A/N: Chapter title taken from the Supernatural episode of the same name. It fit on more than one level.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.
Chapter 29 – family remains
The pain didn't taste as good this time.
Samuel was fearful. That part tasted good, nice and sharp, jagged. Lim could taste the family connection. The pain was from the father this time, confused and rageful, mixed with some one else's anger.
It was filling, but it wasn't what Lim wanted. Layered underneath the concern for his sons, the father was obsessed with hunting and killing down Old Yellow Eye.
Lim had to laugh about that.
Ah, Samuel. Lim stirred lazily in the darkness of his charnel pit. This doesn't pay your debt to me. Not even a little. You will have to do better than this. I want more of Dean's pain.
Bobby took the knife and carefully cut into the duct tape wound around John's injured right leg. John's flesh should have been red, raw, with deep gashes where the teeth of the bear trap bit into into his flesh. Instead John's flesh was unbroken, with the same purplish-black bruises. Sam hissed through his teeth as he assumed the damage John had taken. Bobby sat back on his knees and watched as blood spotted Sam's jeans in the same pattern.
Sam didn't move when Bobby reached out and lifted up his pant leg just in time to see his skin heal. The boy trembled all over, and it wasn't just from the pain. Sam was slightly wide-eyed, as though he really thought Bobby was going to pull out a gun from somewhere and shoot him in the head.
John groaned. His head lolled from side to side. "What…what the hell just happened?"
Bobby grunted. "Bender. The daddy, I think. He jumped into you, tried to make you hurt Dean. Sam stopped him." The look Bobby shot Sam was sharp, pointed. And we're gonna talk about that, boy.
John struggled up, wobbling, and the fearful, bewildered look he had was something Bobby never thought he'd see on John Winchester's face. "Dean? Is he---" John stared past Bobby at Dean on the couch. Dean lay quietly on his back, but from that angle John couldn't see his face.
"He's fine." Bobby put the palm of his hand on John's chest, pushed him back against Sam. "Got cut up a little, on his face. Just a scratch."
John deflated. Bobby shook his head ruefully. "Sam and I are gonna salt and burn Bender's ass. You need to stay here with Dean."
"Help me up," John grated out roughly. A few moments later, with Bobby and Sam's help, John sat down heavily in the chair next to the couch. John stared at Dean, his face set in that curiously blank look that Bobby knew all too well. He was inwardly beating himself up for the damage he'd done Dean, however slight.
Dean didn't stir.
"Sam?" Bobby jerked his thumb towards the hallway. "Let's go. Basement."
John slumped forward in his chair. He looked beat, worn down. He stared at the gash and the bruises on Dean's face and appeared not to notice Sam limp as he followed Bobby out.
Jane was quiet as usual. She didn't say much, hadn't ever since Abraham killed her all those years ago. Jeremiah Bender knew that was okay. She hadn't said much when she was alive, either. He and Jane usually floated around the ceiling of the room Abraham put them in six months ago. They barely paid their bodies any attention anymore.
The human hunters stumbled around in the basement, and Jeremiah knew they'd never find what they were looking for, what they needed.
It was time to show himself. Time to move on and get out of that room.
And it was past time to let Abraham in on the joke.
Jeremiah floated towards the door.
The basement was just as cluttered as the rest of the house. Wooden barrels pushed into the corners of the rooms, cardboard boxes everywhere, filled with items such as discarded luggage, blood stained clothes that had obviously been taken from the victims. The Benders had been pack rats. They kept just about everything they could from everyone they murdered.
Sam's whole body twitched. "Bobby, I can explain---"
"Oh, you will, all right. You're going to tell your Daddy everything you've been up to for the last four years, Sam."
Sam's expression soured.
"And I mean everything. Who you made a deal with, what you made the deal for.…"
"I did it for Dean," Sam said flatly.
"You sure about that? Are you? Are you that sure of yourself, that something or someone didn't take advantage of that, and use you for whatever they wanted?"
"My business, Bobby. My life." Sam's bitchface came out. He tilted his jaw up and out defiantly, and God help him, Bobby wanted to shake the shit out of him, shake some sense into him, but it was four years too late for that.
The next thing Bobby knew he fisted Sam's shirt with both hands and slammed him into the wall, hard enough to make the shelves rattle. Sam looked momentarily startled, and then his eyes shone with that hard glint that Bobby was well familiar with. Sam was definitely John Winchester's son, all right.
Bobby tightened his grip to emphasize his point. "It stopped being your business the moment you laid your hands on Dean," the older man hissed. "It stopped being your business the second you healed John."
He kept his voice low. There would be more than enough shouting later on. "My God, Sam, do you even realize what you're playing around with here? Your eyes went yellow."
Sam stopped short.
"They did. When you healed John."
"I thought…I…"
"Thought what?"
"I saw flashes of yellow when I killed Missy." The stunned look on Sam's face was genuine. "I …I didn't know…"
"Whatever this is gets stronger each time you use it. They want you to use it. What did you do to Bender?"
Sam shrugged. "I pulled him out of Dad. Weakened him. Made him go away."
"Did you know you could do that?"
"No. I never…I never did that before. I just thought about it…"
"And it happened." Bobby snorted in frustration. "Making deals with demons never turns out well, Sam, even when it's done with the best intentions." He released his grip and stepped back. "Come on. We're wasting time."
Over in the corner there was a wooden barrel filled with what looked like long-handled rakes and hoes. Bobby rummaged through the contents and pulled out two shovels. "Okay now."
"What if we don't find any salt?"
"Fire purifies. We'll just have to make do." Bobby turned around and handed one of the shovels off to Sam. He caught sight of the man in the doorway behind Sam and froze.
The man was tall, with shaggy black hair. The fact that Bobby could see straight through him left no doubt as to what he was.
Sam turned slowly and froze in place.
I see dead people, Bobby thought to himself. It stops being funny when it starts being you.
The man stared at Bobby and then Sam. The smile on his face was sly and secretive, as though he knew something they didn't. He turned and glided down the hallway, paused in front of the second door on the left just long enough for them to see where he was going.
He floated into the door and vanished.
Sam reached out in the dark, found the chain for the overhead light and pulled it. He and Bobby stood there in shock for a moment.
"Bobby," Sam said slowly. "Just what the hell happened?"
"Beats me, kid. One of their victims, maybe. There's something in here he wants us to see."
The mummified corpses of a man and a woman sat tied to chairs in the middle of the room. The room was smaller than the others and the walls were lined with stacks of boxes. It didn't take long to go through the boxes. Tucked away in the corner behind the door was three large bags of rock salt.
"All right," Bobby crowed. "We're in business."
Sam found six road flares in a burlap sack in the far corner. He pulled one out and let Bobby get a good look. "Well?"
"First thing we do is lay down a ring of salt around John and Dean." Bobby nodded. "We load the bodies and all into the truck, drive it into the woods. We dig a trench, throw 'em all in, salt them down, siphon the gas out of the tank, and light 'em up. And then you and me are gonna continue that riveting discussion we were having."
Sam nearly groaned out loud. Bobby crooked an eyebrow at him. "Well? Let's get moving." He nodded at the corpses. "Might as well burn these while we're at it."
As he turned to follow Bobby out Sam wondered why the male corpse was grinning like that.
Seemed to be an inside joke.
John sat with his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He sat still as a statue as Bobby and Sam poured out the salt ring around the perimeter of the room, the doorways and the windowsills. Dean was still asleep.
"Try not to smudge this, you idjit," Bobby muttered softly.
John ignored him. He raised his head, stared directly at Sam.
"Sam," John rumbled. He quirked an eyebrow at his youngest son when the boy looked at him. "When you get back, we need to talk."
All the spit in Sam's mouth dried up. Sam nodded stiffly. "Y-Yessir."
So the old man wasn't as out of it as he made out to be. John knew.
The truck made this godawful growling sound as Bobby and Sam pulled away from the house. John had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched, and he tensed up. He looked around the room. The salt lines were unbroken.
He glanced down at Dean. The kid lay there quietly, staring up at his father. John felt a cold chill climb up his spine as he looked at the knife cut that slashed downwards across Dean's eye. All it would have taken would have been a little more downward pressure…
I did that. The gash, the bruises.
Mary, please forgive me…
There was something off about this. Dean looked alert, but he was a little too relaxed, considering that less than twenty minutes before John had come at him with a knife.
John smiled a little. His face felt funny, like it was coated with dried clay and if he smiled too broadly it would crack into a million pieces.
"Hey, Dean."
"Hey, Dad." The words came out in a hoarse croak. "My face hurts."
"I know." John nodded. "It's been a wild night."
"It's…it's okay Dad," the boy whispered. "It is."
John's heart sank. So Dean remembered John hitting him when Gabriel had the knife. "No, Dean. It's not okay."
Dean coughed, a rough, grating sound.
"You need anything, dude?" John leaned forward.
Dean blinked hazily. "Water. 'm kinda dry."
"Sure. Sure." John got up and carefully stepped over the salt ring. He went into the kitchen, rambled through the cabinets until he found a tall glass that looked clean at least, and then he filled it with tap water. While he was in there John remembered Dean's wrists and ankles were duct taped together, so he brought the glass and one of the sharp knives back with him.
"Okay. Hold on." John set the glass on the floor, then helped Dean sit up. If the kid was going to freak out, now would be the time and John was not going to blame him when he did.
Dean looked at the knife in John's hand and didn't react. He just sat there calmly as John used the knife to saw through the duct tape and peel it away from his skin and his pant legs. John sat down beside him and reached down for the glass.
He doesn't remember seeing me with the knife before this. My God. He doesn't …
Dean gripped the glass with both hands.
"Easy now. Drink it slow."
Dean nodded and took a sip.
"What's the last thing you remember?"
Dean swallowed. "Sam and me. In the woods." He raised the glass again, drank slowly.
John waited. "Nothing after that?"
Dean shook his head. That puzzled look on his face was the real deal; he didn't have a clue what John was talking about. His fingers shook when he lowered the empty glass. John took it and set it down on the floor on his far side.
"I remember yelling." Dean grimaced as he hunched his shoulders up, pulled the brown blanket closer around his shoulders.
"Uh huh."
"Was…was that me?"
"Yeah. No sweat, kiddo. After all you've been through I think you earned the right to bitch."
Dean drew back suddenly. John didn't miss the way his eyes widened and he shifted his weight to his right. "Damn," Dean hissed. His face twisted up.
"What's the matter?"
"My left leg gets like this sometimes. Geez," Dean gasped. He leaned forward, hooked the fingers of his right hand into the arm of the couch. Dean tried to lift himself up but only succeeded in falling back against the seat. Eyes wide and suddenly glazed over with pain, he turned towards John with a stricken look on his face.
"I gotta…gotta walk this off. Pa hit me with the truck that night," Dean mumbled. He wasn't aware he'd said Pa instead of Abraham. John let it pass.
"Come on, bud," John slid over, hooked Dean's left arm over his shoulder, and stood up, taking Dean with him. Dean exhaled, one long, jerky stutter of breath. He closed his eyes as he leaned into John, and his lips tightened into a hard, thin line as he forced himself to straighten his left leg out. The first step he took with John's help could only be described as a stumble hop. The second one wasn't much better.
"Oh crap, that friggin' hurts," Dean muttered. Third step, and he put his full weight down. Dean nearly went bug-eyed with pain. That throbbing ache reached deep inside his muscles. "Geez…uh, Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Talk to me."
"What?" John tightened his grip around Dean's waist and his wrist. Since John was doing the driving, he carefully maneuvered around the couch. He didn't dare break the salt lines. They were in the clear, but John still wanted to make sure.
"T-Talk to me," Dean gasped. "I…I mean…" Another step, and Dean nearly doubled over from the red hot agony that shot from his leg to his spine. "Damn…if you shot me now… you'd be doin' me a favor…"
John chuckled darkly. "Not an option, princess."
"Didn't think… I'd be…that lucky." Dean bared his teeth, breathed in and out in short, quick bursts. "So…talk to me."
"What about?"
"Something. Anything. I just…shit. Oh, shit!"
John frowned, then the skin around his eyes crinkled a little. "Okay. When you were a baby, and you were just learning to crawl…"
Another jolt of pain made Dean jerk upright, but he didn't react like that just because of that. Damn. Wasn't expecting something like this at all. He'd expected a marine lecture. Something about a hunt John had gone on. Anything but this…
"Your Mom and I would find you in all kinds of places. In the hall closet a lot of times. Never could figure out how in the hell you managed to open the door by yourself, but you did."
They made the first complete circuit around the couch. John walked. Dean stumbled along, hissing and panting. "Once you discovered the back door to the yard we installed extra locks. Put an extra one on the front door too. Did any of that work?" John shook his head. "Hell no. We couldn't keep you off the damn stairs. Baby gates? Huh. That was a waste of money. Mary was worried about you falling, so I went out and got two of 'em."
Another step, a few more after that. Two times around. The muscles in Dean's leg still sang out loud and clear, but the pain lessened, just a bit. Every other step wasn't that bad.
"Put one at the top of the stairs, and one at the bottom. You sat at the top of the stairs and watched me install the second gate. The next thing I knew that top gate was open and you were headed downstairs." John grunted in amusement. The skin around John's eyes crinkled as he looked at Dean and smiled. "I gave up at that point. I knew when I was beat."
Dean looked away quickly, had to bite his lips against the words that he wanted to say just then: Thank you for not giving up on me this time. How lame was that? He wanted to say the words, but instead he tightened his grip around John, a simple, lingering squeeze that said it all: Thanks, Dad.
John returned the gesture: No problem, kiddo.
This wasn't a chick flick moment. Oh, hell no. They'd always been able to talk to each other like that, without words. No need to get emo about it.
A few more turns around the couch. They walked, and John talked. His left leg still hurt, but Dean didn't mind at all.
Abraham clung to his body as the freak and the older man put him into the pit. He didn't dare reach out and do anything. That shaggy haired freak had already hurt him once. It was over.
Abraham was done.
Jane was here, and so was Jeremiah. Both parts of Missy were too, and Jerry's body was the last to go in.
Jeremiah grinned, and he kept right on grinning, even as the flames surged up around them.
The air filled with flaming embers and bits of hot ash. Abraham opened his mouth to scream and inhaled salt and flame instead.
Me an' Janey weren't gonna leave without ya. See you in Hell, brother.
Abraham finally got the joke.
Next post: Wednesday
