Bobby dipped his head and whispered, "Yeah," and Dean's heart thudded painfully as he added, almost inaudibly, "I'm so sorry, Dean."