Shine 9 (Part 9 ~ CONCLUSION)
Jul. 28th, 2006 10:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
justforspiteclick for part | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight
Dean sat in that in-between place. That place between death, life and the afterlife. The place where everything met and converged and diverged and was no more and no less all at once. The sun was setting over him in a bright white and yellow revelation and the clearing expanded before him clear and beautiful and clean and good. He sat on the most verdant green grass he’d ever seen and smelled the freshest air he never thought still existed. Air that was untouched by the advancements of man. Across from him was the little boy. He was looking Dean over. There was something different about him, different about his eyes, his gaze, and the hold of his attention. Dean knew he was supposed to be wary but the differences added up to so much that it was as if looking to a completely different child. It was a mask worn by a new player.
“Where am I?” He asked the child.
The little boy quickly put his finger to his lips, “Don’t speak too loud. It’s disoriented,” he said quietly, looking over his shoulder. Dean followed his watchful eyes and saw a new addition to their Eden. Lurking just beyond the circle of Lombardy poplar trees was a hulking void-like beast. He was pacing about like a tiger in a too small cage.
“Is that the Shine?” Dean asked, his voice low and almost comforted by the creature’s true form. Big and scary he could handle. Big and scary meant a Hollywood makeup artist who had too much coffee in the morning. Big and scary was a front for frailty and foibles. When the Shine was a child to him, he was scared, he was afraid because to be horrific and innocent was true terror.
“Yes,” the little boy said to him with a careful nod.
“Meh,” Dean said with a shrug.
“Meh?” The little boy asked.
Dean nodded, “Yeah. Meh.”
The child smiled, “Just ‘meh’?”
“That right there is overcompensation. Like the guys at the gym. They figure bigger muscles will offset the size of their-” His eyes widened and he started to cough in his fist. He was traipsing into TMI land with a five year old.
The kid giggled, “You’re in a zone of alternate reality. You can’t cough.” He rolled his eyes and seemed humorously exasperated.
Dean shook his head, knowing sharing would not be caring in this situation. “Too much information kid, just trust me.”
“I was fifty-five years old when I died so I get it.” And with that statement, the kid totally lost him. He smiled, “My soul didn’t wrinkle. Why walk around with my arthritis?”
Dean cocked his brow, “I have no arguments.” He looked back to the creature that was just outside their reach. “So what’s your name . . . uh, sir?”
He smiled, “I’m Peter,” he said, holding out his small hand.
Dean accepted it in a shake, “Dean.” He glanced around, “I guess we’re bunking together.”
Peter shook his head, “No, I’ll be over tonight.”
Over. Somewhere inside, Dean knew that was true. He had faith that the ceremony would be completed. He had absolute faith in that. Once it was done though, he wasn’t ready to lay $20 bucks on whether he’d live through the night. He knew he most likely wouldn’t. But by then, at least he’d be liberated. He’d been most afraid of being trapped in the Shine. Looking back at that thing, he couldn’t live an eternity locked inside of it. A long time ago he’d accepted death. It was a part of who he was and it was the nature of what he did. If he died and went on to wherever it was people went on to then he was fine with that. Survive or not, he’d already be free.
“How are you so sure?” Dean asked him, feeling a cool breeze flow against his no longer pale skin.
Peter’s eyes glittered with something akin to pride, “My Sweetpea’ll make it happen.”
He scrunched his forehead, “Hmm?”
“Melly.” He beamed.
Dean realized he’d just met Peter Sweetgrass.
Just after 10 pm his brother started shaking. Like a jackhammer, Dean was being rocked by some force within. At first he thought it was a seizure. He could barely speak as it was, a change in volume would have blown out his voice completely. When he looked to Mel he saw that she wasn’t shocked or surprised by it. Sam tried to ignore it.
When Dean suddenly stopped shaking at 10:20 and Sam was ready to be relieved, he saw the panic on Mel. His stomach instantly flipped. Fuck: it somersaulted. A million questions bombarded him. Sam always had questions, it was just his personality, but now he had questions he couldn’t ask and that made him feel sick. Mel took a step towards the circle and now John was looking at her in fear. Sam had only seen that look in his father’s eyes a handful of times in his entire twenty three years of life.
Three minutes later, from every pore in Dean’s body, a black ooze began to seep out. It became strands of fine wispy wire that was crawling with life. The strands rose up towards the sky then spread out, floating, to the edges of the barrier. Mel jumped back, her voice rising. The ooze swirled around the space like a fog and from its black emptiness they could see the face of the Shine.
It started to wail.
All three snapped their hands to their ears. The ooze was beginning to lighten from black, to gray then to such a blinding white light that the glow burned their eyes. What they did not know, what they could not ask one another, was what was happening.
They would soon realize, as the voice died down and the light faded away, that the Shine’s physical form had been destroyed, locking its spirit completely within Dean.
Dean and Peter snapped their heads around to the horrible sound coming from the ring of trees. In the shadows they saw the Shine writhing in pain.
“What’s happening to it?” Dean asked, getting to his feet.
“It’s dying. Soon it’ll be locked here same as it locked me.” Dean could see the satisfaction in Peter’s face. “It’ll never leave now. The day you die is the day it goes straight to hell.”
Dean smirked, “Good deal.”
They heard another scream and saw the beast trying to break through from the shadows of the poplar trees. Its claws were out and it ran in rapid circles around the perimeter of the enclosure.
“What the . . . looks like kitty needs some nip.”
Peter started to breathe fast, “It’s trying to break in.”
Dean turned to him, his humor dead, “Can it?”
“It wants control.”
“Peter!”
The beast broke through the barrier and was racing towards them. The little boy’s body changed from a five year old to a fifty-five year old. Peter Sweetgrass, in the form he wore the day he died, grabbed a hold of the young man’s shoulders and his spirit melted into Dean’s, sacrificing his spiritual identity to save them both. The Shine got within a foot of Dean Winchester and was thrown back. It got on its haunches and mewed at Dean.
He narrowed his eyes on the creature, “Fucking bitch.”
He gasped, his eyes opening onto his brother’s. Dean Winchester stared into the clear spring night and felt his spirit relax. It was over. It was finally over. He felt arms around him and knew, instinctively, that they were his father’s. He heard Sammy’s voice. It rolled in a rhythmic pattern and he knew he was still chanting. He felt nothing anymore, just the warmth of John’s arms holding him. He didn’t feel the pain that he knew was there. He didn’t feel the bones that he knew were broken. He felt the warmth of his father perhaps only because now he was so cold. He shivered and leaned in closer to his dad. His heart throbbed in his chest. It was tired. It was too tired. His mind was fuzzy and unclear and he saw Sam’s lips move and heard the faint words come out of a pained throat and all he wanted was to finally rest.
It was over, he said again.
Sammy . . . It’s over.
“Stop,” he whispered to his brother. He said it, but no one could hear him.
John held his son in his arms and tried to control his shaking nerves. Dean was covered in black bruises and he could feel the bones that were protruding from under his skin. The air he slowly brought into his body just barely reached his lungs. His son was cold and literally living on a whisper.
Sam Winchester looked down to his brother and kept chanting, holding Dean here, not letting him go. The demon had asked if he could talk forever. He was damn well gonna try.
Dean groaned, shifting in John’s arms, a flare of pain rolling under his flesh. “Stop,” he said again, his voice, his words now heard. He looked to Sam with his tired eyes and tried to smile but instead he felt the burn of tears roll down his cheeks. “Can’t- fix- this,” he said with stilted breaths.
His little brother nodded saying ‘yes I can’ with his eyes, still as stubborn as he was in the hospital room. Dean leaned into his dad again as more searing pain raged through him. He was left gasping in his father’s arms. “Sammy . . . please.”
Melody looked to John Winchester and watched him hold his son closer to him. They all knew he was right. They just didn’t want to accept it.
“Sam-” She began, her voice low, hurt. “Sam, he’s in pain.” Sam shook his head again, trying to keep his sobs out of his speech. He didn’t want to think about it. They’d come out here and done all this to save his brother. They were not going to leave without doing that.
“Dean?” John said, looking to his son. “I’m gonna take you to the car, okay?”
The idea of being moved from where he was and back onto that bumpy ride caused him to grab a hold of his father. They were lying to themselves if they thought any doctor could fix this. They were kidding themselves if they figured any operating room nurse would let Sam chant Japanese while he was under. It was over. It was over. They won back his soul. That was enough. Why couldn’t it be enough?
John raised Dean in his arms and Dean gasped, bright lights of pain shooting over his dark vision. “Dad!” He screamed. He was wheezing and his head was spinning. He was starting to feel nauseous. “It’s over,” he said, breathing through the pain. “You know it’s over.”
“Dean-”
“We beat it.” He said, finally being able to crack his grin. He looked up to his dad and smiled, “I’m okay.”
John looked into his son’s eyes and all the emotion he’d been bottling up inside for the past few days started to break through his seams. His son was dying in his arms. This war he’d been living for the past two decades was a fight to find his wife’s killer and through it he’d almost lost his children several times and now . . . holding Dean in his arms as his body went back down to the drying grass, John Winchester wondered for the millionth time if any of it was worth it. He placed his cheek to Dean’s forehead and held him quietly.
Sam stood a few yards away knowing what was next but not being able to do it. He couldn’t. It couldn’t be down to this, not after all this time. His brother’s life was hanging on his words.
Another flare of burning pain and Dean whimpered in John’s grasp.
John looked to Sam and it took everything inside of him to tell his youngest son to, “Stop.”
Sam’s voice broke and he tried to catch his breath but a sound of agony completely disrupted his speech. He tried to begin again. He had to begin again but the sobs just kept coming and flowing out of him like water. He went to his family and dropped to his knees. He kept trying to catch his breath but it wasn’t working. He wasn’t able to catch himself. He couldn’t breathe. “D-d-Dean?” He gasped. He looked to his brother, but his eyes were closed and he was already gone. “No.” Sam whispered, his stomach falling out from under him. He shook his head, “No.”
Melody stood away from them in their time of grief and wrapped her arms around herself. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. God please. A sudden loud crashing sound brought everyone’s attention up to the north side of the clearing. One of the Lombardy poplars had fallen over. “Wha-” She began when another tree to the south fell. Then another to the east and another to the west. She looked around and saw that the entire burial ground was shriveling up and dying. All the grass was brown and the new leaves were molting off the drying trees.
Dean’s eyes suddenly flew open and he drew in a sharp breath of air.
It won’t let you die . . .
8 Days Later
Dean watched Sam fuss around the motel room. What was it now? Right. Water.
“Do you want ice?” His little brother asked looking over the side of the mini-fridge. “I can get ice. If you want ice. Just tell me and I’ll get some.”
“I’m not thirsty Sam,” he lied, just wanting his brother to stop with the constant motion. He felt like he was on rough water just watching him.
“The doctor said to keep you hydrated,” Sam protested.
“Yeah, well, she said a whole lot of other things I never thought were in her vocabulary too.”
“She was upset Dean. She was allowed to be upset.”
“Yeah, she was allowed. She didn’t have to call the cops.”
Sam paused, a smirk on his face, “She kinda did. It’s the law.”
Dean frowned, “Yes, ice, k? Bye,” he said. Sam nodded and headed outside to the machine. Dean Winchester sighed and relaxed back onto his bed and massaged away yet another headache. This anemia thing was bullshit. Serious fucking bullshit. He was asleep for half the day and the other half he wanted to sleep. It was this ridiculous cycle, that yeah, if he stayed in the hospital a few more days they could have gotten a handle on it but he was tired of the hospital. As much as he’d hated these cheap ass motels when he was growing up he was attached to them now. He found a comfort in them.
Sam returned with a bucket of ice and put a few cubes into Dean’s glass. Handing it to his brother he dropped his iron pills into his palm. If Dean saw one more sugar coated shit colored pill he’d-
“Take it.” Sam said, reading him like a large print book. His brother sighed and swallowed the pill with a big gulp of cool water. It did feel good, he had to admit. “How ya feeling?”
“Better if you’d stop asking.” He nodded with a wry smile, “Yeah.” Sam’s face fell and he turned away shuffling his feet. Dean sighed, putting the glass on the side table. “Better. Okay?”
“Sure?”
“Sam!”
Sam held up his palms in defense, “Sorry, sorry, okay. I’ll ask later.”
“No, no no, not later. Never, ever . . . ever again.”
“But-”
“Never again.”
“Dean-”
Gasp, “Shhh.”
Sam pouted.
Oh God, he was tired again. He wanted to stay up to say goodbye to Mel. “Does it take this long to get food?” He asked watching Sam start to mope around the room.
Sam looked to him and felt the emptiness of his own stomach and shrugged. They had been gone a while. “Does dad seem different around her?” Sam asked him.
Dean smiled, “Yeah.”
“They’ve got this-” he fumbled for the word.
“Vibe?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“I kinda like it,” Sam said, his voice becoming wistful.
Dean nodded, “Me too.”
“You never told me what their story was.”
That wasn’t Dean’s most favored topic. All his efforts to kindle some sort of action from his father had thus far been avoided. He saw Mel as his dad’s last chance at some kind of happiness. Normalcy. Well, as normal as their family could hope to get. So far nothing came of his hard work and so Dean just relaxed back onto his pillow and yawned. “What story?”
Melody Sweetgrass held the bag of fries and John Winchester had the bag of cheeseburgers. They walked side by side in silence, not so much walking as moseying down the side of the road from the diner. The beautiful May evening was transitioning into a cool spring night and their hands, every so often, would graze past each other. She was glad she was on his right side. If she were to his left he would have pulled away already by now. She tried not to visualize the gold band that still rested on his finger after all these years. Instead she smiled sideways at him; reminding him of what he would be coming back to once his mission was over. Once his fight was won. With a smile she told him she’d still wait for him.
“So I guess this is it,” she said as they reached the motel parking lot. She held up the fries, “Last meal together.”
He sighed, “It’s pathetic, I know.”
She smiled, “I love-” She looked to the bag, “‘Aunt Daisy’s Pickin’ Fries.’ She’s famous all over the county. The bag doesn’t lie Johnny.”
“The bag is a greasy mess.”
She scoffed, “You’re ruining the experience of Aunt Daisy’s.”
He pushed his hand in his pocket. His left hand, deep into his pocket. “I-I’d take you to a great place. If I could. With, fabric napkins and real china. And more utensils then anyone really needs.” He dropped his gaze and nodded, “I would.”
Melody smiled and knew, from John Winchester, that was the equivalent of a sonnet. She saw his cheeks start to redden and she thumped his arm. “Okay. Next time there’s a poltergeist in the Four Seasons you can call me right up.” She grinned, “I just might answer this time.” She got on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Seventy percent chance.”
“Only seventy?”
She nodded, “For a female, hard to get isn’t a game, it’s a way of life.”
They waited up until after midnight on that ninth night and breathed a sigh of relief as 12:09 came and went. Dean was lying fast asleep on his narrow twin bed amongst a ring of rock salt, five crucifixes, three pentagrams, two ennagrams, a Star of David, a Seal of Solomon, rice, a moat of holy water, two Bibles, a bunch of Eucharist wafers, a Torah, the Perfection of Wisdom, the Sutta Nipáta, a bronze statue of Brahma, a jade statue of Buddha and a deep fat fryer filled with holy oil. To say they were prepared would be somewhat of an understatement.
Mel sighed and smiled, stretching. It was time for her to hit the road.
“Sure you don’t want to wait until morning?” John asked her before she headed into the bathroom.
“I can still catch the red eye to D.C.” She saw he was worried about her. “Johnny, I’ll be fine,” she said with a smile, “I got a big-ass gun,” with that she went in to wash her face.
Sammy rolled on his heels standing in the corner. “Johnny?” He asked quietly with a grin.
His father growled, “It’s a nickname.”
“Yeah, I heard . . . Johnny.”
“Gimme your boot knife.”
“Bu-”
“Hand it over.”
Sam reluctantly handed his father his Kershaw.
Mel got her bag and hugged Sam goodbye. “Stay safe.” She told him, adding a small prayer to guide her words along. She went to Dean and leaned over, kissing his forehead. “Bye sweetie.” She said quietly.
He stirred a little and mumbled, “See ya Sweetpea,” before rolling over and away from her.
Melody Sweetgrass blanched. Only her father had ever called her . . . John caught her before she fell to the ground.
With Sam and John tending to her, no one saw the mosquito fly into the motel room through the open windows and land on Dean’s arm. No one noticed the mosquito aim to pierce Dean’s skin. No one especially noticed that same mosquito burst into a small puff of flames and disintegrate and no one would ever know it had been carrying encephalitis.
In Dean’s current state that virus entering his system could have been fatal.
It won’t let you die . . .
The voice in his dreams said to him.
Dean sat in that in-between place. That place between death, life and the afterlife. The place where everything met and converged and diverged and was no more and no less all at once. The sun was setting over him in a bright white and yellow revelation and the clearing expanded before him clear and beautiful and clean and good. He sat on the most verdant green grass he’d ever seen and smelled the freshest air he never thought still existed. Air that was untouched by the advancements of man. Across from him was the little boy. He was looking Dean over. There was something different about him, different about his eyes, his gaze, and the hold of his attention. Dean knew he was supposed to be wary but the differences added up to so much that it was as if looking to a completely different child. It was a mask worn by a new player.
“Where am I?” He asked the child.
The little boy quickly put his finger to his lips, “Don’t speak too loud. It’s disoriented,” he said quietly, looking over his shoulder. Dean followed his watchful eyes and saw a new addition to their Eden. Lurking just beyond the circle of Lombardy poplar trees was a hulking void-like beast. He was pacing about like a tiger in a too small cage.
“Is that the Shine?” Dean asked, his voice low and almost comforted by the creature’s true form. Big and scary he could handle. Big and scary meant a Hollywood makeup artist who had too much coffee in the morning. Big and scary was a front for frailty and foibles. When the Shine was a child to him, he was scared, he was afraid because to be horrific and innocent was true terror.
“Yes,” the little boy said to him with a careful nod.
“Meh,” Dean said with a shrug.
“Meh?” The little boy asked.
Dean nodded, “Yeah. Meh.”
The child smiled, “Just ‘meh’?”
“That right there is overcompensation. Like the guys at the gym. They figure bigger muscles will offset the size of their-” His eyes widened and he started to cough in his fist. He was traipsing into TMI land with a five year old.
The kid giggled, “You’re in a zone of alternate reality. You can’t cough.” He rolled his eyes and seemed humorously exasperated.
Dean shook his head, knowing sharing would not be caring in this situation. “Too much information kid, just trust me.”
“I was fifty-five years old when I died so I get it.” And with that statement, the kid totally lost him. He smiled, “My soul didn’t wrinkle. Why walk around with my arthritis?”
Dean cocked his brow, “I have no arguments.” He looked back to the creature that was just outside their reach. “So what’s your name . . . uh, sir?”
He smiled, “I’m Peter,” he said, holding out his small hand.
Dean accepted it in a shake, “Dean.” He glanced around, “I guess we’re bunking together.”
Peter shook his head, “No, I’ll be over tonight.”
Over. Somewhere inside, Dean knew that was true. He had faith that the ceremony would be completed. He had absolute faith in that. Once it was done though, he wasn’t ready to lay $20 bucks on whether he’d live through the night. He knew he most likely wouldn’t. But by then, at least he’d be liberated. He’d been most afraid of being trapped in the Shine. Looking back at that thing, he couldn’t live an eternity locked inside of it. A long time ago he’d accepted death. It was a part of who he was and it was the nature of what he did. If he died and went on to wherever it was people went on to then he was fine with that. Survive or not, he’d already be free.
“How are you so sure?” Dean asked him, feeling a cool breeze flow against his no longer pale skin.
Peter’s eyes glittered with something akin to pride, “My Sweetpea’ll make it happen.”
He scrunched his forehead, “Hmm?”
“Melly.” He beamed.
Dean realized he’d just met Peter Sweetgrass.
Just after 10 pm his brother started shaking. Like a jackhammer, Dean was being rocked by some force within. At first he thought it was a seizure. He could barely speak as it was, a change in volume would have blown out his voice completely. When he looked to Mel he saw that she wasn’t shocked or surprised by it. Sam tried to ignore it.
When Dean suddenly stopped shaking at 10:20 and Sam was ready to be relieved, he saw the panic on Mel. His stomach instantly flipped. Fuck: it somersaulted. A million questions bombarded him. Sam always had questions, it was just his personality, but now he had questions he couldn’t ask and that made him feel sick. Mel took a step towards the circle and now John was looking at her in fear. Sam had only seen that look in his father’s eyes a handful of times in his entire twenty three years of life.
Three minutes later, from every pore in Dean’s body, a black ooze began to seep out. It became strands of fine wispy wire that was crawling with life. The strands rose up towards the sky then spread out, floating, to the edges of the barrier. Mel jumped back, her voice rising. The ooze swirled around the space like a fog and from its black emptiness they could see the face of the Shine.
It started to wail.
All three snapped their hands to their ears. The ooze was beginning to lighten from black, to gray then to such a blinding white light that the glow burned their eyes. What they did not know, what they could not ask one another, was what was happening.
They would soon realize, as the voice died down and the light faded away, that the Shine’s physical form had been destroyed, locking its spirit completely within Dean.
Dean and Peter snapped their heads around to the horrible sound coming from the ring of trees. In the shadows they saw the Shine writhing in pain.
“What’s happening to it?” Dean asked, getting to his feet.
“It’s dying. Soon it’ll be locked here same as it locked me.” Dean could see the satisfaction in Peter’s face. “It’ll never leave now. The day you die is the day it goes straight to hell.”
Dean smirked, “Good deal.”
They heard another scream and saw the beast trying to break through from the shadows of the poplar trees. Its claws were out and it ran in rapid circles around the perimeter of the enclosure.
“What the . . . looks like kitty needs some nip.”
Peter started to breathe fast, “It’s trying to break in.”
Dean turned to him, his humor dead, “Can it?”
“It wants control.”
“Peter!”
The beast broke through the barrier and was racing towards them. The little boy’s body changed from a five year old to a fifty-five year old. Peter Sweetgrass, in the form he wore the day he died, grabbed a hold of the young man’s shoulders and his spirit melted into Dean’s, sacrificing his spiritual identity to save them both. The Shine got within a foot of Dean Winchester and was thrown back. It got on its haunches and mewed at Dean.
He narrowed his eyes on the creature, “Fucking bitch.”
He gasped, his eyes opening onto his brother’s. Dean Winchester stared into the clear spring night and felt his spirit relax. It was over. It was finally over. He felt arms around him and knew, instinctively, that they were his father’s. He heard Sammy’s voice. It rolled in a rhythmic pattern and he knew he was still chanting. He felt nothing anymore, just the warmth of John’s arms holding him. He didn’t feel the pain that he knew was there. He didn’t feel the bones that he knew were broken. He felt the warmth of his father perhaps only because now he was so cold. He shivered and leaned in closer to his dad. His heart throbbed in his chest. It was tired. It was too tired. His mind was fuzzy and unclear and he saw Sam’s lips move and heard the faint words come out of a pained throat and all he wanted was to finally rest.
It was over, he said again.
Sammy . . . It’s over.
“Stop,” he whispered to his brother. He said it, but no one could hear him.
John held his son in his arms and tried to control his shaking nerves. Dean was covered in black bruises and he could feel the bones that were protruding from under his skin. The air he slowly brought into his body just barely reached his lungs. His son was cold and literally living on a whisper.
Sam Winchester looked down to his brother and kept chanting, holding Dean here, not letting him go. The demon had asked if he could talk forever. He was damn well gonna try.
Dean groaned, shifting in John’s arms, a flare of pain rolling under his flesh. “Stop,” he said again, his voice, his words now heard. He looked to Sam with his tired eyes and tried to smile but instead he felt the burn of tears roll down his cheeks. “Can’t- fix- this,” he said with stilted breaths.
His little brother nodded saying ‘yes I can’ with his eyes, still as stubborn as he was in the hospital room. Dean leaned into his dad again as more searing pain raged through him. He was left gasping in his father’s arms. “Sammy . . . please.”
Melody looked to John Winchester and watched him hold his son closer to him. They all knew he was right. They just didn’t want to accept it.
“Sam-” She began, her voice low, hurt. “Sam, he’s in pain.” Sam shook his head again, trying to keep his sobs out of his speech. He didn’t want to think about it. They’d come out here and done all this to save his brother. They were not going to leave without doing that.
“Dean?” John said, looking to his son. “I’m gonna take you to the car, okay?”
The idea of being moved from where he was and back onto that bumpy ride caused him to grab a hold of his father. They were lying to themselves if they thought any doctor could fix this. They were kidding themselves if they figured any operating room nurse would let Sam chant Japanese while he was under. It was over. It was over. They won back his soul. That was enough. Why couldn’t it be enough?
John raised Dean in his arms and Dean gasped, bright lights of pain shooting over his dark vision. “Dad!” He screamed. He was wheezing and his head was spinning. He was starting to feel nauseous. “It’s over,” he said, breathing through the pain. “You know it’s over.”
“Dean-”
“We beat it.” He said, finally being able to crack his grin. He looked up to his dad and smiled, “I’m okay.”
John looked into his son’s eyes and all the emotion he’d been bottling up inside for the past few days started to break through his seams. His son was dying in his arms. This war he’d been living for the past two decades was a fight to find his wife’s killer and through it he’d almost lost his children several times and now . . . holding Dean in his arms as his body went back down to the drying grass, John Winchester wondered for the millionth time if any of it was worth it. He placed his cheek to Dean’s forehead and held him quietly.
Sam stood a few yards away knowing what was next but not being able to do it. He couldn’t. It couldn’t be down to this, not after all this time. His brother’s life was hanging on his words.
Another flare of burning pain and Dean whimpered in John’s grasp.
John looked to Sam and it took everything inside of him to tell his youngest son to, “Stop.”
Sam’s voice broke and he tried to catch his breath but a sound of agony completely disrupted his speech. He tried to begin again. He had to begin again but the sobs just kept coming and flowing out of him like water. He went to his family and dropped to his knees. He kept trying to catch his breath but it wasn’t working. He wasn’t able to catch himself. He couldn’t breathe. “D-d-Dean?” He gasped. He looked to his brother, but his eyes were closed and he was already gone. “No.” Sam whispered, his stomach falling out from under him. He shook his head, “No.”
Melody stood away from them in their time of grief and wrapped her arms around herself. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. God please. A sudden loud crashing sound brought everyone’s attention up to the north side of the clearing. One of the Lombardy poplars had fallen over. “Wha-” She began when another tree to the south fell. Then another to the east and another to the west. She looked around and saw that the entire burial ground was shriveling up and dying. All the grass was brown and the new leaves were molting off the drying trees.
Dean’s eyes suddenly flew open and he drew in a sharp breath of air.
It won’t let you die . . .
He heard a child’s voice from just beyond his conscious mind.
. . . It’s terrified of Hell.
8 Days Later
Dean watched Sam fuss around the motel room. What was it now? Right. Water.
“Do you want ice?” His little brother asked looking over the side of the mini-fridge. “I can get ice. If you want ice. Just tell me and I’ll get some.”
“I’m not thirsty Sam,” he lied, just wanting his brother to stop with the constant motion. He felt like he was on rough water just watching him.
“The doctor said to keep you hydrated,” Sam protested.
“Yeah, well, she said a whole lot of other things I never thought were in her vocabulary too.”
“She was upset Dean. She was allowed to be upset.”
“Yeah, she was allowed. She didn’t have to call the cops.”
Sam paused, a smirk on his face, “She kinda did. It’s the law.”
Dean frowned, “Yes, ice, k? Bye,” he said. Sam nodded and headed outside to the machine. Dean Winchester sighed and relaxed back onto his bed and massaged away yet another headache. This anemia thing was bullshit. Serious fucking bullshit. He was asleep for half the day and the other half he wanted to sleep. It was this ridiculous cycle, that yeah, if he stayed in the hospital a few more days they could have gotten a handle on it but he was tired of the hospital. As much as he’d hated these cheap ass motels when he was growing up he was attached to them now. He found a comfort in them.
Sam returned with a bucket of ice and put a few cubes into Dean’s glass. Handing it to his brother he dropped his iron pills into his palm. If Dean saw one more sugar coated shit colored pill he’d-
“Take it.” Sam said, reading him like a large print book. His brother sighed and swallowed the pill with a big gulp of cool water. It did feel good, he had to admit. “How ya feeling?”
“Better if you’d stop asking.” He nodded with a wry smile, “Yeah.” Sam’s face fell and he turned away shuffling his feet. Dean sighed, putting the glass on the side table. “Better. Okay?”
“Sure?”
“Sam!”
Sam held up his palms in defense, “Sorry, sorry, okay. I’ll ask later.”
“No, no no, not later. Never, ever . . . ever again.”
“But-”
“Never again.”
“Dean-”
Gasp, “Shhh.”
Sam pouted.
Oh God, he was tired again. He wanted to stay up to say goodbye to Mel. “Does it take this long to get food?” He asked watching Sam start to mope around the room.
Sam looked to him and felt the emptiness of his own stomach and shrugged. They had been gone a while. “Does dad seem different around her?” Sam asked him.
Dean smiled, “Yeah.”
“They’ve got this-” he fumbled for the word.
“Vibe?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“I kinda like it,” Sam said, his voice becoming wistful.
Dean nodded, “Me too.”
“You never told me what their story was.”
That wasn’t Dean’s most favored topic. All his efforts to kindle some sort of action from his father had thus far been avoided. He saw Mel as his dad’s last chance at some kind of happiness. Normalcy. Well, as normal as their family could hope to get. So far nothing came of his hard work and so Dean just relaxed back onto his pillow and yawned. “What story?”
Melody Sweetgrass held the bag of fries and John Winchester had the bag of cheeseburgers. They walked side by side in silence, not so much walking as moseying down the side of the road from the diner. The beautiful May evening was transitioning into a cool spring night and their hands, every so often, would graze past each other. She was glad she was on his right side. If she were to his left he would have pulled away already by now. She tried not to visualize the gold band that still rested on his finger after all these years. Instead she smiled sideways at him; reminding him of what he would be coming back to once his mission was over. Once his fight was won. With a smile she told him she’d still wait for him.
“So I guess this is it,” she said as they reached the motel parking lot. She held up the fries, “Last meal together.”
He sighed, “It’s pathetic, I know.”
She smiled, “I love-” She looked to the bag, “‘Aunt Daisy’s Pickin’ Fries.’ She’s famous all over the county. The bag doesn’t lie Johnny.”
“The bag is a greasy mess.”
She scoffed, “You’re ruining the experience of Aunt Daisy’s.”
He pushed his hand in his pocket. His left hand, deep into his pocket. “I-I’d take you to a great place. If I could. With, fabric napkins and real china. And more utensils then anyone really needs.” He dropped his gaze and nodded, “I would.”
Melody smiled and knew, from John Winchester, that was the equivalent of a sonnet. She saw his cheeks start to redden and she thumped his arm. “Okay. Next time there’s a poltergeist in the Four Seasons you can call me right up.” She grinned, “I just might answer this time.” She got on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Seventy percent chance.”
“Only seventy?”
She nodded, “For a female, hard to get isn’t a game, it’s a way of life.”
They waited up until after midnight on that ninth night and breathed a sigh of relief as 12:09 came and went. Dean was lying fast asleep on his narrow twin bed amongst a ring of rock salt, five crucifixes, three pentagrams, two ennagrams, a Star of David, a Seal of Solomon, rice, a moat of holy water, two Bibles, a bunch of Eucharist wafers, a Torah, the Perfection of Wisdom, the Sutta Nipáta, a bronze statue of Brahma, a jade statue of Buddha and a deep fat fryer filled with holy oil. To say they were prepared would be somewhat of an understatement.
Mel sighed and smiled, stretching. It was time for her to hit the road.
“Sure you don’t want to wait until morning?” John asked her before she headed into the bathroom.
“I can still catch the red eye to D.C.” She saw he was worried about her. “Johnny, I’ll be fine,” she said with a smile, “I got a big-ass gun,” with that she went in to wash her face.
Sammy rolled on his heels standing in the corner. “Johnny?” He asked quietly with a grin.
His father growled, “It’s a nickname.”
“Yeah, I heard . . . Johnny.”
“Gimme your boot knife.”
“Bu-”
“Hand it over.”
Sam reluctantly handed his father his Kershaw.
Mel got her bag and hugged Sam goodbye. “Stay safe.” She told him, adding a small prayer to guide her words along. She went to Dean and leaned over, kissing his forehead. “Bye sweetie.” She said quietly.
He stirred a little and mumbled, “See ya Sweetpea,” before rolling over and away from her.
Melody Sweetgrass blanched. Only her father had ever called her . . . John caught her before she fell to the ground.
With Sam and John tending to her, no one saw the mosquito fly into the motel room through the open windows and land on Dean’s arm. No one noticed the mosquito aim to pierce Dean’s skin. No one especially noticed that same mosquito burst into a small puff of flames and disintegrate and no one would ever know it had been carrying encephalitis.
In Dean’s current state that virus entering his system could have been fatal.
It won’t let you die . . .
The voice in his dreams said to him.
. . . It’s terrified of Hell.
THE END
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