Cry No More
by Nicholas Nada
(Note: this story takes place during season ten and will contain plot points from previous stories leading up to there, so consider this a SPOILER WARNING to bail out now if you've not yet watched that far.)
THEN:
Throughout their lives, Sam and Dean Winchester have literally and figuratively been through hell and their situation now shows no sign of improving. Sure, there have been victories - important, world-saving triumphs - but these have always come at a terrible personal cost. Most recently, the defeat of the Demon Knight of Hell, Abaddon, required Dean to take on the Mark of Cain, a brand which threatens to overwhelm his very humanity. They have lost friends and loved ones along the way, yet still, they carry on - saving people, hunting things…
NOW:
Dean Winchester switched off the windscreen wipers, glad that the rain had finally stopped and he could see where he was driving. Ahead of him, the skies were just beginning to lighten, the early morning sun still tucked behind the Colorado hills.
"So," he said, the first words that had passed his lips in several hours, "tell me about this case."
Dean's brother Sam stirred in the passenger seat beside him. "Now? You've said nothing to me for miles, and you want to hear about the case now? Why couldn't you have asked me about it back at HQ?"
Dean scoffed. "HQ? Is that what we're calling the bunker now? We have a headquarters?"
"Well, yeah," replied Sam. "It's the place we work out of. I mean, what would you call it?"
"I don't know. The Fratcave?"
Sam thought about that for around a tenth of a second. "Uh, no."
Dean shrugged. "Come on, man, we're nearly there. Fill me in."
"There's not much to tell," said Sam. "Local news said the body of a woman was found in her home, lying in a pool of blood."
"Doesn't mean it's a job for us," said Dean. "Sad to say, but this world's full of bodies lying in pools of blood."
"Yeah, but the story went on to say that although the blood was still fresh, the body was a dried-out husk."
"Drained of blood?"
"More like mummified," said Sam.
"Okay, now that's more like it." Dean took a hand from the steering wheel to scratch his right arm, where his shirt sleeve covered the Mark of Cain.
"Are we ever gonna talk about that?" asked Sam.
"Nothing to talk about, Sammy," replied Dean. "I kicked the demon habit, I've been getting a good night's sleep for once - I tell ya, I'm feeling better now than I have in a long time."
"Yeah, but - " started Sam.
"But nothing," interrupted Dean. "Listen, I got this."
Up ahead, Dean was relieved to see the tall, illuminated sign of the Lockeford motel. "All right, here we are."
They pulled into the motel's parking lot and got out. Dean stretched his back, muscles weary from long hours of driving, when he spotted something and walked back over to the road.
"Hey, Sam, check it out," he shouted. On the other side of the street stood the bright, welcoming sight of a 24-hour diner. "We got pie, anytime we want it, right across from where we're sleeping! Man, I could get used to - " A truck thundered past, horn blaring, mere inches from Dean's face, drenching him in a fine spray of whipped-up rainwater.
Dean ran a hand down his face. "Never mind."
"Come on. Let's get checked in and get some rest," said Sam, "and, uh, dried off. We can take a look at the scene in a few hours."
The next day, respectably attired in suits and ties, Sam and Dean stepped up to the crime scene tape with a confidence born from years of faking it and brandished their phoney FBI badges at the sheriff, who was a thin-faced young man sporting a moustache which made him look much older. Dean suspected that may have been the reason for growing it.
"Special Agent Steinhardt," Dean introduced himself. "This is my partner, Special Agent Livgren."
"Sheriff Moss," replied the sheriff, eyeing them both warily. "Feds, huh? What's your interest in this? You some sort of X-Files department or something?"
He shot a look at Sam as he weighed up whether it was a good idea to go along with that. "Uh, no," he said, chuckling as if the very idea was absurd. "We had a similar case up in Maine and our boss wants us to see if this one's related."
"That so?" The sheriff ran a finger across his bushy moustache as he sized them up.
"What can you tell us about the victim?" asked Sam.
"Well, we believe the body is the owner of the property, Mrs Gwendolyn Jackson. Elderly, lived here alone, didn't go out much except to attend church, but she was well-liked, with no enemies or anybody who'd want to hurt her. It just doesn't make sense, what happened to her."
Sam nodded. "So, can we…?" he said gesturing to the door.
The sheriff shrugged and lifted the tape. "Body's at the morgue, of course, but the scene's been processed, so you boys go knock yourselves out."
Dean headed in and Sam nodded to the sheriff as he passed. As they entered the neatly kept little apartment, the first things they noticed were the framed photographs of what they assumed were the victim's family, smiling from almost every wall. The second thing was the coppery smell of blood.
In the living room, they found the spot where the body had been. Dean gave a low whistle as he saw the mess left behind.
Lying in a pool of blood which had spread to cover nearly the whole floor were numerous photo albums and journals, arrayed in a semi-circle, their pages crumpled and streaked with red. The police had placed squat plastic stools like stepping stones around the room to allow investigators access to the scene without contaminating evidence and Sam stepped onto one and crouched near the centre of the sticky, drying puddle.
"I don't think this is just blood," Sam said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "There seem to be… other fluids mixed in with it."
Dean kept his distance, taking reading with his homemade EMF reader at various points in the room. "That's terrific," he said flatly, wishing he hadn't opted for extra maple syrup at breakfast.
Sam spotted a scrunched-up ball of bloody newspaper resting against one of the photo albums and picked it up carefully. He tried as best he could to straighten it out, while at the same time touching it as little as possible, and it turned out to be a clipping of a story detailing a car crash which took the lives of a young family. Sam peered at the grainy photograph next to the story, then at the photos in the albums.
"I think the victim lost her family," he said to Dean. "Kids and grandkids, it looks like."
"EMF's coming up with squat, so what are we thinking here?" asked Dean, more interested in the recently deceased person in the room. "Witchcraft?"
Sam straightened up. "Could be," he said. "Let's take a look around, check for hex bags."
They had a quick scout around the usual places - under sofa cushions, behind bookshelves - but came up with nothing.
"Can't do much more without the sheriff wondering why we're tossing the place," said Dean. "Morgue?"
Sam nodded, wondering at how that sort of question had become so commonplace for them that it could be asked as easily as most other people might invite you out for pizza.
Like in a lot of small towns, Lockeford's morgue was part of the local hospital. Sam and Dean made their way through its corridors and down into the basement level where they were met by the coroner, a white-haired older man with bright, enthusiastic eyes.
"Ah, excellent!" he said when he saw them. "The sheriff told me you boys would be on your way here." He rubbed his hands together. "You'll be wanting to see our mummy then."
Sam and Dean exchanged a look as he led them down a corridor at a brisk pace until they came to a wall of metal doors. He opened one, pulling out a long tray. On it lay the gnarled and desiccated remains of the victim, her body twisted, skin like dried tobacco leaves.
"Forty years I've been doing this job," he said, gazing down at the body. "I've never seen anything like this. Total exsanguination! It looks like something from a museum. I may even write a book on it."
"What have you managed to find out so far?" asked Sam.
"It's hard to make any formal identification with the body in this condition," he said, "but we're working on the assumption that this is Mrs Jackson until the DNA results are returned. I mean, the only other explanation would be that someone was killed in that room, the body removed, and then this," he gestured to the leathery corpse, "put in its place." He chuckled a little at that thought.
Sam leaned in to study the remains. There were no sigils or anything else occult that he could see. "Any marks on the body, or puncture wounds?"
"Again, hard to say given the condition," the coroner replied, "but I did notice this." He pointed with the end of a pen at the sunken, empty eye sockets. "See there? The lower eyelids are both ruptured, straight across."
"You think that's how the blood was removed?" asked Dean.
The coroner gave Dean a look, as though working out if he was joking or merely dense. "There is no known method - medical or otherwise - of extracting every ounce of the body's fluids via the eyelids. There are far more efficient areas for that sort of thing." He drew the end of his pen across his jugular to underline his point.
Dean held up his hands. "Hey, you're the expert, doc."
"Okay, thank you for your time," said Sam, leading Dean away.
"Let me know if you find out what did this," the coroner called after them. "I'll see you get credited in my book!"
After a few stops for essential supplies - beers, pie from the diner - Sam and Dean returned to their motel room to discuss their findings so far.
"Well, we've got a room full of blood and" - Dean grimaced - "other stuff, and a body without any of the above."
"Whatever did it, it's clearly not a blood-drinker," said Sam. "I mean, not unless it's a seriously messy eater."
"I know, right?" said Dean, deliberately talking around a huge mouthful of pie, crumbs dropping from his mouth and onto his shirt.
Sam smiled and shook his head. "No evidence of witchcraft or anything like that," he went on. "I'll be honest, I'm coming up with nothing."
Dean sighed. "Let's check in with the sheriff in the morning, see if the cops have any leads," he said.
After a couple of hours of drinking, talking, and watching terrible shows on the motel room's tiny old television, Sam and Dean retired to their beds and switched out the lights.
As they lay there in the dark and quiet, they could make out the quiet sound of a man crying in the room next door.
"Someone's having a worse day than us," observed Sam, quietly.
"Motels, man," replied Dean, rolling over onto his side. "Happiest place on Earth, they ain't."
They settled in for sleep, but the weeping continued, and after fifteen minutes of trying to ignore it, Dean reached an arm up out of the bed and and thumped his fist on the wall a few times.
"Dean!" exclaimed Sam, growing more concerned at his brother's recent lack of compassion.
"What? Try'na get some damn sleep," muttered Dean angrily, pulling his pillow over his head.
Eventually, sleep did find them, but the anguished sounds from the other room continued into the night.
Sam woke first. The noise through the wall had become a sobbing wail which was impossible to ignore. He checked the time on his phone.
"Dean, wake up."
Dean groaned. "What? Feels like I just got to sleep."
"It's four-thirty," said Sam.
"Then let me sleep!"
"That guy next door is still crying," said Sam. "This isn't right."
Dean sat up, reluctantly, and rubbed his face with his hands. "All right, all right. We'll go check it out."
He got up and pulled on his clothes, tucking his gun into the back of his jeans waistband.
"Really, Dean?" said Sam.
"Hey, when the world goes weird, I go armed, okay?"
They left their room and Dean hammered on their neighbour's door as Sam shouted: "Everything okay in there?"
The only response was more wailing. Dean looked at Sam, who nodded, and Dean took a step back and put the door in with one well-placed boot.
Inside, they found a man curled on his bed, fully dressed, the sheets under him sodden with a spreading stain of blood.
Sam rushed over to him. "Sir, can you hear me?" he asked, turning the man over.
His skin looked thin, pulled taut across the bones of his face, and tracks of bloody tears coursed down his cheeks. He was clutching a small silver cross in his hands as his body shook with laboured sobs.
"I'm sorry," he croaked, almost inaudibly, between strangled cries. "I'm sorry…"
Dean looked around the room for anything that might be causing the man's distress when he saw, pressed to the dimpled glass of the bathroom window, the pale shape of a face on the other side.
Without pausing for thought, Dean pulled his gun and fired two shots, the first hitting the window frame and the second shattering the glass. The man on the bed took in a shuddering breath as though released from a vice and then lay still.
"Dean, what the hell?" yelled Sam.
"There's something out there, Sam!" shouted Dean, rushing into the bathroom. He leaned out of the broken window and took a look around. The area behind the motel was waste ground with a few sickly-looking trees and a lot of litter but it was otherwise deserted. An icy breeze blew in through the window, momentarily making Dean's bones ache. He shivered and turned back into the room.
"Anything?" asked Sam.
Dean shook his head. "How's the vic?"
"Too late."
Dean groaned. "I guess we better call this in," he said.
Before long, uniformed officers arrived and taped off the motel room, the scene dancing with the various flashing lights of cop cars and an ambulance. Sam stepped out of the room for some air, to see Sheriff Moss getting out of his car.
"Agent Livgren," the sheriff greeted him. "How'd you get here so quickly?"
"We were the ones who found him," said Sam. "We're in the next room."
"That so?" replied the sheriff. He paused. "You boys sharing a room?"
Sam shrugged helplessly since he couldn't tell the sheriff that he and Dean were brothers. "Budget cuts," he said.
The sheriff winked at Sam. "I ain't judging," he said. With that, he ducked under the tape and went into the room, where Dean was already waiting, having thoroughly and fruitlessly searched the place for hex bags or anything else occult, and Sam followed the sheriff in.
Moss took one look at the body and the blood-soaked bed and let out a breath.
"Safe to say this looks related to the Jackson case," said the Sheriff, peering at the leathery skin of the corpse.
"Yeah, in method, maybe," said Dean. "But I can't see any motive in common. I spoke to the guy on the front desk and he said this victim was from out of town, didn't seem to know anyone here."
"Pilgrim," said the sheriff.
"Excuse me?"
"We've been getting a lot of 'em coming through recently," said the sheriff, "what with the weeping statue down at St Joseph's. Tears of blood, apparently. A lot of hooey if you ask me, but folks are saying it's some sort of miracle."
"Weeping statue?" said Dean.
"You said Mrs Jackson was a churchgoer," said Sam. "Did she go to St Joseph's too?"
"She did, yeah." Sheriff Moss stared at them both. "Oh, come on, now, fellas," he said. "Yeah, this is all weird as hell, but you can't think this has anything to do with a damn statue!"
The brothers exchanged glances, then shook their heads and laughed that off. "Yeah," said Dean. "Of course not."
The sheriff chuckled. "All right then," he said. "Now let's get a look at this place."
Noticing the draft from the bathroom, he walked over to check out the broken window, ran his finger down the splintered window frame, and then looked over his shoulder at the body on the bed. "Shots fired?" he asked, turning back with a puzzled frown.
Dean gave an awkward laugh. "I thought I saw someone breaking in," he said, "but, uh, I didn't."
"Uh-huh," replied the sheriff, slowly. "Well, that's your paperwork, not mine."
"Tell you what," said Sam. "Why don't we get out of your hair and we'll check in with you later on to compare notes?"
Sheriff Moss stared at him pointedly. "You're going to check out that church, aren't you?"
Sam shrugged and the sheriff shook his head. "All right then," he said. "You boys go chasing after miracles; leave the real police work to us."
"Right," said Sam. "Uh, thanks."
The sheriff watched them leave. "Feds," he muttered to himself.
St Joseph's church was an unassuming, single-spire, red brick building in the heart of Lockeford, sandwiched between an old hardware store and a coffee shop named Holy Joe's. Despite it being early on a Tuesday morning, there was already a queue of people waiting to get into the church. Sam and Dean pushed past them, flashing their FBI badges at the few who complained.
"Is there a problem, Agents?" asked the priest, who was greeting people at the door.
"That's what we're here to find out," said Dean.
Sam elbowed him out of the way and held out a hand to the priest. "Good morning, Father," he said. "My name's Agent Livgren and this is Agent Steinhardt. Is there somewhere we can talk more privately?"
The priest shook Sam's hand. "I'm Father Pettigrew," he said. "Please, come this way. We can talk in my office."
He led them through the church, past pews which were packed with people. Some near the front were taking pictures, the flash on their phones briefly illuminating the altar and the tall marble statue which stood beside it.
"So that's the famous statue," said Dean, strolling up for a closer look and ignoring the complaints from the people in the pews that he was blocking their view. It was a statue of the Virgin Mary, hands held out, palm up, her head down. A glistening red line ran from each of her eyes down the white marble of her face.
"The answer to our prayers," said Father Pettigrew.
"How so?" asked Dean.
"We're a small church in a small town," replied the priest, "and we live in… particularly secular times. Attendance was next to nothing and I wasn't sure if I'd be able to keep the doors open for much longer, but now look. We're building a thriving community here. Some recent visitors have even spoken of moving their families to the town."
"Is that real blood?"
"You're not a man of faith, Agent?" countered the priest.
"Oh, I have faith, Father," replied Dean. He rubbed his right arm. "Maybe not in the same way you do, but I got faith."
"We have a representative from the Vatican expected before the end of the week to verify the miracle," said Father Pettigrew, taking a moment longer to stare at the statue. "Right, if you'll come through…"
He led them into a small, sparsely furnished room with a desk and chairs and a rack of vestments pushed against one wall.
Sam cleared his throat. "We're here investigating the death of Gwendolyn Jackson. I understand she was one of your parishioners."
The priest nodded. "Such a terrible loss. Gwen really was a pillar of this community and I know the whole congregation will greatly miss her presence. If there's anything I can do to help you find out what happened to her, please, just ask."
"How much do you know about the circumstances of her death?" Sam asked.
"Only what I read in the news," replied the priest. "It sounded awful."
"Yeah, well, we got another," said Dean, "and it's every bit as bad."
The priest went pale. "Another death?"
Sam shot Dean a look. "I'm afraid so, Father," he said, gently. "There was a man staying at the motel who had come to Lockeford to visit your church. He was found dead in the early hours of this morning, in similar circumstances."
Father Pettigrew went to his desk and sat down heavily in the chair, staring at the floor in disbelief.
"Is there anything you can tell us," asked Sam, "anything unusual?"
"Besides the two deaths and the statue leaking O negative," put in Dean and Sam elbowed him in the ribs.
The priest shook his head. "I mean, this was supposed to be a time of celebration. A time of mi…" He trailed off and his eyes went wide. "Oh no - the Vatican representative," he whispered, then he clasped his hands tight and bowed his head.
Sam and Dean exchanged a look.
"Is he…?" asked Dean. Sam shrugged and nodded.
Just then, there was a cry from elsewhere in the church and a moment later a man put his head around the door. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Father," he said, "but one of our visitors is a little… emotionally overwhelmed… and we could really use your help."
"Of course, of course," said Father Pettigrew, standing up from his chair. He took a breath and straightened his clothes. "Excuse me, Agents."
Sam and Dean watched from the door of the sacristy while Father Pettigrew sat down in the pew next to a woman in a green anorak who was holding her hands out towards the statue and weeping. The priest put an arm around her and spoke gently in an effort to comfort her.
"Well, that was a dead end," said Sam to Dean.
"Are you kidding me?" said Dean. "Didn't you see how he reacted to the news of the second death? That was fear right there - fear and guilt."
"If he's afraid it's only because he's got someone from Head Office paying him a visit and two unexplained deaths in the congregation. It doesn't mean he has anything to do with it."
"Oh, so the priest of the Little Church that Couldn't suddenly gets a bona fide, job-saving miracle right around the time that his churchgoers start dropping like flies and that doesn't seem a little too coincidental to you? Come on, Sam. It's gotta be a demon deal or something."
Sam sighed. "All right, look. You keep watch and I'll see if I can find anything."
There wasn't a lot of furniture in the room to check, but Sam found one of the desk drawers was locked and Dean shot him an I-told-you-so glance. Sam rolled his eyes and pulled his lock pick from his pocket.
"I told you we should've changed into our priest disguises," grumbled Dean from the doorway. "We would've had the run of this place."
"It's a small town, Dean," said Sam, working his lock pick around the keyhole on the desk. "The chances of running into Sheriff Moss are just too high."
Dean looked out into the church where Father Pettigrew was still busy consoling the crying parishioner. "I'm telling you, Sam, there's gonna be hex bags or demon crap or something in that drawer, I just know it."
Behind him, there was the sound of the lock clicking open. "Huh," said Sam as he lifted out the contents.
Dean turned and went to see what Sam had found. Spread out on the desk were several photographs - a woman, smiling, in what looked like a vacation photo; the same woman in a hospital bed, holding a newborn baby in her arms.
"The dirty dog," Dean said, with a chuckle. "So that's what he's hiding. Our priest has a secret family."
"Just what do you two think you are doing?" said a voice from the doorway. They turned to see Father Pettigrew. "You have no right to go through my things without permission."
He strode over to the desk but faltered when he saw the photographs.
"You're right," said Sam, "and I apologise. We made a mistake and this is clearly nothing to do with our case."
The priest moved the photos around on the desk as he stared at them.
Dean looked at Sam and then nodded towards the door but Sam held up a hand for him to wait.
"This is my sister," said Father Pettigrew, his voice trembling. "I haven't seen her in so many years. Not since - " he moved a photograph aside, revealing another beneath, of his sister and another woman, their arms around each other as they both looked down adoringly at their baby. "I was so stubborn. So stupid."
The priest's shoulders shook as first one tear and then another dripped onto the desk.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, tracing the edges of the photos with his fingers. "I'm so, so sorry."
"Sam," hissed Dean, hooking a thumb towards the door.
"Again, apologies for the intrusion," said Sam as they headed out.
They made their way quickly through the church, past the woman in the green anorak, who had her face buried in her hands as she quietly wept.
It wasn't until some time after the brothers had left the church that she lifted her head, her cheeks streaming with bloody tears.
"It's gotta be something to do with that statue," said Dean as he pulled the Impala into the motel parking lot.
"Maybe it's a cursed object," suggested Sam.
"Yeah, but I'm certain I saw a figure at the window next door," said Dean, "so unless that statue can get up and walk around…"
For a moment, they considered the thought of a weeping statue that could move about and attack people.
"Nah," said Sam.
"Bit far-fetched," agreed Dean.
"I'll just have to bring out the big guns," said Sam, as they got out of the car. "Toss me the car keys, I gotta open the trunk."
Dean threw him the keys. "What are you thinking? Grenade launcher? You gonna blow up the statue or something?"
Sam unlocked and lifted the trunk, reached his hand down one side of the space within and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound book bearing the hexagram logo of the Men of Letters.
Dean feigned a horrified look. "Sam, that trunk is for weapons, okay? Monster-hunting weapons. My baby is not a mobile library."
Sam held up the tome. "This is the way we find out how to fight the monsters, Dean," he said. "Books are weapons."
Dean shook his head and smiled. "Oh man, you really are such a nerd."
Back in the room, Sam began leafing through the book while Dean helped by staying quietly out of the way, drinking beer and watching television. After a long while of nothing, Sam sat forward in his chair, reading more keenly.
"I think I've found something," he said.
"For real?"
"Yeah, listen to this: at the beginning of the thirteenth century, Pope Innocent III used treasures plundered from the crusades to finance a massive excavation, saying that the Church was declaring war on Hell."
Dean nearly spat out the beer he was drinking. "Wait, he declared war on Hell by digging a big hole in the ground? Isn't that a bit literal?"
"Different times," said Sam. "They didn't find Hell, of course, but it says here they did unearth some kind of portal, through which unearthly creatures were able to gain access to our world. Hundreds of people died, and the excavation was eventually collapsed to seal the portal, but several of the creatures escaped, becoming known at the time as the Papal Beasts."
"And our statue is one of those?"
"The statue's just a symptom," said Sam. "The creature we're hunting is called a Lacrimosa and it feeds on human suffering. Blood issuing from solid stone was said to be the sign that one was near. I guess it's perfected its technique over the centuries."
Dean mulled that over. "Makes sense. You create something that looks like a miracle and soon every sad sack in the country will be flocking to see it. All it needs to do then is to lie in wait and turn the sad up to eleven."
Sam nodded. "Until its victims literally cry themselves to death."
"So how come I've never heard of these things?"
"Well, the book says they hibernate underground for long periods, usually only emerging during times of great unrest - wars, famines, plagues…"
"Apocalypses?" added Dean. "Anything about how to kill one?"
"Nothing," replied Sam.
Dean shrugged. "You know what they say," said Dean, "when in doubt, chop off its head."
Sam looked at him. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's only you that says that. Also, you're assuming it has a head."
"Well, I'm chopping something off it, so it better hope it has a head." Dean chuckled.
Sam's cell phone rang. He checked the screen and put it on speaker. "Sheriff Moss, hi."
"Agent. There's been a development: another member of St Joseph's has died in the same way as the first two victims and a number of the congregation are showing the same symptoms, including Father Pettigrew."
"We'll get over there," Sam said, but the sheriff cut him off.
"No, I need you to remain where you are. You two were at that church this afternoon and the place is now under quarantine so you're to consider yourselves under the same restrictions. Stay there and someone will be with you shortly."
Sam said, "understood," and the sheriff hung up.
"Well, screw that," said Dean.
"We need to get into that church," agreed Sam.
They hurried out to the car, keen to get moving in case anyone showed up to enforce the quarantine. As they pulled out onto the road headed for town, Dean sniffed loudly and Sam looked over at him.
"You okay?"
Dean waved it off. "Yeah, I dunno. I think maybe I'm coming down with something. I've been fighting it all day."
They drove on in silence for a bit until Dean sniffed again.
"I'm sorry," he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "I don't know what it is. I just… it's all a bit much. You know?"
Sam stared at his brother. "Yeah. Are you sure you're okay?"
"I… just keep thinking…" said Dean, his voice shaking, "thinking of all the people we've lost. I saw Mom die, Sam. It was horrible. And Dad - he died because of me." Tears streamed down Dean's face. "Bobby's gone, too. We tried and we tried but we couldn't save him. We couldn't save any of them. Oh god - Kevin!"
Sam winced. That one cut deep. "I know," he said. "I do. But this isn't you. You've got to fight this."
Dean was sobbing now, hardly able to keep his eyes on the road or to see past the tears. "He was just a kid, Sam!"
"Dean, pull over," said Sam, urgently, as the car veered dangerously close to the oncoming lane. "You can't drive like this."
Dean managed to get the car to a stop and Sam drove on while Dean curled up in the passenger seat, arms wrapped around himself, his shoulders shaking. He was still muttering to himself between sobs, a litany of failure and loss, almost inaudible now.
They arrived at the church to find a squad car blocking the street and two cops guarding the taped-up entrance, so they pulled into a side street and parked there.
"We're gonna need to go in through the back," said Sam, checking over his shoulder that the police weren't checking on them.
"Sammy," said Dean, his voice quietly pleading.
Sam looked over to see his brother's face lined with blood.
Sam helped Dean from the car and they hurried around the block until they found an unguarded gate which led into a small cemetery at the rear of the church. As they made their way through the gravestones, the air grew unnaturally still and icy cold.
"Dean!" yelled Sam, as his brother slumped to the ground, shoulders heaving with uncontrollable sobs. As Sam crouched by him, a tall, pale figure stooped through the rear doorway of the church and into the moonlight before them.
It was easily over eight feet tall, although its back was bent over and crooked. Roughly humanoid in form, it looked like it was constructed from carved bone, the surface of its body giving off a thin, white smoke as it moved, crawling forward on too-long arms that dug into the ground. Its face was merely a dark, sucking hole in the centre of its head that hissed a rasping laugh as the thing advanced on them.
Sam got to his feet and tried to raise his gun, but before he could get off a shot the Lacrimosa cocked its head and the air became frozen in an instant, seeming to leach all of the remaining good from the world and leaving only empty regret in its place. Sam raised a trembling hand to his wet cheek and it came away bloody. He fell to his knees beside Dean.
"No…" was all he managed to whisper, as he slumped forward, helpless.
The Lacrimosa reared back and inhaled noisily, as though savouring the night air. "Sam and Dean Winchester," it said, its voice a harsh whisper. "I have good news, little hunters. Thanks to you, the congregation of this town will be spared." It leaned forward. "You are a feast! A buffet of pain and suffering! When I am done with you, I shall be able to sleep for ever such a long time."
The thing bent over Sam and began to whisper without pause: "Couldn't save your mother couldn't save your father couldn't save Jessica couldn't save Pamela couldn't save Jo couldn't save Ellen couldn't save Bobby…" As it spoke, Sam sobbed so hard his throat sounded raw and a small puddle of bloody tears was forming in the grass under his head. "Couldn't stop yourself from killing Kevin…"
Dean lifted his head, his face red with blood, and looked at Sam. With a huge effort of will, he took his thumb and jammed it hard into the Mark of Cain. Red veins sprung up around it and he pressed even harder.
"You…" he began, through gritted teeth, as the fire of anger began to burn away the icy sorrow. "You son of a bitch."
The Lacrimosa turned on him. "You are a strong one," it whispered. "Good. Your pain will last all the longer."
Dean scowled. "Not… happening," he said, struggling up onto one knee. "You talk about the people we lost? Like you think we don't know? You think we don't remember the folks who are gone, that we don't think about them every single day, wondering why we're the ones that're still here and they're not?"
"Wait your turn!" hissed the creature, sending out another frigid blast of aching sorrow.
Dean rocked backwards under the onslaught but managed to get back up. "Yeah," he said, "awful things have happened to us and to the people we love, but that doesn't make me sad. That makes me angry." Dean got to his feet, the mark on his arm almost glowing. "It makes me furious. And you know what? Every bad thing that happened to my friends, to my family, was done to them by someone… And we always made sure that someone paid for it."
Another chill gust washed over Dean but he pulled his machete and took off the head of the Lacrimosa with one sweep of the blade, sending the creature rearing backwards and leaving it twitching on the ground. As it fell, Sam gave a ragged gasp as though suddenly able to breathe again, then coughed at the pain of his strained throat.
The brand on Dean's arm burned for him to keep hacking at that creature until there was nothing of it left, but as he felt the terrible sorrow lift he dropped the blade and fell to his knees, exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to lie on that grass until he regained his strength, but he couldn't tell if the creature had somehow survived and was doing the same, so after a minute he forced himself to his feet and picked up his blade.
"All right, let's finish this."
They dragged the body of the Lacrimosa to the rear of the church and down among the gravestones, to a spot where the ground sloped away and they were less likely to be seen from the road, and then they set about hacking at its limbs with their machetes, tossing the remains into a pile like so many chalk-white logs. Once they were done, they doused the pile with lighter fluid and tossed a lit matchbook on top, setting the whole thing ablaze.
Sam spent a long while staring into the fire. "Is this it?" he asked, his voice still hoarse.
Dean glanced around. "That's all of it."
Sam frowned and shook his head. "No," he said. "I mean, is this all there is? We fight and we bleed and we lose people, and is this what it comes done to? Pain and sorrow or anger and violence - are those really the only choices we have?"
Dean stared into the flickering flames for a long time without speaking.
"I don't know, Sammy, I really don't," he said at last, "but I'll tell you one thing: whatever happens, whatever crap gets thrown our way, you can be damn sure I ain't gonna cry about it."