FIC: "Salt Of The Earth" (1/1)
Title: Salt Of The Earth
Author: Dana
Rating: PG
Pairing: none
Spoilers: AHBL2
Characters: Dean, Sam
State: Utah
Summary: Dean and Sam pursue a demon in Utah.
Author's Notes: Written for spn_50states.
331.12.22.18
Dean fell asleep in Wyoming, with Sam behind the wheel. He felt like he hadn't slept for days. After their conversation by the car, his brother hadn't brought up the deal again. They also hadn't discussed Dad. One night at a motel, and then they had been off to Bobby's.
A month later, they were on the road again, headed towards somewhere. Anywhere.
When he woke, it was to towering mountains still capped with snow and a periwinkle sky, surrounding a glittering valley. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and blinked.
"Where-" he began, but Sam cut him off, anticipating the question.
"Utah," he said. "Heard on the radio that a fourteen-year-old girl murdered her parents in their bed last night. Went after her siblings, but the oldest one knocked her out and called the police."
Dean's eyelids felt like sandpaper and his neck hurt something awful. This was not the kind of crap he wanted to deal with right now.
"Demon?" he asked tersely.
"Think so," his little brother replied quietly. "She's just the right age to be open to possession."
After a long moment, as they passed through Park City, the eldest Winchester sighed. He pulled out his sunglasses and put them on. "I hate Utah."
330.15.09.56
They couldn't get in to see the girl, since she was in lockdown, but they arranged an interview with one of the neighbours for the next day, posing as reporters from back east.
As much as Dean professed to hate Utah, he liked the food. "Except fry sauce," he muttered, as they left the Training Table. "What the hell's that about?"
Another night in another motel. The sun was blinding. Dean felt kind of twitchy, like there was a clock somewhere inside him that he could hear, ticking off the seconds of his life. He tried not to dwell on it, but the thought kept creeping in at the edges, slowly whittling away at him. Is this the last time I'm going to do this?
The living room was done in blues. Faded blue walls, darker blue pile carpet, slate-blue velour sofa with a robin's egg crocheted doilie on the back. The house smelled like mothballs, and Dean found his attention wandering to the bright sunshine, past the window with the little glass hummingbirds hanging in front of it.
She'd heard the screams, but hadn't seen anything, she said. Such a lovely girl, always well-behaved and quiet. Until the day before the murders, when she'd started acting oddly. It had rained, and been so dark outside, even during the afternoon.
"Oddly, how?" Sam asked.
Dean stared at the wall. Several pictures hung there. A painting of Jesus Christ knocking at a door with no knob on the outside. An old man with black framed glasses. Some etching of a building, one they'd seen driving through Salt Lake, that looked like a German castle uprooted and dropped in the middle of the city. He thought about the door, wondered what it meant.
The elderly woman offered them cookies. It might have just been his imagination, but it was possibly the best cookie he'd had in his life, and it was just a sugar cookie.
329.23.17.10
The neighbour's house had traces of sulfur everywhere, especially in the girl's room.
"How many kids do these people have?" he wondered aloud, peering into yet another bedroom.
"Six," Sam answered.
He picked up a toy rabbit off the white dresser. Its lavender fur was incredibly soft, the black button eyes somehow bright and watchful. With a disturbing disquiet in his chest, Dean put it back down, trying not to think of the little child who would grow up not knowing his or her mother.
Pictures lined the hallway, depicting each child's progression from infant to their current age. The victims smiled cheerfully out of a family portrait, a cherubic baby on the mother's lap.
These people had held as much an emphasis on family as he had grown up with. Someone had embroidered a family tree and framed it; the piece hung in the living room, near the pink and green floral sofa. It was a damaged legacy.
Like his.
"Let's go," Sam said eventually.
Dean followed, wondering what kind of a legacy he'd be leaving behind.
329.06.43.08
Sam found a library, though what he needed it for, Dean didn't know; the girl was possessed, or a demon had done it. They just needed to find the demon and take it out.
He felt like he had a bullseye on his back, and no amount of fidgeting would get the feeling to go away. The Impala took him to State Street, and a surprising number of bars. He picked one at random, paid the membership fee--funny thing, that, laws around here were weird--found himself a drink and a girl.
Afterwards, when he drove back to pick up Sam, a weird sense of guilt lingered like a greasy film. His days were numbered, and this was what he was doing with them?
328.16.48.33
Sam's research had been about the hospital. He somehow managed to get into the hospital to see the girl, posing as a medical student from Brigham Young University, since it was forty miles to the south and less likely to cause identity problems. He reported back to Dean that she was, indeed possessed.
"What are we gonna do?" Dean asked.
"It's either gonna leave her, or we get in and force it out," Sam said. "Or we could let her bishop take care of it."
"Bishop?" Dean snorted.
Sam looked at him sharply. "You just think they're prudes."
He thought back to all those pictures. Six kids. That was a lot of sex. "Maybe. Maybe not."
327.10.31.47
During the night, one of the orderlies at the hospital killed a nurse and stole her car. He was last seen headed west.
"Guess we're goin' that way," Dean said.
West took them through the salt flats. There really wasn't a hope of catching up with this one, it was long gone. They drove out after it, anyway, until Dean reached the huge stretch of white nothing, and pulled the car over to the side of the road.
He got out and started walking, boots scuffing over the cracked surface. It was really too bad they'd paved part of this, because that had broken the natural protective salt barrier between the demon and his destination.
Sam joined him after a few minutes, catching up easily on those freakishly long legs. "This floods every year. Keeps it flat."
Dean barely heard him. There was nothing for thousands of acres in any direction. It was all just flat and white, empty.
He felt like this, suddenly. Ancient, dried up, empty. A vast, blank shell, cracking into tiny pieces to expose the tender clay beneath. But this would be here long after he had gone, long after he broke and the earth beneath his surface turned to ash and dust.
"Dean?"
He looked up, saw Sam there, the wind catching at Gigantor's dark hair and whipping it into his face. Sam's green eyes were concerned. But he didn't say anything; he'd finally learned, just when Dean might be more open to talking, to keep his mouth shut.
This was his legacy. He had no wife, no children, no hope for either in the foreseeable future. Even if he had the time, he wouldn't do that to someone, and there was no way he could tell her how little time he had left.
He had his brother, the kid brother he'd practically raised. He had his car. He had his mission.
"This one got away," he said at last, feeling bone-weary as he hadn't since before he'd confessed his father's dying words to Sam. The sheer enormity of their task pressed down on him. "We got hundreds of these things to find, Sammy."
"I know," his brother said. "We have time, Dean."
327.10.13.28
327.10.13.27
327.10.13.26
327.10.13.25
327.10.13.24
327.10.13.23
"You think so?" Dean squinted at him. "'Cause the way I figure it, even with Bobby's help . . . say there's two hundred demons that got free. There's three of us. We gotta get four a week. An' that's if it's only two hundred."
Sam shrugged. "Guess we better get moving, then."
We've got work to do.
It hung between them for an eternity, but neither said it.
He sighed. "Okay. Let's go."
The sun glared down at them as they turned the car around on the highway and headed back towards the jagged spine of the Rockies.
In the back of Dean's mind, the clock ticked on.
Author: Dana
Rating: PG
Pairing: none
Spoilers: AHBL2
Characters: Dean, Sam
State: Utah
Summary: Dean and Sam pursue a demon in Utah.
Author's Notes: Written for spn_50states.
331.12.22.18
Dean fell asleep in Wyoming, with Sam behind the wheel. He felt like he hadn't slept for days. After their conversation by the car, his brother hadn't brought up the deal again. They also hadn't discussed Dad. One night at a motel, and then they had been off to Bobby's.
A month later, they were on the road again, headed towards somewhere. Anywhere.
When he woke, it was to towering mountains still capped with snow and a periwinkle sky, surrounding a glittering valley. He sat up, rubbed his eyes and blinked.
"Where-" he began, but Sam cut him off, anticipating the question.
"Utah," he said. "Heard on the radio that a fourteen-year-old girl murdered her parents in their bed last night. Went after her siblings, but the oldest one knocked her out and called the police."
Dean's eyelids felt like sandpaper and his neck hurt something awful. This was not the kind of crap he wanted to deal with right now.
"Demon?" he asked tersely.
"Think so," his little brother replied quietly. "She's just the right age to be open to possession."
After a long moment, as they passed through Park City, the eldest Winchester sighed. He pulled out his sunglasses and put them on. "I hate Utah."
330.15.09.56
They couldn't get in to see the girl, since she was in lockdown, but they arranged an interview with one of the neighbours for the next day, posing as reporters from back east.
As much as Dean professed to hate Utah, he liked the food. "Except fry sauce," he muttered, as they left the Training Table. "What the hell's that about?"
Another night in another motel. The sun was blinding. Dean felt kind of twitchy, like there was a clock somewhere inside him that he could hear, ticking off the seconds of his life. He tried not to dwell on it, but the thought kept creeping in at the edges, slowly whittling away at him. Is this the last time I'm going to do this?
The living room was done in blues. Faded blue walls, darker blue pile carpet, slate-blue velour sofa with a robin's egg crocheted doilie on the back. The house smelled like mothballs, and Dean found his attention wandering to the bright sunshine, past the window with the little glass hummingbirds hanging in front of it.
She'd heard the screams, but hadn't seen anything, she said. Such a lovely girl, always well-behaved and quiet. Until the day before the murders, when she'd started acting oddly. It had rained, and been so dark outside, even during the afternoon.
"Oddly, how?" Sam asked.
Dean stared at the wall. Several pictures hung there. A painting of Jesus Christ knocking at a door with no knob on the outside. An old man with black framed glasses. Some etching of a building, one they'd seen driving through Salt Lake, that looked like a German castle uprooted and dropped in the middle of the city. He thought about the door, wondered what it meant.
The elderly woman offered them cookies. It might have just been his imagination, but it was possibly the best cookie he'd had in his life, and it was just a sugar cookie.
329.23.17.10
The neighbour's house had traces of sulfur everywhere, especially in the girl's room.
"How many kids do these people have?" he wondered aloud, peering into yet another bedroom.
"Six," Sam answered.
He picked up a toy rabbit off the white dresser. Its lavender fur was incredibly soft, the black button eyes somehow bright and watchful. With a disturbing disquiet in his chest, Dean put it back down, trying not to think of the little child who would grow up not knowing his or her mother.
Pictures lined the hallway, depicting each child's progression from infant to their current age. The victims smiled cheerfully out of a family portrait, a cherubic baby on the mother's lap.
These people had held as much an emphasis on family as he had grown up with. Someone had embroidered a family tree and framed it; the piece hung in the living room, near the pink and green floral sofa. It was a damaged legacy.
Like his.
"Let's go," Sam said eventually.
Dean followed, wondering what kind of a legacy he'd be leaving behind.
329.06.43.08
Sam found a library, though what he needed it for, Dean didn't know; the girl was possessed, or a demon had done it. They just needed to find the demon and take it out.
He felt like he had a bullseye on his back, and no amount of fidgeting would get the feeling to go away. The Impala took him to State Street, and a surprising number of bars. He picked one at random, paid the membership fee--funny thing, that, laws around here were weird--found himself a drink and a girl.
Afterwards, when he drove back to pick up Sam, a weird sense of guilt lingered like a greasy film. His days were numbered, and this was what he was doing with them?
328.16.48.33
Sam's research had been about the hospital. He somehow managed to get into the hospital to see the girl, posing as a medical student from Brigham Young University, since it was forty miles to the south and less likely to cause identity problems. He reported back to Dean that she was, indeed possessed.
"What are we gonna do?" Dean asked.
"It's either gonna leave her, or we get in and force it out," Sam said. "Or we could let her bishop take care of it."
"Bishop?" Dean snorted.
Sam looked at him sharply. "You just think they're prudes."
He thought back to all those pictures. Six kids. That was a lot of sex. "Maybe. Maybe not."
327.10.31.47
During the night, one of the orderlies at the hospital killed a nurse and stole her car. He was last seen headed west.
"Guess we're goin' that way," Dean said.
West took them through the salt flats. There really wasn't a hope of catching up with this one, it was long gone. They drove out after it, anyway, until Dean reached the huge stretch of white nothing, and pulled the car over to the side of the road.
He got out and started walking, boots scuffing over the cracked surface. It was really too bad they'd paved part of this, because that had broken the natural protective salt barrier between the demon and his destination.
Sam joined him after a few minutes, catching up easily on those freakishly long legs. "This floods every year. Keeps it flat."
Dean barely heard him. There was nothing for thousands of acres in any direction. It was all just flat and white, empty.
He felt like this, suddenly. Ancient, dried up, empty. A vast, blank shell, cracking into tiny pieces to expose the tender clay beneath. But this would be here long after he had gone, long after he broke and the earth beneath his surface turned to ash and dust.
"Dean?"
He looked up, saw Sam there, the wind catching at Gigantor's dark hair and whipping it into his face. Sam's green eyes were concerned. But he didn't say anything; he'd finally learned, just when Dean might be more open to talking, to keep his mouth shut.
This was his legacy. He had no wife, no children, no hope for either in the foreseeable future. Even if he had the time, he wouldn't do that to someone, and there was no way he could tell her how little time he had left.
He had his brother, the kid brother he'd practically raised. He had his car. He had his mission.
"This one got away," he said at last, feeling bone-weary as he hadn't since before he'd confessed his father's dying words to Sam. The sheer enormity of their task pressed down on him. "We got hundreds of these things to find, Sammy."
"I know," his brother said. "We have time, Dean."
327.10.13.28
327.10.13.27
327.10.13.26
327.10.13.25
327.10.13.24
327.10.13.23
"You think so?" Dean squinted at him. "'Cause the way I figure it, even with Bobby's help . . . say there's two hundred demons that got free. There's three of us. We gotta get four a week. An' that's if it's only two hundred."
Sam shrugged. "Guess we better get moving, then."
We've got work to do.
It hung between them for an eternity, but neither said it.
He sighed. "Okay. Let's go."
The sun glared down at them as they turned the car around on the highway and headed back towards the jagged spine of the Rockies.
In the back of Dean's mind, the clock ticked on.