The Lamb: An Almighty Sound
The Lamb
Chapter 2. An Almighty Sound
Darkness came at him from all sides, reaching out to hold him, to arrest him. His breath came in short, labored gasps, each one more difficult than the last. A scream tugged at his throat, but his tongue was little more than a prune, dehydrated and raw inside his mouth. Frightened, he pushed at the swollen black walls, thumping his fist squarely against a hard, rough board. His fingers recoiled, crushed by the sturdiness of his confines. Agitated, frustrated by the small enclosure, Dean Winchester scratched at the flat wooden slab just inches in front of his face. His fingernails ripped. His skin split. Warm drops of blood caressed his chapped lips. The room seemed to close in with each passing second. The edge of his black vision blurred. The crack in the wall was deafening, so sudden that it might have shattered his ear drums. There was no time to focus on it. Dirt crumbled down through the gaping hole, filling up the last pockets of breathable air. Grasping at clumps of thick, damp soil, he swam toward the surface, struggling up stream like a spawning salmon.
His fingers reached the surface first, stretching out into the warm summer air, burning under the glow of an unbridled sun. The earth caved in around him, breaking open a sinkhole from which to crawl out. Dean rolled onto his back, kicking away the last of the dirt. He lifted an arm over his eyes to shield away the rays of uncomfortable sunlight. Fresh air tasted like sin on his tongue, and he gulped it in until he felt too sick to continue. In agony, he rolled onto his shoulder and wretched upon the ground, spitting up nothing but gummy saliva. Pushing a hand into the dry grass, Dean pushed himself up onto his knees. A simple wooden cross had sunk into the ground behind him. The trees had been cleared in a clean circumference, a perfect circle around a grave site. Another breath passed shakily over his lips.
It took several minutes of panting breath before he was capable of standing. Even still, he struggled to his feet, grasping at clumps of flattened grass to steady his feet beneath his wobbling knees. A vague realization of pain occurred to him, and he lifted one hand up in front of his face, turning it from palm to knuckles. The skin of his fist had split open and trickles of fresh red blood dribbled between the knobby bones like deltas. His other hand, held aloft before squinting green eyes, showed a similar fate. Dean wiped the backs of his hands on his tee shirt, a crisp but dirty black shirt that felt scratchy and unfamiliar against his skin. Wincing, he released a hiss of pain between clenched teeth. The idea of pain seemed peculiar, unusual, but the actual sensation of it was unforgettable. He regretted the motion instantly, but had no way to halt the feeling of burning embers on virgin skin.
Bashful of the blaring midday sun and already noticing small rivers of perspiration rolling down the contours of his back, Dean began to walk. Unlike his shirt, the simple jeans were loose and comfortable in the right places, tight where tightness was necessary. He walked gingerly, ducking his face down against the heat of day, squinting his eyes against the brightness. Involuntarily, he licked his lips, drying out the already dry skin. He swallowed the small drops of saliva beading on his tongue, only wetting his thirst, dehydrating his mouth. For the first time, he noticed his tongue tasted like ash, the walls of his mouth like a cold fire. Responsively, his stomach clenched and groaned, anxious for sustenance. Dean stopped for a moment to hold his agonizing guts, to gag on the dusty earth. His eyes fell upon a cracked tarmac, an empty road.
It took another hour of walking before he came upon a small fill station, as empty as the surrounding landscape. He tried the door and it clicked open in his hand, falling backward into the cloudy shop. Dean coughed as he inhaled the stale indoor air. A rasping choke spit from his mouth, and he stumbled forward to a refrigerated case filled with bottles of water. Desperate, he threw open the frosted glass door and retrieved a bottle. The cap spun free and dropped to the ground. Tendrils of water spilled from the corners of his mouth as Dean inhaled the bottle, panting through flared nostrils as he gulped. The water churned through his aching insides and threatened to come back up again. He leaned his forearms against the nearby checkout stand and gasped like a fish until the liquid settled. It quenched his thirst, filled his belly, and left him feeling seasick all at once. Dean sank down to the floor, leaning his shoulders against the counter. His eyes fell closed, and a vision danced free of his memory and collided with his inner sight. The screams of the damned voided all other noise, even the rapidity of his beating heart, the eager wheezing of his lungs. Flashes of fire shot up in front of his frozen gaze, and through them, faces jeered and roared, cried and sang in their agony. His eyes shot open again at once, and the pounding of his heart was so heavy, it seemed to echo within his soul.
Pushing the memory out of his mind with incredible force, Dean reached up to the top of the cash stand and resumed his uneasy stance. He glanced at the aisles of packaged foods, most of them covered in a fine layer of gray dust. He reached for the first bag of potato chips on the rack, ripped the bag open, and shoveled the salty crisps into his mouth in handfuls, ignoring the sparks of pain that flared each time he dipped his fresh wounds into the bag. Dean opened a package of squishy snack cakes next, pushing each gooey chocolate mound past his sore lips and over his slacking tongue. He reached for another bottle of water to wash the mess down, to clear his esophagus for another wave of nutrition. The wrappers he piled up on the floor, ignorant of either his theft or his mess. At the end of the food aisle, his dirty hands covered in powdery cheese residue, he noticed a newspaper stand, sealed shut and filled with yellowing papers. His stomach gurgled angrily in protest as he bent down to one knee to read the stamped black print. The papers were old, clearly out of date, but the location was still the same. He was in Pontiac, Illinois.
Corn chips and Hostess cakes tasted far worse coming back up the throat than they did going down it. Dean placed his hands on his thighs and bent over near the driver side door of a 1970 Chevy pickup truck. He coughed and sputtered until the last chunks of pink coconut cleared his open mouth, and then he stood up. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he gulped down more water and spit it into the vomit before covering the whole mess with his shoe. Popping open the door, Dean slipped in behind the wheel and reached up into the visor for the keys. They chimed in his palm before he thrust the key into the ignition. With the radio silent, he careened onto the road with the pedal on the floor.
The lot looked eerily familiar, but Dean had no idea why he’d come here. He’d driven until he couldn’t stand it any longer, until his vision had begun to blur and the night had taken on a haunted quality. Rubbing the back of his head in between glugs of water, Dean turned around in a rough circle, admiring the stacks of old cars in front of a lonely clapboard house. Exhaustion brought him to the front door. He knocked carefully and moved for his phantom weapon. Dean felt along his pockets once and then a second time. He was still scavenging for a knife or a gun when the door flew open and the man on the other side raised a large hunting knife.
“Who are you?” Bobby Singer growled, dragging Dean inside the house with one hand gripping his shirt. Dean flew around like a ragdoll, defenseless and confused. He lifted his hands, the fingers shaking visibly, and placed them palms out in front of his body.
“Please…” Dean stuttered, the word raw in his mouth.
“I said who are you, goddamnit?!” Bobby continued, wielding the knife which glittered in the dimly lit room.
“I…” Dean breathed; the sound of his own voice unfamiliar. With wide eyes, he gazed into the angered face of his attacker. The beard was scruffy and unkempt, and over his world-weary eyes, he’d pulled on a well-worn trucker’s cap. Still, the face was unmistakably Bobby’s. “Bobby…”
His voice cracked the way an old record crackles on the turn table. The knife fell from Bobby’s hand and clanged when it hit the wooden floor beneath his grimy work boots. He released the black tee shirt from its death grip and stared at the young man in front of him, the ghost of a hunter as close to him as his own child. Dean shook like a trapped rabbit, his eyes wide and staring. His lips were chapped and bleeding, and his face was soiled and beading with sweat. The broken flesh of his hands gave him away. He looked like a dream, and at the same time, incredibly real.
“Dean,” Bobby whispered under his breath. “You’re alive.”
“Yeah,” Dean grunted after a beat. “Uh…do you have any beer?”
Safety being imperative in any hunter’s daily life, Bobby subjected Dean to the full barrage of demon tests before admitting that he had truly awoken from the grave. Dean submitted to each one with a kind of quiet indifference. He watched blood drip from a wound Bobby inflicted with a silver knife. Like before, the pain was real and difficult to ignore, but the occasion was unusual. The act of bloodletting was as surreal as the rest of the day had been, like a dream within a dream. After making the sign of the cross upon his forehead with Holy water, Bobby sat back against the edge of the kitchen table. He folded his arms over his chest and adjusted the brim of his cap.
“So, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” Dean sighed.
“Well, what do you remember?”
“Not much. I woke up inside a small, dark room. Turns out it was a coffin, six feet underground.”
“You dug yourself out,” Bobby gasped apologetically.
“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “But you knew that.”
“It’s happened before. I heard about it through one of my sources. From what I understand, it’s a pretty traumatic experience. How are you feeling now?”
“I could use a shower.” Dean shrugged nonchalantly.
“Yeah,” Bobby frowned. “I’ll bet.”
In the bathroom, Dean stared at his reflection in the mirror. Memories of his life before death crept slowly back into his brain, disjointed thoughts and flashes of recollection. He pulled his shirt off, peeling away the filth and sweat he’d accumulated over the course of the day. In the dingy glass, he examined the unmarred skin of his stomach. Hellhounds had ripped him to pieces, left his insides on the outside, but there was no sign of that on his body. He winced as their howling voices echoed through his mind, their brilliant eyes flickering in the mirror like determined ghosts. Where there should have been claw marks, spilled guts, and blood, there was nothing.
Dean turned toward the shower to turn on the faucet. His eyes tore back to the mirror, staring at the strange burn on his shoulder. It was so red and ghastly, he was surprised he hadn’t noticed the pain associated with it before. As soon as he looked at the garish wound, his brain began to fire receptors of pain. Wringing up his mouth as though he’d eaten a whole lemon on a dare, Dean exhaled a grunt. He reached up to touch the burn. It was more than a burn, really. It was a handprint, scalded into his flesh like a brand. It was still tender and hot to the touch.
--
“Where’s Sam?” Dean muttered as he ran a towel back and forth across his hair, rubbing out the last droplets of water.
“He took off,” Bobby sighed, shrugging his shoulders. He took a long swig from a bottle of whiskey and handed it to Dean. Dean looked thoughtfully at the bottle before taking a sip. It burned all the way down his throat.
“What do you mean? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
“I can’t believe you let him go off on his own, Bobby! He could get hurt out there!” Dean fumed with overprotective Big Brother rage. He slammed down the bottle of Jack Daniels and briefly took mental note of the number of similar empty bottles spread out across the various horizontal surfaces spaced around the room.
“It’s not like he gave me a choice, Dean. Sam’s a big boy. I tried to get him to stick around here, but he was determined to…”
“To what?”
“To find a way to get you out of Hell,” Bobby sighed.
“To… whoa.” Dean sat down heavily on the sofa, coughing up a spiral of dust. “He did this?”
“I don’t know. I mean, here you are, when you shouldn’t be.”
“And with the weird scar… like maybe a demon dragged my ass out of Hell?” Dean was back on his feet again. He grabbed Bobby’s phone from the hook and punched a number into the keys.
“Who are you calling?” Bobby blinked.
Less than a minute later, Dean was punching GPS coordinates into a search engine. Bobby stared, impressed. Dean and Sam spent every waking moment together, and the eerily almost-telepathic link between them was more than impressive. Dean would be the first to tell anyone that there was nothing supernatural about it. He just knew Sam well. Still, the intimate knowledge he had on Sam Winchester was shockingly accurate one hundred percent of the time. The GPS located Sam’s phone signal in Pontiac, Illinois.
“That’s where we buried you,” Bobby muttered suspiciously.
“Yeah,” Dean grunted. “I know.”
“Well, do you think he…?”
“What? Succeeded? It sure as hell looks like it, Bobby! Unless I’m a figment of your alcoholic imagination.” Dean spread his arm wide to encompass the collection of empty bottles.
“It’s been rough, Dean. You try losing a son, see how you feel.”
They were on the road within the hour, hauling back to the town from which they’d come. Dean stared out the window, the noise of the radio like an irritating buzz lingering in his eardrum. Somewhere, beyond the dust and rolling empty hills of South Dakota, a demon lurked. It was a demon powerful enough to throw his ass from the Pits of Hell. What had Sam traded for that freedom? What was worth more than a soul? Dean closed his eyes and inhaled the rich gasoline smell of Bobby’s old truck. Desperate screams erupted from the depths of his memory. Don’t do it! Please! PLEASE! His hands were so soaked with blood that it stained them a permanent shade of glossy red. Was he screaming, or was it them?
“Dean? Hey, you okay?” Bobby’s voice called out of the filmy blackness of Hell. Dean opened his eyes suddenly. The moon hung high overhead, a shade of pale yellow pulled over its beaming white face.
“Yeah,” Dean wheezed. “Fine.”
“We’re here,” Bobby gestured, pointing at the entrance to a seedy motel along the highway.
“Right,” Dean nodded. He pushed open the car door and got out onto the dry blacktop, still holding in the day’s roasting summer heat. The Impala sat casually in the moonlight, a beam of yellow bouncing off her glossy black hood. Dean jogged over to the car and placed a gentle hand on the roof.
“Hey baby,” he cooed. “You miss me?”
The motel had only one story, each room supporting one measly parking space. If nothing else, it offered an easy decision in finding Sam. Dean pounded his fist on the door in front of the Impala’s chrome grill. The door opened slowly and a young woman popped her head and half of her body out. She had dark hair and a pair of dark brown eyes to match, pale skin and pale red lips. She wore a pair of men’s tightie whities and a white tank top. Dean raised an eyebrow.
“Kinda late for visitors, isn’t it?” She smiled sweetly.
“I’m here to see my brother,” Dean replied shortly.
“Well, there’s no one here but me…”
“Open the door.” Dean demanded. “Sam? You in there? SAM!”
The door swung open from a foot above the woman’s head. Sam Winchester’s face was a mess of emotional responses, the lips screwed up and the eyes squinting. He reached from the door and pulled Dean in by the neck, strangling him. Bobby rushed in behind them, just before the door slammed shut. In all the chaos, the woman stared, her mouth hanging open.
“Who are you?!” Sam roared angrily, throwing Dean up against the nearest wall.
“It’s me, Sam!” Dean gasped, trying to pry Sam’s fingers loose.
“Goddamnit boy, let him go! We’ve done this part!” Bobby chimed in.
“Prove it!”
“Bitch.” Dean frowned.
“Jerk,” Sam replied instinctively. His hand loosened and Dean dropped about an inch onto the floor.
“Uh, Sam?” The woman blinked from the opposite side of the room. She looked even paler, and she’d drawn on a pair of jeans. “How about I just…meet you later?”
“Oh! Right, sure,” Sam nodded.
“I’ll just…let myself out.”
The door shut a second time and Dean collapsed onto the edge of the rumpled bed. He raised an eyebrow and laughed softly. Bobby looked between the two brothers, both of them panting with a mixture of physical strain and laughter.
“Nice score, Sammy. Looks like you’ve been busy since I’ve been dead.”
“It’s nothing,” Sam shrugged.
“Sure, sure,” Dean smirked.
“So, what are you doing here, Dean?”
“I was about to ask you the same question, Sammy. What am I doing here?”
“How would I know?”
“Well, obviously you did something. One minute I’m in Hell. The next minute I’m clawing my way out of a pine box.”
“It wasn’t me, Dean! Not like I haven’t tried, but they wouldn’t take my deal. They got what they wanted. I couldn’t get you out.”
“So…you have no idea how I got here?”
“No.”
“Great,” Dean sighed. “The mystery continues.”
--
Dean sighed and turned over on the bed, the pillow tucked securely around his face and neck, as if he hoped to smother himself with it. It had been late by the time he’d left Sam’s room and booked a place for himself. They’d decided to head back to Bobby’s in the morning, to try and sort this mystery out where all the big and complicated research books lived. A lingering apprehension kept Dean awake, as though he might close his eyes and realize the whole day had been a dream. He was still in The Pit, still suffering at the hands of the demons, and all this was just a reminder of the past. If he closed his eyes, he’d be back there. It was the last thing in the world he wanted.
Dean pulled the scratchy bedspread up to his shoulders as the room cooled. He rubbed his face with the back of his hand, just as the television turned on. The screen was awash with black and white snow, unable to find even an infomercial display at this time of night. He looked around, wondering if he’d rolled over the remote by accident.
“Shit,” Dean hissed under his breath when he located the television remote, sitting untouched on the nightstand. The lighted numbers on the alarm clock flickered and changed, as though a magnet were held directly over their circuit board.
“Just show yourself!” Dean yelled at the room. He threw back the covers and tore away from the crumpled white pillow. A sound stretched out into the room, faint at first. Dean struggled to hear it, but didn’t have to wait long for comprehension. It was a piercing, screaming, high-pitched noise. The noise filled the room, burned into his thoughts, filtered through his body. Brief flashes of bad horror movies bounced through his brain: Linda Blair and her weird spinal tap in The Exorcist, Carol Ann’s innocent “They’re here” in Poltergeist. Dean lifted his hands over his ears to block out the sound, but to no avail. The television screen cracked. The bathroom mirror shattered into a thousand tiny glass shards. Dean sank from the bed to the floor, on his knees. Tears streamed from his eyes.
And as quickly as it began, the sound abruptly stopped.
Chapter Three: Raise it Up
Chapter 2. An Almighty Sound
Darkness came at him from all sides, reaching out to hold him, to arrest him. His breath came in short, labored gasps, each one more difficult than the last. A scream tugged at his throat, but his tongue was little more than a prune, dehydrated and raw inside his mouth. Frightened, he pushed at the swollen black walls, thumping his fist squarely against a hard, rough board. His fingers recoiled, crushed by the sturdiness of his confines. Agitated, frustrated by the small enclosure, Dean Winchester scratched at the flat wooden slab just inches in front of his face. His fingernails ripped. His skin split. Warm drops of blood caressed his chapped lips. The room seemed to close in with each passing second. The edge of his black vision blurred. The crack in the wall was deafening, so sudden that it might have shattered his ear drums. There was no time to focus on it. Dirt crumbled down through the gaping hole, filling up the last pockets of breathable air. Grasping at clumps of thick, damp soil, he swam toward the surface, struggling up stream like a spawning salmon.
His fingers reached the surface first, stretching out into the warm summer air, burning under the glow of an unbridled sun. The earth caved in around him, breaking open a sinkhole from which to crawl out. Dean rolled onto his back, kicking away the last of the dirt. He lifted an arm over his eyes to shield away the rays of uncomfortable sunlight. Fresh air tasted like sin on his tongue, and he gulped it in until he felt too sick to continue. In agony, he rolled onto his shoulder and wretched upon the ground, spitting up nothing but gummy saliva. Pushing a hand into the dry grass, Dean pushed himself up onto his knees. A simple wooden cross had sunk into the ground behind him. The trees had been cleared in a clean circumference, a perfect circle around a grave site. Another breath passed shakily over his lips.
It took several minutes of panting breath before he was capable of standing. Even still, he struggled to his feet, grasping at clumps of flattened grass to steady his feet beneath his wobbling knees. A vague realization of pain occurred to him, and he lifted one hand up in front of his face, turning it from palm to knuckles. The skin of his fist had split open and trickles of fresh red blood dribbled between the knobby bones like deltas. His other hand, held aloft before squinting green eyes, showed a similar fate. Dean wiped the backs of his hands on his tee shirt, a crisp but dirty black shirt that felt scratchy and unfamiliar against his skin. Wincing, he released a hiss of pain between clenched teeth. The idea of pain seemed peculiar, unusual, but the actual sensation of it was unforgettable. He regretted the motion instantly, but had no way to halt the feeling of burning embers on virgin skin.
Bashful of the blaring midday sun and already noticing small rivers of perspiration rolling down the contours of his back, Dean began to walk. Unlike his shirt, the simple jeans were loose and comfortable in the right places, tight where tightness was necessary. He walked gingerly, ducking his face down against the heat of day, squinting his eyes against the brightness. Involuntarily, he licked his lips, drying out the already dry skin. He swallowed the small drops of saliva beading on his tongue, only wetting his thirst, dehydrating his mouth. For the first time, he noticed his tongue tasted like ash, the walls of his mouth like a cold fire. Responsively, his stomach clenched and groaned, anxious for sustenance. Dean stopped for a moment to hold his agonizing guts, to gag on the dusty earth. His eyes fell upon a cracked tarmac, an empty road.
It took another hour of walking before he came upon a small fill station, as empty as the surrounding landscape. He tried the door and it clicked open in his hand, falling backward into the cloudy shop. Dean coughed as he inhaled the stale indoor air. A rasping choke spit from his mouth, and he stumbled forward to a refrigerated case filled with bottles of water. Desperate, he threw open the frosted glass door and retrieved a bottle. The cap spun free and dropped to the ground. Tendrils of water spilled from the corners of his mouth as Dean inhaled the bottle, panting through flared nostrils as he gulped. The water churned through his aching insides and threatened to come back up again. He leaned his forearms against the nearby checkout stand and gasped like a fish until the liquid settled. It quenched his thirst, filled his belly, and left him feeling seasick all at once. Dean sank down to the floor, leaning his shoulders against the counter. His eyes fell closed, and a vision danced free of his memory and collided with his inner sight. The screams of the damned voided all other noise, even the rapidity of his beating heart, the eager wheezing of his lungs. Flashes of fire shot up in front of his frozen gaze, and through them, faces jeered and roared, cried and sang in their agony. His eyes shot open again at once, and the pounding of his heart was so heavy, it seemed to echo within his soul.
Pushing the memory out of his mind with incredible force, Dean reached up to the top of the cash stand and resumed his uneasy stance. He glanced at the aisles of packaged foods, most of them covered in a fine layer of gray dust. He reached for the first bag of potato chips on the rack, ripped the bag open, and shoveled the salty crisps into his mouth in handfuls, ignoring the sparks of pain that flared each time he dipped his fresh wounds into the bag. Dean opened a package of squishy snack cakes next, pushing each gooey chocolate mound past his sore lips and over his slacking tongue. He reached for another bottle of water to wash the mess down, to clear his esophagus for another wave of nutrition. The wrappers he piled up on the floor, ignorant of either his theft or his mess. At the end of the food aisle, his dirty hands covered in powdery cheese residue, he noticed a newspaper stand, sealed shut and filled with yellowing papers. His stomach gurgled angrily in protest as he bent down to one knee to read the stamped black print. The papers were old, clearly out of date, but the location was still the same. He was in Pontiac, Illinois.
Corn chips and Hostess cakes tasted far worse coming back up the throat than they did going down it. Dean placed his hands on his thighs and bent over near the driver side door of a 1970 Chevy pickup truck. He coughed and sputtered until the last chunks of pink coconut cleared his open mouth, and then he stood up. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he gulped down more water and spit it into the vomit before covering the whole mess with his shoe. Popping open the door, Dean slipped in behind the wheel and reached up into the visor for the keys. They chimed in his palm before he thrust the key into the ignition. With the radio silent, he careened onto the road with the pedal on the floor.
The lot looked eerily familiar, but Dean had no idea why he’d come here. He’d driven until he couldn’t stand it any longer, until his vision had begun to blur and the night had taken on a haunted quality. Rubbing the back of his head in between glugs of water, Dean turned around in a rough circle, admiring the stacks of old cars in front of a lonely clapboard house. Exhaustion brought him to the front door. He knocked carefully and moved for his phantom weapon. Dean felt along his pockets once and then a second time. He was still scavenging for a knife or a gun when the door flew open and the man on the other side raised a large hunting knife.
“Who are you?” Bobby Singer growled, dragging Dean inside the house with one hand gripping his shirt. Dean flew around like a ragdoll, defenseless and confused. He lifted his hands, the fingers shaking visibly, and placed them palms out in front of his body.
“Please…” Dean stuttered, the word raw in his mouth.
“I said who are you, goddamnit?!” Bobby continued, wielding the knife which glittered in the dimly lit room.
“I…” Dean breathed; the sound of his own voice unfamiliar. With wide eyes, he gazed into the angered face of his attacker. The beard was scruffy and unkempt, and over his world-weary eyes, he’d pulled on a well-worn trucker’s cap. Still, the face was unmistakably Bobby’s. “Bobby…”
His voice cracked the way an old record crackles on the turn table. The knife fell from Bobby’s hand and clanged when it hit the wooden floor beneath his grimy work boots. He released the black tee shirt from its death grip and stared at the young man in front of him, the ghost of a hunter as close to him as his own child. Dean shook like a trapped rabbit, his eyes wide and staring. His lips were chapped and bleeding, and his face was soiled and beading with sweat. The broken flesh of his hands gave him away. He looked like a dream, and at the same time, incredibly real.
“Dean,” Bobby whispered under his breath. “You’re alive.”
“Yeah,” Dean grunted after a beat. “Uh…do you have any beer?”
Safety being imperative in any hunter’s daily life, Bobby subjected Dean to the full barrage of demon tests before admitting that he had truly awoken from the grave. Dean submitted to each one with a kind of quiet indifference. He watched blood drip from a wound Bobby inflicted with a silver knife. Like before, the pain was real and difficult to ignore, but the occasion was unusual. The act of bloodletting was as surreal as the rest of the day had been, like a dream within a dream. After making the sign of the cross upon his forehead with Holy water, Bobby sat back against the edge of the kitchen table. He folded his arms over his chest and adjusted the brim of his cap.
“So, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” Dean sighed.
“Well, what do you remember?”
“Not much. I woke up inside a small, dark room. Turns out it was a coffin, six feet underground.”
“You dug yourself out,” Bobby gasped apologetically.
“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “But you knew that.”
“It’s happened before. I heard about it through one of my sources. From what I understand, it’s a pretty traumatic experience. How are you feeling now?”
“I could use a shower.” Dean shrugged nonchalantly.
“Yeah,” Bobby frowned. “I’ll bet.”
In the bathroom, Dean stared at his reflection in the mirror. Memories of his life before death crept slowly back into his brain, disjointed thoughts and flashes of recollection. He pulled his shirt off, peeling away the filth and sweat he’d accumulated over the course of the day. In the dingy glass, he examined the unmarred skin of his stomach. Hellhounds had ripped him to pieces, left his insides on the outside, but there was no sign of that on his body. He winced as their howling voices echoed through his mind, their brilliant eyes flickering in the mirror like determined ghosts. Where there should have been claw marks, spilled guts, and blood, there was nothing.
Dean turned toward the shower to turn on the faucet. His eyes tore back to the mirror, staring at the strange burn on his shoulder. It was so red and ghastly, he was surprised he hadn’t noticed the pain associated with it before. As soon as he looked at the garish wound, his brain began to fire receptors of pain. Wringing up his mouth as though he’d eaten a whole lemon on a dare, Dean exhaled a grunt. He reached up to touch the burn. It was more than a burn, really. It was a handprint, scalded into his flesh like a brand. It was still tender and hot to the touch.
--
“Where’s Sam?” Dean muttered as he ran a towel back and forth across his hair, rubbing out the last droplets of water.
“He took off,” Bobby sighed, shrugging his shoulders. He took a long swig from a bottle of whiskey and handed it to Dean. Dean looked thoughtfully at the bottle before taking a sip. It burned all the way down his throat.
“What do you mean? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
“I can’t believe you let him go off on his own, Bobby! He could get hurt out there!” Dean fumed with overprotective Big Brother rage. He slammed down the bottle of Jack Daniels and briefly took mental note of the number of similar empty bottles spread out across the various horizontal surfaces spaced around the room.
“It’s not like he gave me a choice, Dean. Sam’s a big boy. I tried to get him to stick around here, but he was determined to…”
“To what?”
“To find a way to get you out of Hell,” Bobby sighed.
“To… whoa.” Dean sat down heavily on the sofa, coughing up a spiral of dust. “He did this?”
“I don’t know. I mean, here you are, when you shouldn’t be.”
“And with the weird scar… like maybe a demon dragged my ass out of Hell?” Dean was back on his feet again. He grabbed Bobby’s phone from the hook and punched a number into the keys.
“Who are you calling?” Bobby blinked.
Less than a minute later, Dean was punching GPS coordinates into a search engine. Bobby stared, impressed. Dean and Sam spent every waking moment together, and the eerily almost-telepathic link between them was more than impressive. Dean would be the first to tell anyone that there was nothing supernatural about it. He just knew Sam well. Still, the intimate knowledge he had on Sam Winchester was shockingly accurate one hundred percent of the time. The GPS located Sam’s phone signal in Pontiac, Illinois.
“That’s where we buried you,” Bobby muttered suspiciously.
“Yeah,” Dean grunted. “I know.”
“Well, do you think he…?”
“What? Succeeded? It sure as hell looks like it, Bobby! Unless I’m a figment of your alcoholic imagination.” Dean spread his arm wide to encompass the collection of empty bottles.
“It’s been rough, Dean. You try losing a son, see how you feel.”
They were on the road within the hour, hauling back to the town from which they’d come. Dean stared out the window, the noise of the radio like an irritating buzz lingering in his eardrum. Somewhere, beyond the dust and rolling empty hills of South Dakota, a demon lurked. It was a demon powerful enough to throw his ass from the Pits of Hell. What had Sam traded for that freedom? What was worth more than a soul? Dean closed his eyes and inhaled the rich gasoline smell of Bobby’s old truck. Desperate screams erupted from the depths of his memory. Don’t do it! Please! PLEASE! His hands were so soaked with blood that it stained them a permanent shade of glossy red. Was he screaming, or was it them?
“Dean? Hey, you okay?” Bobby’s voice called out of the filmy blackness of Hell. Dean opened his eyes suddenly. The moon hung high overhead, a shade of pale yellow pulled over its beaming white face.
“Yeah,” Dean wheezed. “Fine.”
“We’re here,” Bobby gestured, pointing at the entrance to a seedy motel along the highway.
“Right,” Dean nodded. He pushed open the car door and got out onto the dry blacktop, still holding in the day’s roasting summer heat. The Impala sat casually in the moonlight, a beam of yellow bouncing off her glossy black hood. Dean jogged over to the car and placed a gentle hand on the roof.
“Hey baby,” he cooed. “You miss me?”
The motel had only one story, each room supporting one measly parking space. If nothing else, it offered an easy decision in finding Sam. Dean pounded his fist on the door in front of the Impala’s chrome grill. The door opened slowly and a young woman popped her head and half of her body out. She had dark hair and a pair of dark brown eyes to match, pale skin and pale red lips. She wore a pair of men’s tightie whities and a white tank top. Dean raised an eyebrow.
“Kinda late for visitors, isn’t it?” She smiled sweetly.
“I’m here to see my brother,” Dean replied shortly.
“Well, there’s no one here but me…”
“Open the door.” Dean demanded. “Sam? You in there? SAM!”
The door swung open from a foot above the woman’s head. Sam Winchester’s face was a mess of emotional responses, the lips screwed up and the eyes squinting. He reached from the door and pulled Dean in by the neck, strangling him. Bobby rushed in behind them, just before the door slammed shut. In all the chaos, the woman stared, her mouth hanging open.
“Who are you?!” Sam roared angrily, throwing Dean up against the nearest wall.
“It’s me, Sam!” Dean gasped, trying to pry Sam’s fingers loose.
“Goddamnit boy, let him go! We’ve done this part!” Bobby chimed in.
“Prove it!”
“Bitch.” Dean frowned.
“Jerk,” Sam replied instinctively. His hand loosened and Dean dropped about an inch onto the floor.
“Uh, Sam?” The woman blinked from the opposite side of the room. She looked even paler, and she’d drawn on a pair of jeans. “How about I just…meet you later?”
“Oh! Right, sure,” Sam nodded.
“I’ll just…let myself out.”
The door shut a second time and Dean collapsed onto the edge of the rumpled bed. He raised an eyebrow and laughed softly. Bobby looked between the two brothers, both of them panting with a mixture of physical strain and laughter.
“Nice score, Sammy. Looks like you’ve been busy since I’ve been dead.”
“It’s nothing,” Sam shrugged.
“Sure, sure,” Dean smirked.
“So, what are you doing here, Dean?”
“I was about to ask you the same question, Sammy. What am I doing here?”
“How would I know?”
“Well, obviously you did something. One minute I’m in Hell. The next minute I’m clawing my way out of a pine box.”
“It wasn’t me, Dean! Not like I haven’t tried, but they wouldn’t take my deal. They got what they wanted. I couldn’t get you out.”
“So…you have no idea how I got here?”
“No.”
“Great,” Dean sighed. “The mystery continues.”
--
Dean sighed and turned over on the bed, the pillow tucked securely around his face and neck, as if he hoped to smother himself with it. It had been late by the time he’d left Sam’s room and booked a place for himself. They’d decided to head back to Bobby’s in the morning, to try and sort this mystery out where all the big and complicated research books lived. A lingering apprehension kept Dean awake, as though he might close his eyes and realize the whole day had been a dream. He was still in The Pit, still suffering at the hands of the demons, and all this was just a reminder of the past. If he closed his eyes, he’d be back there. It was the last thing in the world he wanted.
Dean pulled the scratchy bedspread up to his shoulders as the room cooled. He rubbed his face with the back of his hand, just as the television turned on. The screen was awash with black and white snow, unable to find even an infomercial display at this time of night. He looked around, wondering if he’d rolled over the remote by accident.
“Shit,” Dean hissed under his breath when he located the television remote, sitting untouched on the nightstand. The lighted numbers on the alarm clock flickered and changed, as though a magnet were held directly over their circuit board.
“Just show yourself!” Dean yelled at the room. He threw back the covers and tore away from the crumpled white pillow. A sound stretched out into the room, faint at first. Dean struggled to hear it, but didn’t have to wait long for comprehension. It was a piercing, screaming, high-pitched noise. The noise filled the room, burned into his thoughts, filtered through his body. Brief flashes of bad horror movies bounced through his brain: Linda Blair and her weird spinal tap in The Exorcist, Carol Ann’s innocent “They’re here” in Poltergeist. Dean lifted his hands over his ears to block out the sound, but to no avail. The television screen cracked. The bathroom mirror shattered into a thousand tiny glass shards. Dean sank from the bed to the floor, on his knees. Tears streamed from his eyes.
And as quickly as it began, the sound abruptly stopped.
Chapter Three: Raise it Up