C&W—Chapter 3
Nothing around him felt real, except for the ache in his back and leg, the beating of blood through his poorly healing wounds. His eyes were open, taking in the dulled out numbers on the alarm clock, the light around them getting brighter, sharper, until he had to press closed his watering eyes, unaware they'd been open for so long.
Time travel, as far as Dean was concerned, sucked out loud.
The room was dark, and he wasn't sure how long he'd been out. He laid there, focusing on pushing down the pain his aches had transformed into, slowly becoming aware of everything from the weight of his limbs, to the sweat soaked sheets, to the journal his hand rested upon.
I can't do nothing…
Dean groaned. The echo of Ben's words brought back the smell of the rain and the city and the sharp cut of police lights across his mind's eye. He pressed the base of both of his palms up into his eyes, watched it all spark out in bright pinpricks of light, and then it was gone, darkness returned with the smell of sweat and cigarettes.
It wasn't Sam. Sam wasn't the reason they kept being pulled back into the past. Dean had been the one to read it this time, and the journal itself had proven to have enough "psychic mojo" of its own.
"Sam?" Dean croaked out, pushing to his elbows, sucking in a breath as the tear in his shoulder pulled against his clothing, almost bringing him back down. Gathering himself, curling up using his abdominals instead, Dean sat up, hand fumbling for the lamp beside the bed, fingers grabbing the chain and clicking on the bulb.
An empty and disheveled bed was all that greeted him in the light. Halfway up, legs tangled in the sheets, Dean was ready to start combing all of Northern Ohio when he heard a sound that both reassured him and tripped up his heart.
He could hear Sam's retching in the bathroom.
Exhaling, silently cursing himself for the scare, especially when he'd about face planted trying to get to his feet, Dean used the wall to straighten himself and to try putting weight on his leg. It felt this way for a reason, and it wasn't the fall. He could still hear Sam nagging him to look at it. The heat and weight of infection was all too familiar to him, and this was the last thing he needed.
Sam's insistence that there was not a lot of work for one-legged pirate hunters made Dean cringe now.
Ever since Cutter's Landing he was making stupid decisions. Dragging Sam around for one. Tuning out his brother's incessant mother-hen mantras…well, he was going to have to work on that. Baby steps.
Dean stumbled the last few inches before the door, catching himself on the frame, and stared down at Sam who was draped over the bowl. The smell was enough to get him gagging, but he cowboyed up and moved in.
Sam's look gutted him. The mixture of apology and pain and nausea etched into his expression caused Dean to pause.
"God…Sam..."
"Help me up," Sam breathed.
"You done?" Dean asked, about ready to join him.
Sam only nodded, reaching up for Dean's hand. Dean was helping him stand, supporting his weigh, trying to keep all of it on his good leg, but it was a precarious balancing act, and Sam looked like he was starting to have second thoughts about moving away from the bowl.
Dean saw it too late, the suppressed gag, Sam no longer pulling up but trying to get back to the bowl. He heard the expulsion and felt it, his shirt soaking, now covered in warm vomit. Sam was on the ground, down by the bowl, letting even more go while Dean stood there and pulled his shirt away from his body.
Gross…Aw…dude…Come on!
He knelt down; using the sink to lower himself onto his knees, hand on Sam's back as he finished. Dean hadn't seen him this sick in a long time. Sam looked over at him, again, apologizing with his eyes.
"…Sorry…"
"Any way I can get it off of me quickly, without betraying my cool exterior?" Dean asked his brother, getting Sam to smile weakly before his face was back down in the bowl again.
Dean waited for him to finish; slipping off his T-shirt as quickly as he could manage over his bandages and with limited range of motion and tossed it in the corner.
Helping Sam back to bed was no fun. It had been easier to do when Sam wasn't six foot four, just six or four and when Dean wasn't trying to keep his balance on a bum leg. But Sam finally hit the mattress, legs curling up into his stomach, head turned into his pillow as he coughed.
Dean was feeling more and more like Igor as he hobbled about the room, getting what Sam would need. Another Gatorade, something for his stomach and a washcloth for his forehead. Then Dean collapsed into his own bed.
"We're officially under quarantine," Dean said. "You going to be all right, Sam?"
"Didn't mean to throw up on you." Sam's voice was like gravel.
Dean shrugged. "Don't let it happen again."
Sam cracked a smile.
"Did you see it?"
Dean was confused for a moment by the question. He paused rubbing at his leg and tilted his head. "What?"
"Ben and Jake…they won against a demon…on blind luck," Sam said, grinning.
Dean laughed a little, taking up the fedora on the bed next to him and rolling it over in his hands.
"The church…some random puddle was still water on sacred ground…"
"And the poker," Sam wheezed out, ending in a cough.
"Iron?"
"Probably."
"Lucky sons of bitches," Dean smiled. "Wonder if they realized it…"
"It's strange," Sam started.
"Which part exactly? The time travel or Jake and my unparalleled great taste in cars?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "I never really hear stories like theirs…hunters are usually more…"
"Revenge driven?"
"You said it, not me," Sam sighed. "But yeah…"
"Maybe that's coming," Dean added, not really wanting that to be true.
"I hope not…" Sam came back. He paused, curling in on himself tighter. "I hope one didn't lose the other…" Sam rolled onto his back like he was trying to find some position that didn't hurt or make him feel worse. Dean saw something else there as well; the statement weighted with more then just hopes for that set of brothers. "I like…that they chose this; that they saw a need. Something they couldn't ignore."
"Like Hendrickson," Dean muttered quietly, feeling the prick of loss and guilt before forcing it aside. "No offense, Sam, but there are times I have no idea why anyone would choose this." He shook his head. "Then again, Bobby always said people got into hunting somehow. Always wondered what else, other than tragedy, brought people into a life like this."
"Would you still be here if we never lost Mom?"
The answer for that question came easier than he'd thought it would, the truth being, something Dean had always known about himself.
"If I knew what was out there…Yeah. I would."
"Me too. There was a time…no way…but now…"
There had been too much in their lives to turn their back on this war. Even if they could have ignorance, having been where he'd been, seeing the things he'd seen, there was a part of him that knew he would always be a hunter. There was no escaping that. And Dean wasn't really trying.
He wanted an end, to not have to keep Sam in cheap motel rooms when he was sick or injured, or drag him around, him sleeping in the backseat of the Impala when they were on the run. He wished Sam could have had the girl and the lawyer gig. But he knew there was no going back…and he was not giving up this fight until Sam was safe and there was nothing left tearing apart lives. And he knew…that might be a long, long time…
"This is where I belong," Sam said, drawing back Dean's attention.
"Cheap motel rooms, sewing up our own wounds…"
"With you. Fighting. I can't do nothing, Dean."
Dean nodded, heart swelling at that. He tried to hide the relief from his face by looking down at the journal beside him, absently noting that he hadn't felt pain in his leg while in Jake's shoes…
Sam was falling asleep, the discomfort apparent in the small moans whimpered into his pillow.
Dean took up the journal and flipped through it.
Hopefully the Colts were faring better than they were.
December 3rd, 1954
Jake was having second thoughts on having Ben involved with the police department, not that he could do anything about it now. Ben seemed determined to do the police work on the side. Jake had been all for it, until it came down to doing it. Despite everything, he'd managed to keep Ben's life as normal as possible. As a small boy Jake had been sure Ben hadn't been exposed to the harsher side of life. Jake never cared what he'd seen or dealt with as long as Ben was sheltered.
Ben had been a sweet, kind child who'd grown into a good-hearted, gentle-natured young man. Jake couldn't help worrying that what he exposed Ben to now was going to change all that, change his brother into a hardened, cold man. Ben represented all the good things in Jake's life, all the good things Jake had done with his life. He was happy, smart, and could go so far. Yet he wanted to follow Jake around taking pictures of crime and filth and the dark side of humanity.
What was Jake doing about it? He was taking Ben into yet another situation he'd hoped his younger brother never have to see.
Jake hated taking himself into these places let alone Ben. The people here were here for a reason; most of those reasons weren't nice or pleasant. Sanitarium. It sounded so clean, so acceptable, something anyone from polite company might not find offensive. A word that didn't conjure pictures of what was inside the walls they were about to go behind.
It was one of these places he and Ben would surely end up in if they weren't careful. People indubitably thought the two of them crazy, and Jake wouldn't have been the first cop in history to crack. Thing is, he hadn't cracked. Neither had Ben.
Benny. Thinking of him locked away in one of these hellholes, at the mercy of the other patients, without Jake. Him without Ben. It was the way it'd always been with them, they depended on each other so much. Jake didn't see that changing anytime soon.
They were lead through the main entrance, where new patients were processed and admitted to the area reserved for criminally insane. This part could be mistaken for any hospital waiting room or a less expensive hotel. There were chairs scattered about, a few plants and a magazine rack with the latest LIFE and NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC issues. Everyone was neatly dressed or in a uniform. It was quiet here unlike what was beyond the door.
Jake hated it here, bringing Ben terrified him in a way he'd not anticipated. Heart skipping a few beats when they stopped in front of the main door to the ward, Jake took a deep breath.
The orderly, intern, guard, whoever the Hell he was looked Jake up and down. Jake had been here before and it was obvious the man recognized him. He nodded and mumbled out a greeting of, "Detective."
The man's eyes flicked over Ben. "You both going in? You sure?"
He heard how Ben swallowed and Jake felt him tense and straighten behind Jake. Glancing back at Ben, Jake nodded. "Stay with me."
Hell no, I'm not sure.
The protest was about to come out of Ben's mouth; Jake saw it forming, when the orderly opened the door. Someone shrieked, and Jake felt the skin covering his forearm move and twitch into goosebumps. Ben's lips pressed together in a thin line. Some of the color left his face, and he nodded once tightly.
Jake wanted to take Ben's arm when they went inside. He wanted to grip Ben's wrist as tightly as possible and not let go until they were back in the parking lot, free and clear. Better yet, he wanted to turn Ben around and shove him back outside. Instead, he let his hand drop to his gun for a few seconds. "Don't talk to any of them. Avoid making eye contact and don't take anything from any man here." Stay behind me, let me hold onto your arm and keep one hand on my jacket at all times.
"Jake, I can—"
"I mean it, Ben." Jake snapped the words out, keeping his voice low and harsh; putting all the authority he could muster into it.
Someone in one of the first rooms grabbed the wire grating covering a small window on the closed door and shook it, shouting details of how he was going to dismember them both. Ben's mouth opened and shut fast. His eyes got a bit too round and his breathing shuddered for a few beats.
Another patient, across the hall from the first, cackled shrilly and added to the first man's rant.
Eyes trained ahead, Jake marched down the hall doing everything he knew how to do to project authority and power. He wanted these men too afraid of him to do anything more than yell.
Ben jumped forward and scrambled to keep up.
The orderly lumbered along with them, his mouth formed a silly grin, obviously finding their discomfort amusing. He pointed to a room near the end of the hall, "In that one. He's Chapman."
The name had popped up more than once when Jake started quietly, at least he hoped it was quietly, looking further into some of those cases. Murders where witnesses reported things like people with unnatural eyes and sulfur sprinkled about like confetti. The man more than once seemed to pass through an area right behind those cases. Never before. Some people Jake talked to said Chapman asked the same sorts of questions Jake asked. Some people seemed relieved someone believed them, didn't think they belonged somewhere like this.
That just brought Jake back to Ben—his Benny—locked behind one of those doors, alone, desperate, no one to listen to him. No one to believe in him. God, how could he have made that kid think, even for a minute, Jake didn't believe in Ben? His chest tightened down with more guilt, and he swallowed away with difficulty. His mind kept skittering to sights of Ben's face as a cold, iron door slammed shut on him.
They stopped beside the indicated door. Inside the small, Spartan room was a man. He wore the hospital attire. His dingy yellow-gray hair was shoulder length and wild, sticking out at all sorts of odd angles. He hunched on the floor, chalk in hand and was scribbling furiously.
Jake turned and shared a look with Ben. His brother swallowed, crossed his arms over his chest, hands bunched to fists and nodded. Jake took a deep breath and nodded to the orderly who opened the door and let them step inside. Once the door was shut the lock clicked into place again with a tinny echo that made Ben jerk his head around and look back at the door for a few seconds, the orderly turned away and stood in the hall waiting for them.
The man barely looked up long enough to spare them a glance. He was muttering what sounded like Latin under his breath.
"Are those religious symbols?" Ben pointed to the mess of sigils and lines on the floor.
The man stopped and peered up at them, scrutinizing first Jake then Ben. He stood slowly and moved closer to Ben. Jake's breath caught and his heart sped up.
"You believe, boy." One of Chapman's fingers pointed at Ben, getting so close he nearly poked Ben's nose.
Ben's eyes shifted to Jake before he whispered out a hoarse, "Yes."
"You saw one, a demon. I can smell its stink on you." Chapman edged closer as Ben backed away until he pressed against the door.
Jake stepped between them, moving Chapman back with one hand and pushing Ben farther behind him with the other. "We were hoping you'd tell us what you know. Show us what to use, help us learn to fight."
"Everyone thinks I'm a crazy old man." Chapman squinted at Jake, moved around so he could gaze up at Ben again. He held up both hands, fingers wiggling back and forth. "Sees ghosts and demons and witches."
"That might be true. But I'd like to hear what you have to say." Jake sidestepped, again blocking his brother from Chapman.
Chapman giggled high pitched and nasally. "See that?" He pointed to his drawing on the ground. "Memorize it. It's called a Devil's Trap and it's the only thing that can hold a demon at bay, it's like a bear trap to them. Or a jail cell."
"Can I take a picture of it?" Ben pulled the camera hung over his shoulder into his hands.
Shrugging, Chapman waved at it grandly. "Go ahead. It's my finest work."
While Ben took a few pictures, Jake pulled out a notepad. "What else can I use against a demon?"
"Holy water, boy. Get yourself a good supply and learn to make it. You need a rosary and the right rituals." Chapman shuffled across his room to his bed. Reaching under his mattress he pulled out a tattered notebook. "Keep a journal, record everything so you can remember what you did the last time." He shoved the book into Jake's hand. "Everything is in there; how to make holy water, how to use salt to protect yourself from a spirit, weapons of this war, boy. How the lights flicker when they are nearby."
"I'll bring this back after I copy it, if that's okay."
Chapman waved him off. "No need boy. They're out there. I'm in here." He grinned and gave the barred door a shake, "Iron. I have what I need to stay safe. You need that to fight. I've been waiting for someone to pass this to. Another hunter. Another believer. That's what we do. Old hunters don't die, they pass on their journals." He cracked a grin. "I got old because of that journal, so take heed, boy. Both of you boys."
Jake couldn't hustle the two of them out of there fast enough. He didn't start breathing the right way until he was in his car watching Ben slide in the passenger side and pull the door shut.
"Those people were scary." Ben exhaled.
"No kidding." Jake tossed the journal into Ben's lap. Ben raised a curious eyebrow at him. "Hey, you're in charge of the homework. I hit things. Dolls love the bruises and scars."
Ben snorted but was already flipping through the book as they drove away.
December 6th, 1954
One could almost laugh with how cliché the old place was. It looked like any and every 'haunted house' he'd ever heard of or seen right from the cobwebs to the peeling paint and derelict state of the structure. Water damage and termites had done quite a number on the 'old lady' and Jake had asked Ben twice now if it looked like the house was buckling on one side.
Jake wanted this to be over quickly. Get in. Get out. Ghost gone. Go get a beer. Call it a night.
Taking up the shotgun, hearing the house groan and shutter with the wind like a challenge, he couldn't shake the feeling that he wanted to savor this. He was taking on something people had written off as superstition and myth. He knew the truth. He was a defender of innocence. Protector of the unaware. Guardian of the—
"Are you going to stand there all night? I'd like to get this over before Christmas," Ben intoned.
Keeper of the smart-mouthed little brother…
Jake lifted a brow and touched the end of the shot gun to his temple. "Have to make sure I've thought this through. Want us burning rubber in twenty minutes, tops."
"Do you…really need to bring the gun?" Ben asked.
"Salt shells, Ben, not going to hurt anyone accept the spirit. According to Chapman anyway…not sure if I trust the kook yet, but he's the only one who's made any sense about what we've been seeing."
Ben leaned over into the trunk and grabbed a bag; Jake raised a brow when he saw that it was his camera bag.
"So, you want me to leave the gun because you plan on blinding the bad guy with a flash and slugging him with your camera again?"
Ben snorted and picked up his camera. "I've done a little research on my own, Jake. I want to try something before you go in there and start blasting holes in the walls."
Jake waved toward the house emphatically. "It would be an improvement!"
Ben shook his head and grabbed a shovel. "Just let me try this."
Grumbling, Jake grabbed up the bag of lighter fluid and salt, slinging it over his shoulder. "This should be a blast…"
As they approached, Jake's former enthusiasm was digesting sourly in his stomach, creating an anxious, barbed knot. This was their first encounter with what he could only assume was a poltergeist from Chapman's journal and from the witness accounts. What if Chapman had led them astray on how to fight these things? There had been two deaths already in the last week, kids looking for kicks. This thing didn't just throw around tea cups and open cupboards, shaking chains and groaning because it was disgruntled. It killed. It had broken and disfigured two people, and Jake was taking Ben with him?
Jake watched Ben pull out a compass and check for north. Jake furrowed his brow.
"I read up on how to find these things," Ben announced. "Compass points north toward a magnetic field, but if there's another nearby it will point to that right? There's speculation about that with spirits. Why some cultures or practices use dousing rods. Want to make sure I know what way is north before we get in there."
"You're such a nerd," Jake smirked.
Ben rolled his eyes and shifted the strap of his camera bag so he could steady the compass. "Better a nerd if that keeps both of our necks from harm."
Jake stopped before they ascended the front steps, grabbing Ben's arm. He was having second thoughts. He didn't want him to go.
"Jake?"
"I think you should stay outside," Jake sighed. "This thing has killed two people already…"
"Which is why you need me in there with you," Ben challenged. "If this thing tries anything, I can't risk you being alone. Not to mention you just proved I might know a thing or two you don't that will get us out of there alive."
Jake dropped his hand from Ben's arm. "If anything happens to you…"
"It won't," Ben replied. "I've got you here."
There was no fighting it. Jake knew that short of shoving Ben in the trunk, he was coming. Ever since they'd met with Chapman, confirmed their fears there was more out there, more than the demons they'd crossed, Ben had been relentless in his determination to do what he could to keep these supernatural things from hurting others.
Fear had been Jake's constant companion ever since. Fear that they would get caught. Fear that Del and the others wouldn't understand. Fear that they would end up like Chapman…or dead…
"Come on," Ben encouraged, nodding over his shoulder. "I'll buy beers if you find the body first."
Jake ticked up the corner of his mouth, grinning. "And if you find it first?"
"You're buying of course, and you have to let me drive her," he pointed back to the Chevy.
Jake must have paled a few shades because Ben started to laugh. "I'm not going to go for pinks in her, man."
"Fine," Jake caved. "But I'm going to win this bet."
Ben huffed out a laugh which eased the tension surrounding them, alleviating the pressure that had started to press relentlessly into Jake's heart. Once inside, however, he could feel his pulse threading, heart slamming into his throat. No matter how prepared he thought he was when his flashlight cut through the glinting dust particles and cobwebs, when the darkness around them felt like it was tangible and moving, alive and deadly, swimming and gathering them up, he found it hard to breathe.
Adrenaline was his friend. Had been when it came to chasing down the bad guys. He'd stormed after that black-eyed man, demon, whatever, without a second thought, and he needed to grab hold of some of that strength right now. It was because this was new, this was uncharted territory and he wasn't alone. Every step, breath, twitch of Ben's muscles focused his attention, because everything around them was a potential weapon, every shadow possibly the thing they were hunting.
Ben was focused on his compass and he stopped, breath catching, audible to Jake, and he looked down a hallway and shined his flashlight on the door at the end.
"It switched north," Ben whispered. "It's pointing toward that door now…"
"So our ghost is there?" Jake asked.
"Maybe…"
"Maybe?!" Jake ground out, hushed but sharp.
"Why are we whispering?" Ben asked.
Jake blinked. "Because it could…"
Ben grinned. "Hear us? Do ghosts have ears?"
"You think I know!"
They'd followed the direction of the compass, both keeping their breaths baited, steps calculated, muscles coiled and controlled. It took them nearly five minutes just to get to the door, and when Jake insisted he go first, Ben had stubbornly shoved open the door to get in front of him.
It was a kitchen.
Nothing jumped out at them from the shadows. Nothing came at them screaming. The air was still; quiet. Ben looked confused and consulted his compass. He showed it to Jake, the needle was spinning frantically.
"This has to be it…" he breathed.
Jake tightened his grip on the shotgun and looked around at the rotting wood floors and yellowed wallpaper that was curling free from the walls like it was trying to separate itself from the darkness Jake could feel permeating everything in this house.
"So they think she was buried in the walls, right? That's the talk around town?"
"Or the floorboards. When she disappeared, and her husband split town…that was the speculation, which turned into local lore, which led people out here to see for themselves."
Jake's skin was crawling and he took the shovel from Ben. "Then let's find the broad and get this over with."
He slammed the shovel into the walls, which broke away, water weak and brittle. He noticed Benny was down near the ground opening something and dumping it onto the ground. Small metal shavings bounced off one another, rattling around the floor until they came to a halt.
"What are you doing?"
Ben sighed. "My compass can't pinpoint it…was hoping…"
"Iron…you think the body is…magnetized?"
"If the spirit is bound to it, and charged enough to draw my compass…it was just a theory…It's strange. The same metal used to find them is apparently a spirit repellent."
Jake shook his head and started to smash in the walls again, grunting out something about none of this making sense as plaster and wood splintered around the end of the shovel. He stopped when he thought he heard Ben gasp, and was that…
He turned and watched the shavings move, hitting against one another as they slid across the floor. Mouth agape, expression probably matching Ben's, awestruck and wide eyed, he watched them stand on end over one spot, spread out in a halo around a crack in the floor.
"Give me the shovel," Ben commended, hand out to Jake.
"No way…" he breathed, handing the shovel over to his brother.
A few well-placed hits to the already cracked boards and Ben broke through into something below. He cleared away the splintered pieces and found a box, then beamed up at Jake.
"How much you want to bet there's a body in there?"
"Don't go ape over a box, Benny."
Ben stood up and with a confident glint in his eyes raised the shovel again and drove it downward.
SLAM. CRUNCH. SNAP.
The last of the wood came away revealing decay and bones, sloughed off rot and hay dry remains of hair…and a smell that made Jake's eyes water.
Ben was beaming instead of recoiling, leaning on his shovel, expression shouting 'I told you so.'
"Looks like I win this bet," Ben smiled, hand out. "Keys please."
"Nerd."
"Jerk."
Jake grumbled and dug into his pockets. "Heads up," he said tossing the keys to his brother. "You earned it anyway…"
He bent down to grab up the bag of salt and lighter fluid when his flashlight started to flicker.
"Oh, that can't be good…" he muttered. Both his flashlight and Ben's went out, plunging them into the dark. Something ripped the bag from his hand, startling him back ungracefully onto his butt. "Shit…"
"Hold on," Ben's confident voice gave Jake something to latch onto, a way to know where his brother was.
"Something took it right out of my damn hand…"
There was a brief flash of light that illuminated the space around them, giving them a quick snapshot of the surroundings before it was dark again. He could hear Ben moving, popping out the bulb and snapping in another.
"To your left, Jake. The bag and the matches..."
"Good thinking."
Every hair was poised, gooseflesh rising over his arms as he crawled toward the left, going on only the quick photograph he had in his mind and Ben's directions. His hand found the bag and he fumbled with the snaps, rummaging blind for the matches, coming up empty.
"I need light again, Ben."
"On it," Ben said.
Jake heard the flash, the light blinding but necessary as he was able to close his hand around the matchbook before everything was dark again.
"Guess I shouldn't have made fun of the camera idea," he stated, fingers flying though the book and plucking out a match. Hurry…he had to hurry. They needed light.
"That's not why I brought it," Ben said.
Jake struck the match, surprised how much light burst forth. He could see Ben again, but any relief was snuffed out along with the match as he saw her. Her face was covered and hidden behind bloodstained strands of matted blond hair. Her skin was as pale and dingy as the dress she was wearing. One rotting and sinew exposed hand was reaching for his brother, right before a wind slid over the match extinguishing it.
"Ben!"
There was another flash and a scream, a woman's scream, piercing his ears, causing him to cover them in futile defense.
"Jake!" Ben shouted, but it didn't sound scared or hurt, it was angry, determined. It fueled Jake forward. "Burn her. I'll hold her off!"
There was another flash, a scream, and Jake was feeling out the edge of the hole that they had created. He'd just finished throwing salt and lighter fluid into the hole when he heard a crash, Ben's muted cry…
His camera hit the floor and went off, Jake witnessing the spirit dissolve, her cries of pain at the flash not going unnoticed before she disappeared. Ben was on the floor, an end table broken beneath his body.
The flashlights sparked to life again and Jake dove for his, getting to Ben to make sure he was okay.
"See that?" Ben coughed as Jake helped him up. "That was why I brought the camera."
"Are you nuts?" Jake asked.
"Different cultures believe…" Ben groaned as he was brought to his feet. "Pictures steal your soul. Thought it might work…"
"You thought it might work?"
"Good thing I was right, right?" Ben tried, looking for approval.
Jake went for the matches. He was ending this now. While Ben's camera may have scared off the woman's spirit, there was no reason she wouldn't come back. Chapman said to burn the body, and he was going to light this broad's fire, and take down this house along with it.
He heard her scream before he saw her, charging him from within the kitchen, materializing from literal nothing, like she was nothing more than a projection, but she slammed into him like she was made of steel and Jake's body was flung back into the wall, multiple somethings snapping, crushing the air from his lungs.
The spirit was on him, tearing at him with her nails and screaming; he fought back, trying to hold her away from him, one hand at her throat the other searching around for something near him to use as a weapon.
Ben had tried to get to him, camera back in his hands, but the kitchen table slammed into him, pinning him against a wall.
Something had been knocked over by the table as it was thrown into his brother and it rolled into Jake's hand; the salt canister.
He flung what he could into the woman's face, and she disappeared, shrieking. Ben shoved the table away from himself and stumbled down beside Jake hands going to his torn shirt and the deep cuts lining his chest.
"Jake?"
"I usually like it rough, but there's no way I'm taking that doll on a second date," he groaned. Jake rolled forward, sucking in a breath when something pulled in a way it definitely wasn't supposed to. He paused, wet warmth sliding from the cuts on his back and chest. He grunted and shoved to his feet, refusing Ben's help. "Burn her, I'll cover."
He picked up the shotgun, keeping his brother in his periphery. It was his turn to say 'I told you so.'
Ben lit the entire matchbook and dropped it onto the body, and Jake wheezed out a sigh of relief. She was burning. It was over. Right?
If only.
She attacked again like a wild animal, spitting and hissing as she rounded on Jake from behind. He was ready this time, pivoting and firing right into her feral and bloodthirsty eyes. She was gone for only a moment before coming back, low, and slammed into Jake's midsection sending him back to the ground.
His vision danced, sparks pricking at the edges, pain sliding up and down his spine from the first impact. Ben was there swinging a fire poker which threw her away from Jake. But she was relentless, desperate.
"Shoot low…they're riding Shetlands," Jake groaned as he kicked the shotgun to Ben, coughing, tasting blood.
Smoke was quickly saturating the room, the flames shriveling the air in his lungs. Her body was burning but not fast enough. The heat was starting to get unbearable and the fire was catching, spreading along the walls, eating at the furniture.
For a moment Jake wasn't there, pain and heat disorienting, swallowing him back into memories of their old home, of Ben screaming for him…
He rolled onto his side, eyes widening as Ben took a shot, backed into a corner. He couldn't load the gun fast enough and she was scurrying, insect like, limbs bending and cracking in impossible angles, across the wall, over the fire that had separated them, lunging for his brother...
"Ben!"
Crap…crap! Ben! Ben-nnny!
SAM! Where was Sam? The poltergeist it was—and Ben…Sam…"Sammy!"
Dean went from horizontal to jackknifed vertical so fast the room swam and spun around him in nauseating waves. 'Cause, yeah, they needed more vomit in their lives right now. Moisture trickled along the line of Dean's sideburns and oozed in annoying, itchy paths over the knobs of his spine.
"Dhn-Dean?" Sam's voice sounded completely panicked but it was a wet, cracking whisper with no power behind the cry. The solid thunk hitting the floor sounding like it came from something about Sam's weight and from the direction of Sam's bed jerked Dean completely to the present.
Sweat slithered from under Dean's arms to course down his sides. He struggled to get out of the bed and to Sam; while at the same time was trying to bring his breathing under control. He was only partially successful.
Sam had landed between the beds on all fours, gasping and wheezing. Coughs wracked his body, making his back and chest shudder with every move. It hurt Dean just to watch.
Falling off the bed and landing on his knees beside Sam more than getting off his bed and kneeling next to his brother, Dean laid one hand between Sam's shoulder blades. His leg and shoulder ached. Dean felt as if he'd gone nine rounds with a Wendigo, but in reality it was his own body's reaction to his injuries. He was determined to heal whether he wanted to do anything about the infection or not.
Sam shifting under his hand, balancing on one hand while wiping the back of his other over his mouth pulled Dean's attention back to his brother. He was a rather unattractive shade of gray. His bangs hung in stringy, lackluster slashes over his eyes. He looked up at Dean with eyes too glassy and bright, his face had no color and he was trembling.
"You're not going to barf on me again, are you?" Dean tried to smile and failed. Leaning back on his heels, he took the hand Sam was smearing over his face in his own hand and started to pull them both to their feet.
"'M 'orry. Didn't know. Don't leave, please."
"I know you didn't know you were going to hurl on me." Dean pulled with a bit more insistence. "C'mon kiddo, up."
Sam shook his head, jerked away and landed on his butt against his bed. "Don't go 'way." Sam's voice cracked with wet coughs.
Dean sighed, he was tired and sore, and he wanted Sam back in bed where he was safe and couldn't trip on something and slam face first into the nasty carpeting on the floor and get rug burns on his nose and no doubt an infection from that too. "'Course not, Sammy. Now come on." Grasping both of Sam's arms firmly Dean couldn't help sucking in a harsh breath.
Sam's skin was hot and dry.
Hauling Sam up far enough to shove him backward and get his ass on the bed, Dean gave in to the urge to comb one hand down the back of Sam's head. He sighed again and smiled a bit. Last time he'd done this, Sam had strep throat and measles, missed nearly a month of school (and life) and pissed their dad off so badly Dean thought he'd leave Sam at the nearest APL since the town they'd holed up in had no orphanage. 'Cause Sam just couldn't get sick like a normal person he had to get deep down, have every symptom he can manage at one time SICK. He'd been fourteen then. He looked about four now.
Sam reached out and, using two fingers, moved Dean's shirt up, exposing his chest. Dean watched, fascinated, as Sam's eyes traced the exact path of the scars only Dean could see. Normally only Dean could see.
Eyes skittering over his face Sam breathed out, "Those are my fault."
"No, they're not." Dean took one of the blankets and wrapped it around Sam's shoulders. Easing him back, Dean pulled the rest of the bed covers over his brother and up to his shoulders.
"Sit tight, kiddo, I'll be right back."
He wasn't a half turn away when Sam's hand shot out and grabbed at Dean's shirt. "I di'n mean to. Don' go. S'rry."
"I'm just going to the bathroom. Stay there." Dean backed away, holding one hand out and pointing at Sam, keeping an eye on him. All this fussing over some vomit. It was nasty, but still not really disowning your brother nasty. "Not going anywhere, Sammy." Dean said as he grabbed some ibuprofen from the bottle and water from their small refrigerator.
That seemed to ease Sam's restlessness.
Back a minute later, Dean pressed the ibuprofen into Sam's hand and pushed that hand to his mouth. Water followed the pills. "Take those, you'll feel better tomorrow. Or maybe the day after."
Sam obediently took the pills and drank. Dean pulled his shirt away from his neck and peered down. No red rash, no red bumps, maybe it was just the bubonic plague and not strep and the measles striking again. Sam was too big to dump at an orphanage or the APL. Sam took germ warfare to new and exciting levels.
Ye'ha.
Sam sat there blinking at him, not even moving the bangs falling in his eyes away. Dean completely deflated. He hated—hated—his brother hurt or sick, even if it was just a dumb cold or the flu. Seeing Sam with a splinter made his heart shiver and want to crack. Perching on the edge of Sam's bed, Dean moved the offending bangs away for him and coaxed him to lay down more.
"I want you to get more sleep."
Sam nodded, and Dean already missed his constant questions, theories, and general chatter.
Switching on the TV, Dean found a channel with something brainless on and turned the sound down. Sam rolled to his side, burrowed farther under the blankets and focused, more or less, on the TV. A minute later he was still awake and blinking but his eyes hazed over.
Dean chuckled and settled back on his bed with the journal. "Lights on but no one home." He turned and watched Sam for a minute. "Hey, Sammy, next week I want you to film me with the next set of twins I can score. Dude, we can make a mint off of that!"
Sam's finger wormed out from under the covers, waved at Dean for a second and hooked the blanket, pulling it over his head.
Dean cracked a grin, "That's my boy." He settled on his bed, journal in his lap, unopened.
Everything from the journal was so real. Colors, smells, textures, he didn't just read them or picture them in his head; he lived them. They both did. They weren't observers; they were experiencing the lives of the Colt brothers first hand. It was beyond haunting, beyond weird. Dean didn't even have a word for what it was.
Turning his head to the side, Dean sat the journal on the table between them and watched Sam's breathing for a bit. It brought him peace and comfort, just knowing his brother was safe and resting. Some of his earliest memories were watching Sam sleep and a warm flush spread over his chest. He understood much more about Jake Colt than his awesome taste in cars. Much, much more.
The Colts had to have gotten through their encounter with the ghost, there were many more entries, and a quick flip through assured Dean Jake wasn't writing about Ben in the past tense. They'd survived that one together and from the thickness of the book years' worth afterwards. Yawning, Dean slid down so he was flat on his back. The past was done and gone and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't worry about the Colts, he had enough to do worrying about Sam.
A/N: Thanks again to all of our readers and reviewers for your support and to our lovely betas. Kudos to those of you who caught on that Mary Shards' murder was based on a real case. We're really thrilled that you guys are enjoying this and we hope that when we get to the end of this journey for the boys you'll be pleased with how all the pieces come together. Take care!--Bayre and SJ