You know what, for a story I wanted to drop into that binary waste bin on my computer desktop more then once this fic surely goes down well with the public. I'm stunned. And excited. And thankful. Wow!
A special giant thank you goes out to LadyKryptonite294 who was so inspired by a passage in my story that she created a wonderful wallpaper – when I get her permission I'll show it to you, it's awesome! Thanks a lot!
And now lets see how the great escape's going...
Chapter 13
It was like being blind. Minus the darkness.
Depending on your sense of hearing. Solely. It was nothing new to Dean as his core time was the night and his workplace were mostly dark places. Still, traveling like sardines in a tin together with dirty laundry without knowing what was going on beyond the bright canvas walls surrounding him was unnerving at all events.
Thank God it wasn't dark in the cart. Dean would have had his issues being stuck in a dark box, the short but intense time in his own coffin still too fresh in his mind.
He tried to get his breathing under control, tried to keep it deep and regular and therefore as quiet as possible. He didn't dare to move, held his arms close to his chest as not to bulge out the fabric cart walls.
He listened intently to the sounds outside, tracked the way Phillip was going.
There were the nurse's footsteps, slow, calm. Very good, Phil was as cool as a cucumber, at least he moved like it. A born criminal, so to speak.
The sound of the casters on the linoleum floor, a low, smooth hum, interrupted by the funny scratching of one of the swivels that seemed to be broken.
Dean heard cell doors being closed, footsteps farther away, voices in different intonations. Orderlies talking to each other, harshly, chitchatting. Orderlies talking to patients, reassuring, soothing.
The voices came closer, a greeting, a "Here, let me open the door for you" followed by Phillip's friendly thanking. Main double doors, alright. So the elevators were next. Dean didn't know the building but he guessed they'd be driving downstairs into the basement where the laundry was, heading for the delivery entrance there, given that there was one.
The cart came to a halt and Dean could identify a person walk past it. The sound of the elevator button being pushed. Fingers drumming a rhythm on the metal cover of the cart. Damnit, Phil, nervous much?
"Phillip?" A shrill female voice from somewhere behind, heavy steps approaching. No clue who this was, but back off, woman.
At least the cadenced tapping stopped.
"Rita, hey!" Phillip sounded surprised, but not too anxious, "Still here? I thought you wanted to be home earlier because of your sister's birthday?"
"Yeah, well, actually I'm on my way...you don't mind sharing the next lift with me?"
Actually yes.
"No, of course not."
Dean rolled his eyes, mouthing a 'Come on'.
"How's your lovely wife doing, Phillip? She okay?"
"Well, the fracture's quite complicated, that's why she's still in hospital. But she'll be okay eventually."
Relevant information – one, if they had to ice Ghosty somewhere on Phillip's property there'd be no one getting in their way. Good thing. Two, he hadn't asked how Phillip's wife was doing. Damn, where have your manners gone, Winchester?
"I have a day off on Thursday, tell her I'm going to come over and bring her something to cheer her up!"
The elevator arrived, the doors opening with a mechanical whirr.
"Let me help you", Rita announced and Dean tensed, hearing Phillip stammer something like 'No problem, I can handle that...' before the cart began to move, rumbling over the threshold.
"Wow, that thing's heavy, what have you in there?"
"Woolen blankets", Phillip blurted out, "Some…patients are already demanding the woolen blankets…despite the season. Sweet, right?" The man chuckled nervously.
Smooth, Phil, really.
"Oh, okay", Dean heard Rita reply. He was about to relax when a small shout from Phillip startled him, followed by a bone-jarring collision of the cart with what felt like a wall, causing Dean to be thrown forward violently. He froze in an awkward bent position, biting his tongue to keep himself from crying out.
What the fuck!
"Careful with...you know...", Phillip forced out, his voice close to the fabric, probably kneeling beside the cart, and Dean wondered if he was able to smack him through the material without Rita noticing. "The management doesn't like dents in their elevator walls, remember?"
And surely Salinger doesn't like dents in his patients or nurses, Dean thought angrily, straightening slowly, careful not to make any sounds.
"Ah", Rita responded with a snarky tone when the elevator moved downward, "This piece of crap is as old as the building, it's about time they install new ones."
The so-called piece of crap slowed it's descent and came to a stuttering halt. The laundry cart was wheeled out into what sounded like a hallway, the steps of his two wingmen outside echoing loudly from probably naked walls. Even from his fabric-surrounded position Dean could feel the slight drop of temperature.
Basement, probably.
"What is that?" Dean flinched at Rita's exclaim and not for the first time since the loud and shrill woman had joined their journey he wished he could just send her someplace else with one snip of his fingers.
One pair of steps faded lightly and Rita's voice sounded again, from a distance: "See. Said management should invest into more of those fancy laundry carts so people don't have to throw the laundry on the basement floor."
Rustling. Grunting. More rustling, coming closer. "Phillip, be a sweetheart and open that lid for me, would ya?"
Dean didn't need a dictionary to decipher Phillip's sharp intake of breath. Didn't need to think hard about what kind of words Phil was searching for when he heard the man's breathless 'Uh's' and 'Wait's'.
In one swift motion Dean leaped forward and snatched the closest blanket he could reach, curling himself into a ball, draping the huddled fabric over him.
He stopped breathing the moment he heard the creaking of the metal lid, saw his surroundings brighten up when the cold fluorescent tubes on the hallway's ceiling entered his hideout. He winced at the smell, the odor of too many things he didn't want to mull over further almost unbearable now that his face was pressed right against the dirty linens sharing the cramped place with him.
With a thud something heavy landed on his back, soft and yielding, burying him.
Burying him alive.
No.
"See, there we go!" Ritas voice. Shrill.
Searing through his brain like a hot poker.
Can't breathe...
Dean knew he was breathing too harshly, he needed to calm down, he would blow his cover, their cover, but he needed to breathe, air, now, please, pleasepleaseplease...
His hands hurt, his nails digging into his palms, the muscles of his fingers cramping, a wave of nausea rushing over him like a bucket of ice water, beads of perspiration forming on his skin at the same time.
The odor of old sweat ate itself through his nose, tenfolding and mixing with more stenches he was suddenly hyperaware of, stenches he remembered, had tried to suppress. In his ear the rumbling of wheels became thunder, voices rose from two to thousands, distorted from small talk to screams and screechings. Another jolt running through the vehicle, clenched teeth grinding, the pain in his hands increasing and Dean felt himself at his limit. He didn't care where they were, who was outside, what was at stake, he just needed to get out of this.
Harsh breaths turned into gasps, then into grunts when he scrambled himself free of the arms and claws grasping him just blankets, only blankets, Dean! and pushed himself up, feeling his head collide with the metal lid. Shaking hands found the cool surface and with all the strength he could muster up he pushed against it, satisfied when the only obstacle on his way to precious air was so easy to remove.
It was dark, a detail Dean hadn't noticed in his panic. A fact that was oil into the burning fires of his terror. There was a low rumbling. Was he driving?
"Woah, hey", a familiar voice farther away to his right. Friend or foe? Friend or fucking foe? "Dean, relax, it's okay, calm down."
Dean yanked his head towards the voice. "Sammy?" Was that his voice? Geez...
"No, Dean, it's Phillip. Do you remember?" The other man's voice was soft and gentle, someone who was used talking to people being out of their minds. Somehow it bothered Dean that he was the guy out of his mind right now.
"Yeah..." he rasped, running a hand over his face, "...just..." With the force of an avalanche the reason of his laundry cart excursion slammed back into him and he looked around frantically. "Where are we? Are we in a van? Did it work? Are we outside?"
Dean's eyes had adjusted themselves a bit to the dark and roamed the small room. A van or a truck, alright. It looked like an UPS truck, it was possible to march from the shipping space into the driver's cab.
He recognized Phillip long form at the steering wheel.
"We have to pass the reception area. But that's going to be a piece of cake." The nurse chuckled nervously, "Man, I'm glad I got rid of Rita in time...you almost blew our cover. What's wrong, are you claustrophobic?"
Dean stared at the other man. There were times he hadn't been. He could have crawled into the narrowest holes without hesitation, endure the ugliest smells. Bad ass hunter.
Not anymore.
"Maybe", Dean replied and swallowed, before he continued with a reproachful undercurrent, "But you know what, I want to see you being buried underneath a pile of dirty laundry. Bedlinen, for god's sake."
"Yeah, sorry about that. Rita was so quick opening the lid...I was sure our game's over. But even I didn't see you in there, nice hiding job." He slowed the car down. "Hate to say it but you have to go back into seclusion."
Another wave of nausea hit Dean at the thought. "Can I keep at least the lid open?"
Phillip hesitated. "Okay. But in case someone wants to check the van I'll come rushing and close it and I don't want to hear a single whimper."
A whimper? Had he whimpered?
Dropping to his knees, face up and as close to the opening as possible, Dean felt the van come to a halt. A squealing window crank. Phillip was saying something Dean couldn't make out, and someone else was answering. Two man laughing. The motor of the van. They were moving again.
They were out.
Ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.
Dean almost jumped out of the laundry cart with joy and scrambled through the narrow opening leading to the driver and the passenger seat. When he slumped down on his seat he noticed an almost crazy smile on Phillip's face, softly illuminated by the street lights and the interior illumination.
"I don't believe it", he chuckled, and it was so contagious Dean couldn't help it, he chuckled with him.
"You do realize that the fun is just about to start, right?" the Winchester laughed, the tension slowly leaving his muscles and mind.
"I don't care, bring it on. Right now I can do anything."
The two men went silent, every one relishing his own little achievement.
"So, who's Sammy?"
The question hit Dean like a sledgehammer. Damn panic attacks. He was turning into a little pansy, always asking for his brother lately. Good thing he was out of that All-inclusive Hotel California.
"I had a cat", Dean replied, the obvious untruth laying heavy in his stomach. He didn't want to lie to Phillip, he liked the guy, trusted him. But he was going to bail tonight. Every information Phillip had was like a bread crumb to all the hungry vultures that would swarm out and come looking for him soon.
So sorry, no truth here.
"What happened?"
"I got it as a kitten and some day it ignored my warnings and ran onto the street." And got run over by a ruby red truck.
"I'm sorry." Phillip paused, then turned his face toward Dean. "So you call for your dead cat when you're scared of bed linens?"
"Shut up."
Phillip let out a hearty laugh which he rounded off with a merry sigh and a shake of his head. Dean looked over at him and marveled at the man's sleaziness despite their upcoming adventure. Or more to say, the second part of it.
"Okay, tell me about that ghost", Dean encouraged, needing to know whatever there was to know.
"Oh yeah, that", Phillip said and went serious. "Mitchell McKinley. That's the ghost's name. And I can't believe I just said that."
"Go on."
"Okay, so, in 1903 the Bucannon Railway Company was planning to build a railroad track from southern Florida northwards. They bought all the properties and houses being in the way. But good old Mitch didn't sell. He fought tooth and nail against the company until they had enough and sent some kind of removal crew. When McKinley still didn't relent, they killed him."
Dean followed the streetlights with eyes wide awake, processing Phillip's words. "And they didn't tear the place down?" he asked.
"No, turned out it was a good location and the company decided to use it as a train station."
"Did McKinley make any appearances earlier? Any stories of 'Haunting Mitchell' in the papers centuries ago?"
Phillip nodded sadly, "Yes, plenty. The old station had had more owners then a challenge cup, there are stories and files and expert reports, everything hidden in the depths of my realtor's office, of course." He slammed the palm of his right onto the steering wheel. "People have died in there and my realtor sells the house pointing out how beautiful the architectural style is. Unbelievable!"
"Please tell me he's buried at the cemetery and not somewhere in your garden where we might have to dig up the whole place..."
Phillip smirked. "Cemetery. Headstone included. No problem to track him down."
"That are actually good news", Dean breathed in relief. His greatest concern – vanishing into thin air.
Streetlight after streetlight rushed by, as if they were the only things existing outside. It was the first time Dean noticed how isolated the Okeechobee mental institution was. Since he had joined Phillip in the front row they were driving on a road through murky woods, the only illumination being the lamps, strung like a collier.
"Can I ask you something, Dean?"
"Sure."
"All that stuff about ghosts, how to ward them off, how to kill...uh...you know...erase them. Whatever we're going to do...how do you know all that?"
Dean winced. He knew he had to explain his wisdom at some point. He just wasn't sure whether to answer truthfully.
"Told you, I know a few things about that stuff. I read a lot of those esoteric books."
"But you are one hundred percent sure that this is working? That burning thing? I mean, not everything you read in books is true."
"Trust me, it'll work."
"Has this anything to do with the reason you're at Lake Okeechobee?"
Dean looked at the other man. "What do you mean?"
"I mean the incident that brought you into the facility. Has it anything to do with your 'esoteric wisdom'?" Phillip let go of the steering wheel briefly to set the last two words into imaginary quotation marks with his index fingers.
"Maybe", Dean replied, his tone defeated. What was he going to say? Yes, he had tried to save someone from a werewolf, and yes, the stories were true, werewolves did shift back into their human form when they were dead, and yes, he had landed his sorry ass in a freakin' nuthouse because he hadn't been gone fast enough before the cops had showed up, finding him beside a corpse.
The story of his life, right?
In the distance a few lights showed up. Billboards. Neon signs of shops. Dean knew now how Robinson Crusoe must have felt when he had set foot into civilization again after days, weeks, years on a lone island. When they passed a KFC, the smell of chicken and fries wafting into the truck's interior, Dean felt his mouth watering.
He tried to recognize the streets, tried to backtrack the way to the motel he and Sam had put up at. He would have to walk or run the way later as he was not going to steal the van. And he had no intentions to get lost on his escape. Especially with the outfit he wore.
"We're almost there", Phillip announced, rounding a corner, "What are we going to do? Dig a hole, hoping to find the...body." Dean heard him swallow. "And then?"
"We drench it with gasoline and light it up. Easy as pie." Oh yeah, pie. The first thing he was going to do before he would head back to the motel was getting some pie. And then he would relish the dumbfounded look on Sam's face when he was showing up on his doorstep.
"Yeah. Easy as pie. Thanks." The nurse shook himself, an almost comical sight.
Dean cursed when they took another turn that lead them once again away from the town. He then saw a lonely figure walking along the street, strolling, almost waltzing, as if it was the most common thing to take a walk in the middle of the night. Well, okay, evening, but still…
"Some people I don't get", he muttered.
"What?"
"That guy out there..." Dean nodded his chin towards the pedestrian who had his back towards them.
Phillip straightened in his seat. "Where? I don't see anyone."
Dean opened his mouth to say something when the figure turned around to face them. The headlights of their van hit the man's face, revealed familiar but unwelcome features, a hateful glare, a cruel smile.
"Mike..." Dean whispered.
Hey Dean.
Dean froze, his breath hitching. He was torn between pushing the passenger side door open to slam it into the apparition with full force, even if it wouldn't do any harm, or recoiling, jumping closer to Phillip when the van passed the figure, it's pale face with those cold staring eyes too close to his window.
"Where's that guy you were talking about? Not that I hit him by accident..." Phillip rambled, oblivious to Dean's distress, "One of those paper boys maybe, dressed in black and working at night. Gotta love them."
Dean didn't listen. He shifted, tried to see what lay behind them in the rear view mirror. Mike was still there. One hand raised. The son of a bitch was waving.
Sinking back onto the seat Dean swallowed heavily. He was indeed going crazy. He was losing his marbles, the few that were left. Oh God. When would this stop? Was it going to stop at all?
"Okay, we're there!" Phillip exclaimed, steering the van next to a big masonry wall and putting it to a halt. "Entrance's over there, the gates are open 24/7."
"Hmm...good. Good", Dean replied hoarsely, his mind somewhere entirely else. He caught himself performing a gesture he had mastered during the last week, the ever calming heels of his hands pressed deeply into his eye sockets.
Getafuckinggrip.
He felt Phillip's gaze trained on him. "Dean?"
A sharp intake of breath, a moment of frantic blinking and he was back again. Tried to be. Needed to be.
"Right here" he stated, straightening. "Okay…where's the grave and where are the tools?"
To be continued...