The Aspen Spirit
Chapter Eleven
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At Joe's request, they stopped briefly at the ranch house. John pulled up so near to the door that he was almost on the steps and the stone edging on the driveway was damaged beyond repair by the weight of the GMC.
Joe didn't seem to notice, or perhaps he just didn't care. He went inside with a surprising turn of speed, leaving the Winchesters staring warily at the eerie undulations of the aspen branches in the stand near to the house. Lacey didn't make any other sort of appearance and within a couple of minutes Joe was back in the truck with a small pack and John was gunning the engine as they started the climb to the cabin.
Their direction of travel seemed to cause a ripple of emotion in the trees and the now familiar surge of energy resumed. It kept pace with them, moving ever closer as the trees closed in along the sides of the track.
John drove as fast as the surface would allow, keeping one eye on the trees and the other on the occupants of the vehicle. Joe seemed to be calm enough, taking it all in his stride, but this wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to him.
His youngest was quiet, his brows knitted as he pondered over a possible solution. Not scared, John noted with a sense of pride.
Dean worried him, had been worrying him since he collapsed on the mountain. He was unnaturally still, not displaying any of his characteristic eagerness, although that could be put down to the after effects of the physical trauma. But he seemed withdrawn too, his eyes often focussed on something distant, a little frown pinching at his forehead. Even now, with a showdown with the spirit imminent, his green eyes were glassy as he watched the trees close in beside the truck. John wondered what was playing on his mind, hoped it wouldn't distract him when the shit hit the fan.
Even the brief glances John could spare in the rear view mirror showed him how worn down his eldest had become: injury, illness, surgery, more injury all piling up on top of each other and finished with a frosting of lack of sleep. He hadn't missed Dean's sudden withdrawal when he and Sam were verbally sparring in the hospital, engaged again in their daily and almost routine overflow of anger. A small part of him wanted to take Sam aside and negotiate a peace, even if Sam accepted it only for Dean's sake. The main part of him knew it would be hopeless, both of them too obstinate to be able to compromise.
"I'm sorry boys." He spoke under his breath, too low to be audible, feeling the drag of inadequacy; he thought he needed Mary now more than ever, just to make sense of everything. The ever present monster of depression reared its head and John slapped it down, hard. Now wasn't the moment. It was time to fight and it only took a quick glance in the back seat to remind himself he had good reason to fight.
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After a while, the jolting of the truck seemed to push Dean's half-formed worries about the future into a distant place. A peaceful sense of detachment from reality slipped over him as they were transported effortlessly through the world, temporarily held together in the confines of the cab. He drifted, watching the trees' hypnotic movement until the sharp jab of Sam's bony elbow made him realise they were already at the cabin. John was already by the tailgate and Dean trotted around, ducking his head away from his father's enquiring gaze as he took his share of the equipment.
"I got it, Dad."
"Do you?" John's eyes interrogated him, his hand still keeping a grip of one strap of the backpack. "Do you really? 'Cause I can..." He gestured at the cabin beside them.
"No!" The protest was sharp, a knee jerk reaction at the fear of being left behind. Dean tugged the strap away, repeating stubbornly, "I got it."
"Okay," said John unwillingly. "Let's finish this thing." He turned to Joe. "Where's this tree at?"
Joe led the way across to the tree line, only a slight hesitancy in his gait suggesting his injury was troubling him.
"Tough old guy." Sam's low comment was almost lost in the roar of movement from the forest.
They stopped about forty feet away from the edge of the trees. From there it seemed as though the whole mountainside was moving, every silver trunk in sight thrashing in protest.
"They don't like it!" Joe yelled, leaning close to them so that his words were audible.
He was right. Up this close, out in the open, it was obvious that the trees were distressed, every flutter of a green or golden leaf a signal of distress and warning. Belatedly, Dean realised the trees by the motel room, the one outside the hospital, had been gesturing to him to go away, not beckoning him. He caught at Joe's arm, his lips close to the old man's ear.
"We gotta get her spirit back out."
"Mebbe gettin' her back into the one tree'll do the trick." Joe pointed to a withered, twisted tree in front of them. "That's the one. Used to be like the others. Now look at it."
John's expression cleared, as though a problem that had been troubling him was suddenly solved. He motioned them into a huddle. "I guess that's the answer. Aspen are known to be a protector, spiritually. Ancient Celts used the wood in their shields for that reason. I figure, when she hung herself, the tree sensed the trauma in her soul and took her in to protect her."
"Yeah," said Sam. "But when she turned bad, it fought to contain her, ended up all twisted."
Around them, the noise faded away as one by one the trees stilled, until only the twisted tree shivered and trembled.
"Guess she knows we're here." Joe took a hesitant step forwards. Lacey materialised next to the trunk. She pointed a finger in Dean's direction.
"He's mine!"
As she spoke, Sam became aware of a slithering, creaking noise. A root broke through the soil and twisted itself around his legs.
"Dad!"
John swore, hacking at a fibrous rope that had taken him around the waist.
His eldest fired into Lacey's insubstantial figure; she flickered, reappearing almost immediately as the earth burst open around them and roots snatched at their limbs. Joe stood perfectly still as roots climbed up his calves and onto his thighs. He ripped the small bag open and pulled out a red and blue plaid shirt, its pewter buttons dull in the light.
"Hey!" he yelled. "Lacey! Over here!"
Behind him Dean fought against the living ropes; he was dragged down to his knees, wrists tangled and shotgun now useless. "Goddamnit Joe," he panted. "Tell me that's not Ben's shirt!"
Joe spared him a brief glance, his golden eyes intense. "It's not. It's mine, we had us a matching pair of shirts. Crazy I know, but hey, twins y'know. I'm hoping Lacy don't realise."
It'd been a long time since he'd worn it. Still lean, his shoulders had broadened during his years in the oil fields, but it didn't matter; the dressing on his injured shoulder was in the way anyway. He draped it around his shoulders instead.
"Dean! Sam!" John was down on his hands and knees, gnarled roots twisted around his torso, his teeth white against the dark of his stubble as he fought. "Get off my boys, you bitch!"
Sam managed to get the knife out of his belt; he jabbed and sawed at the roots around his waist. Hunks of damp earth fell loose, the blade slipping on the rough skin as it cut into the pale life inside.
"Get away, you freak!" Dean was held, unable to move as Lacey approached him. She was smiling, half of her face shredded by the shotgun blast and hanging in tatters down to the neckline of her dress. She reached out with a small hand, drawing it slowly down the sharp planes of his face.
"Beautiful," she crooned.
Dean tried to pull back, couldn't, his breath coming fast as the roots slid up over his ribcage, fastened around his neck like a deadly necklace.
"Fuck you…"
She smiled at him, leaning in closer as the root around his neck tightened. Dean choked, the air being slowly crushed out of his lungs, cut off in his throat. He could hear his father yelling… angry, helpless, the voice receding in the rushing of blood in his ears.
"LACEY!" Joe's voice.
She frowned, but didn't turn, intent on her prize. Dean felt her cold hands cup his head, she leaned in again, pressing her icy lips on his own. The fetid smell of rot and damp, wet earth filled his mouth and nose. He gagged, choked, couldn't refill his lungs.
"LACEY! I'm here!" She turned this time, going still. The movement of the roots slowed and stopped as she caught sight of Joe, shaven, hair brushed back, plaid shirt.
"Ben?" Hope in her voice, mixed with confusion. "Ben, is that you?"
"Yeah honey. It's me. I've come for you."
Dean fought for air, got a tiny trickle through the constriction in his throat. It wasn't enough; his head felt as though it was going to burst, his lungs burning as everything began to grey out, fade.
"C'm'ere sweetheart." Every bit of charm and warmth Joe could summon was in his voice. The roots fell away from his legs, began to loosen their hold on the others.
John pitched forwards onto his face, got a mouthful of rich soil, found his knife again and hacked at the bindings until they started to withdraw. In the corner of his eye he could see Sam doing the same. To his right, Dean slumped backwards, his eyes rolling upwards.
"Shit! Dean!" Sam was loose, on his knees beside his brother, tearing at the roots around his neck. John heard the wheezing gasp as Dean took in a lungful of air, then another.
Then he was free himself and sprinting to the little tableau of the tree and Lacey and Joe. Holy water and salt spread around them in a circle, John panting as he worked and half-hearing the words that poured from Joe, smooth and sweet as honey. Lacey's spirit watched him, rapt, all her attention on the man and none of it on John and his preparations.
John splashed lighter fluid liberally over the tree, aware of his boys behind him, now on their feet. Dean coughed, choked, bent double as he filled his starved lungs… and suddenly Lacey realised what had happened. Her face contorted with rage as she rushed to the edge of the circle of salt and holy water and rebounded off its invisible wall.
She swung to Joe. "You tricked me." Her voice was cold.
"Joe!" John saw the root curl up behind the old man. "Get outta there!"
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So... Joe's fate hangs in the balance.
Many thanks for sticking with this ramble… : ) Very special thanks to reviewers for your kind words, I'm sure I don't deserve them, but they do give me just enough courage to put a bit more nonsense down.
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