Phantom Load - Part 7
Monday, January 20th, 1992
Sunday had been a good day. After sleeping in, Dad had decided the stacked washer and dryer, being miniscule in size, would have taken too long so he’d piled the laundry and his boys into the Impala and gone to the laundromat. Which meant card games in the warm din, pizza at a local joint, where Dad snuck a beer, and there was as much pop for the boys they could fit into their stomachs. And afterwards, piles of warm laundry to sit on as they drove home. During which, he and Dad decided, though he knew Dad had really decided, that Sammy and he could keep Sam's change to buy candy with, and if they’d been good and done their homework, Dad would add to the pile.
It would be on an honor system, to which Dean swore he’d never break. Dad had tousled his hair and laughed and knew that much was certain. Sammy in the back seat had only grunted, but Dean knew he’d follow the honor system too, as much as he might complain about it.
As he went into the school on Monday, Dean was resolved. It hit him the second he opened the front door to feel the whoosh of warm, lemon-lime air, the din of kids finding their way to class. The far off boom of something heavy being moved. He was ready. He had all of his homework done, his eyes burned from doing it, his tongue dotted with several sugar sores. The candy was all gone, Sam had had a headache that morning, which Dad said was his own fault for going overboard. Followed up by the parental admonishment just because there’s a bag of candy in front of you doesn’t mean you have to eat it all, Sam.
In science class, he handed a worksheet in and got a check plus from the teacher. Gym sucked, of course, but that was because Joel was back, and had somehow saved up enough energy to focus almost entirely on Dean. Who danced away from the towel snaps, ignored the jibes, and who pretended it was an accident when Joel smashed him into a wall. This was easy. Joel would never make a hunter. Dean would. English and math went much the same as science class; he was able to hand stuff in, to which his teachers nodded and smiled, and everyone seemed much happier with him, so it was okay.
When the lunch bell rang, Dean took his dollar and marched himself into the lunchroom, to get lunch, like Dad had ordered. He got in one of the two lines that snaked along each wall. Casting his eyes around the room, he told himself his heart was not pounding and that his armpits weren't damp with pools of sweat. He'd helped Dad with ghosts, which were a lot scarier than one janitor. Right? He told himself this was true.
Sounds and voices bounced off from the smooth walls, and Dean kept hearing the rattle of the garbage can on wheels, but each time he checked, there were only students and teachers. At one point, when Dean was at the head of the line and about the enter the serving area, a lady janitor came in with a little sprayer and clean rags to clean off the tables with, but that was okay. He was going to be okay.
Lunch was pizza and corn, iced brownie and sweet milk. Dean carried his tray to a table where he could sit with his back to the wall. He was eating lunch; he was doing what he was supposed to do. Everything except the corn could be eaten with his fingers so that allowed him to keep his eyes on the door. No one came. He hurried anyway, inhaled the corn in three huge bites and then carried his tray up to the counter, putting his silverware in the large metal bowl of warm soapy water like the other kids. Then he turned around.
Gunnarson was at the door, talking to a teacher and watching the boys as they came in and left. Dean felt his breath catch as his throat slammed shut. It was like walking into an ice box after a hot day; the warmth and movement of the lunch room froze into shards. He backed up as slowly as he could and reached for the wall. If he kept still, kept it slow, he could sneak out the other set of doors. If Gunnarson didn't turn this way, if Dean kept his heart from beating so loud surely the entire room could hear it.
It didn't. And Gunnarson didn't. Dean's armpits had circles of sweat under them by the time he got to geography class. It was going to be okay, as long as he was in class.
After school was another matter. Joel and two of his buddies were waiting outside the front door, where the buses had not yet come. When he backed into the school to avoid them, they followed, and Dean found himself pelting down the hall, looking for an exit. To be hunter didn’t mean taking on every battle you came across. You had to pick when and where and with whom. Today was not that day. Not for Joel.
But Dean's feet had taken him down the wrong hallway, almost as if they’d had a different plan in mind than his head or his chest. His mind went into a blank place, where he couldn’t feel anything, not even his hammering heart.
Dean let Mr. Gunnarson lead him down the stairs, heard the door snap shut, knew that Joel and his friends would not find him, not today. The boilers were humming and clicking, geared up from the cold day, the dust spread and whirling in the jeweled light. In the janitor’s office, Mr. Gunnarson took the messenger bag, now full of books, from off Dean’s shoulder. Then he took off Dean’s coat, and for a second, Dean let him. Didn’t say anything. Until Mr. Gunnarson sat in his rolling wooden chair and patted his thigh for Dean to come and sit down.
Dean stood his ground. “Mr. Gunnarson, I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Now, Dean you don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do, I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Yes, you do, Dean. You just don’t think that you do.”
“It’s not right.”
“And you’re too young to know your own mind, so come here.”
“No.”
Mr. Gunnarson got up and reached for Dean. Dean backed away, but not fast enough. Mr. Gunnarson had hold of his arm and pulled on it. Hard. Dean tugged, but Mr. Gunnarson wouldn’t let go, so Dean pulled his arm to his face and bit Mr. Gunnarson’s hand.
Mr. Gunnarson froze. “Holy Christ,” he said, looking at the place where Dean had bit him. It hadn't broken the skin, but it was enough to shock him into stillness. But when Dean bent to reach for his bag and his coat, Mr. Gunnarson was faster, grabbing Dean’s shoulders with two hands and pulling him over to the desk.
“That was naughty, Dean, you know better. And you know you like this. You always have.”
Like he was some other boy Gunnarson used to know.
The janitor sat down, pulling Dean with him, spinning the chair slightly so that Dean was trapped between the chair and the desk. To get out, he would have to get past the janitor and the chair, and there wasn’t any room. But there was room the other way. Dean waited a minute, while Mr. Gunnarson straightened his thigh, reached for Dean to make him sit on it. Then Dean burst through and grabbed the monkey wrench sitting on the edge of the shelf. Swung it. Hit the chair. Swung it again, hit the desk, the filing cabinet. Almost hit Mr. Gunnarson in the head, but then decided to make a run for it. Something swung out and tripped him, and as he fell, hard on the concrete floor, he flung the wrench. It whistled past the janitor’s head and hit the cage that surrounded the clock. Dented it, and clanged to the floor.
But he’d taken too much time with that, hadn’t run when he’d had the chance, and part of his mind knew that if he did have a chance, he might have to sacrifice his coat and his bag of books to make it away. Sometimes it happened like that, so he was ready for that. But he wasn’t ready for Mr. Gunnarson, standing over him while he slipped his belt off and folded it in half. With one foot, he pinned Dean to the spot, his boot heel on Dean’s ankle as he raised the belt over his head.
Dad had never beaten them with anything, at most a swat to the backside with his hand when they were really out of order. Or a chuff to the head if he and Sam wrestled too hard in the back seat of the Impala as it rocketed down the highway. So Dean didn’t know what to expect except that it couldn’t be good. It wasn’t. It was like fire wrapping around the backs of his legs, cutting into the soft front of his hips, eating through the denim of his jeans like he wasn’t wearing anything. Feeling like it was ripping the skin from his legs, eating down to his bones.
He thought Mr. Gunnarson stopped at twenty, but he was barely breathing when Mr. Gunnarson grunted, and Dean sensed the flash of orange through the narrow frosted window that said the buses were there. That Sam’s van would soon be there, if it wasn’t already. And that Mr. Gunnarson had to let him go now.
Which he did. He put his belt back on and pulled Dean to his feet by one arm. He put Dean’s coat on him, roughly, and shoved his grey messenger bag at him. Pushed him away.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Dean. You better behave yourself next time or else.”
Dean wondered or else what? As he walked away, he held his bag to his chest, his mouth narrowed against the black pain ripping up his legs and hips. Feeling, as he mounted the stairs, that the backs of his thighs were made of stiff wood. That the blood was boiling under his skin, cloth pushing against his welts like spikes.
When he got to the top of the stairs and opened the door, he thought he was going to scream out loud. But he made himself not, made himself sling the bag over his shoulder, unfold the strap so it lay evenly over his coat, and began to walk.
He ran into Mr. Collins in front of the auditorium. Mr. Collins patted him on the shoulder and leaned down to ask him something. Dean could almost hear it. Something about was everything okay. Dean nodded and smiled back, and hurried out. Met Sam, who waved a red mitten at him triumphantly as he got out of the van. Who also had a familiar looking dark blue knit cap on his head, which pushed his bangs even further over his eyes. That smile, ear to ear, dimples, helped Dean to smile back.
“I threatened him,” said Sam in reply to the unanswered question.
“With what?” Dean heard himself ask.
“You.” Sam cocked his head back as they walked, pretty pleased with himself, and Dean patted him on the head like he was making fun, but, really, it was the smart thing to do. The best battle to win was the one you never had to fight. At least that’s what Dad said, though sometimes, Dean knew, it was fun to fight the battle anyway.
He kept up with Sam as best he could till they got to the corner, and they both stopped to button and zip up against the wind. And then Sam turned to him.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” said Dean, looking down on his little brother. “Why?”
“You’re limping. And walking slow.” This said with a derisive air, because even Sam knew that Winchesters walked fast. Always. Regardless.
“Maybe I feel like it.” Shrugging.
Sam looked at him for a minute, like Dean was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the Winchester way, besides walking fast, was not to pry. Sam look like he wanted to, so Dean diverted him.
“Got any change?”
“Yeah,” said Sam, pulling it out of his pocket and handing it over.
Dean took the forty-five cents. The money felt warm in his hand as he put it in his pocket. The rest of him felt cold all over.
“So can you put my mitten back on my string when we get home?”
“Sure,” said Dean. He tried to walk faster, but his legs were now frozen and stiff. “And I’ll show you how to make a good tight knot for it. For the next time."
“There won’t be any next time,” said Sam. His voice was dark, and Dean nodded his approval. Then felt his stomach rumble up into his throat as the sweat popped out on his forehead and spit built up in his mouth.
"Uh," said Dean. He could hardly get the words out as he motioned for Sam to wait a minute. With one hand out, he braced himself against a pole and tried to get his feet out of the way as he puked up his lunch. It splatted on the ground almost intact, as though he'd not chewed any of it before swallowing.
"Gross!" said Sammy. "Are you sick?"
"Uh," said Dean again. Standing up from the pole, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smelled the acidy fumes from his lunch. He took his foot and kicked some snow and dirt over the pile, trying not to catch Sam's eye. "Just a bad lunch is all. Let's go."
Sam stayed at his side all the way back to the trailer without saying a word.
*
Dean didn't sleep. He made himself not sleep, and, actually, that was rather easy. Even if he lay on his front, the blood pumped up and down the back of his legs like hot water through thin pipes. Every time he touched his legs and his backside, feeling under the elastic on his thigh, he felt like he was pressing against hard wood. He didn't want to get up and get some aspirin because that would make it more real somehow. And if he fell asleep, he might have another nightmare, and he didn't want Sammy to know that. So it was best just to stay where he was, head buried in his arms on the pillow, hearing Sam's inhales and exhales, listening to the thrum of the furnace trying to build itself up against the cold. Besides, Dad would be home by the weekend and by that time he would be better. Everything would be all right.
Sunday, November 26th, 2006
Sam hadn't set the alarm, so in the morning when he woke up, he knew it was late. A glance at the clock told him it was about 10 o'clock. Another glance told him that Dean had managed to doze off fully dressed. The Chinese food, as well, was gone from the room; Dean must have taken it out, even without Sam pointing out how bad it smelled. Sam sat up. Snow had been tracked in during the night, he guessed he was lucky it had been Dean doing the tracking, otherwise he'd be a dead man. Funny how much he trusted that Dean would be there, enough to fall asleep without checking the locks or anything resembling safety precautions. Dean had probably been awake most of the night anyway.
Through the window he could see the gleam of gold and white. He got up and threw the curtains open, surprised to find crystal white snow everywhere, and a lapis lazuli sky beyond the edge of the white-capped roof of the motel. He could see some guy, bundled up, hard at it with a shovel, warm enough to have thrown his hood back, his breath like a shot of cigar smoke with every toss.
"Dude," said Dean from behind him.
Sam turned around. Dean sat up, squinting at him, making that face he would make when on the verge of saying something nasty but was holding it back. Sam shut the curtains without being asked.
"Breakfast," he said.
"You go on without me," said Dean. "I'm not hungry."
"And I've had enough of that crap," said Sam. He reached for his jeans that he'd hung over a chair the night before. "Besides, we've got a grave to dig today; it's not going to dig itself. And I'm not going to do it alone." These last words were muffled as he pulled on his hoodie without unzipping it.
"And after that we split this dumb little town?"
Sam pulled the hoodie straight on his arms, checked his back pocket for his wallet. "Of course. The job'll be done here. Now will you come on? It's already 10, they'll stop serving breakfast soon."
"Not on Sunday," said Dean. "No self respecting diner stops serving breakfast before noon on a Sunday."
"True. But come on anyway. I'm starving."
Dean stayed on the bed. Sam walked to the end of it and tried not to loom. "Just come. Order toast. I promise not to bug you."
"Yeah, you say that now," said Dean. But he was getting up, tightening the laces on his boots that he'd never taken off, pulling his rumpled sweater into order.
Sam grabbed the key from the dresser and didn't tell Dean to hurry. He didn't remark that Dean put on another sweater before he put on his leather jacket. He didn't even say anything when Dean swiped his gloves. He merely broke a path through the snow that shortly joined a number of other paths that led to the diner. Once there, they had to wait in the sweaty, overhot group at the front of the hostess desk. The place was hopping. Sam could smell bacon on the grill, and peppers. His mouth started to water, but when he looked at Dean, all he saw was blankness. But a promise was a promise.
A two-top opened up. It wasn't near the windows, but it felt warm as they sat down. Sam satisfied himself with an order of biscuits and gravy, with scrambled eggs on the side, and with watching Dean manage a piece of toast along with his cup of coffee. He did his best not to scowl or stare pointedly. In fact, he all but ignored his brother, tending to his breakfast with extra care, and managed three cups of coffee to Dean's one. Thus with his full stomach and Dean's no doubt empty one, they headed out on Arapahoe to Valmont Cemetery.
As Dean drove, Sam was surprised to see the snow melting from the black streets, vapor rising up from glossy gutters running with water. The sun was in a cloudless sky, and even though it was cold, the snow was turning to slush in the fields as they headed down Arapahoe.
"Place'll be mud by the time we dig," said Dean.
"Better than hacking through permafrost," said Sam.
"True."
Dean turned the Impala on Butte Mille Road that led straight to Valmont Butte. Then he parked at the bottom of the hill right next to the gate.
"It's locked," said Dean, the engine humming in idle.
"Yeah," said Sam. "Not that the Impala could make it up that grade with all that snow anyway."
"She could make it."
"Dean, underneath the snow, the road is just one big rut."
"Fine, we'll park here and carry it all up."
"Great." Sam kept his irritation hidden. Of course there would be a hike through what was now ankle deep slush. His sneakers weren't dry from yesterday. He had on more layers, but if he didn't come down with raging pneumonia, he'd be very surprised.
Dean parked parallel to the road and they unloaded everything they'd need: salt, two shovels, a canister of gasoline. Dean pulled out two pairs of working gloves; Sam took one pair and put them on. He bent to pick up a shovel and the canister of gasoline, and stopped when he saw Dean's face. Dean had tucked his chin down to his shoulder, that stance he took when facing something hard. He was bending to pick up his own shovel and the salt, but slowly, like he ached all over.
"Dean."
Dean straightened up, gear in hand, shoulders now level, eyes flat, his face an absolute blank.
"You okay?"
"Sure," said Dean. "I'm okay. Already cold as a well digger's ass, but good. I'm good. You?"
Sam shrugged. It was no use. Dean was going to hold on to whatever it was that was bugging him, and even though Sam could argue this fact till he was blue in the face, Dean would not admit it. Maybe someday, when they were far from Boulder and hip deep in another, quite different job. Then, perhaps, in the darkness, Dean might start talking. Or he might not. Fact was, Sam wasn't sure he wanted to think about it any more. Four days was long enough to be barred at the gate to Dean's inner thoughts.
They trudged up the hill, slipping on melted slush and the mud that churned up beneath their feet. The hill cut a line against the hard, icy blue sky. At the top of the hill was a little flat mesa, and the gate to the cemetery, which luckily, wasn't locked. There were a few bare, scrambly trees and clumps of dried brush. Gunnarson's last resting place certainly wasn't fancy.
Dean stopped to look back along the way they'd come while Sam fiddled with the latch.
"You're right," Dean said. "She wouldn't have made it. Not enough clearance."
Sam nodded in response, hefted his shovel, and slipped through the gate. In his pocket he had the slip of paper with the grid number for Gunnarson's gravesite, but he had it memorized. He walked along the rows, feeling Dean behind him, silently following. The cemetery wasn't large, but it was old, and not everything had a clear designation. The markers were weatherworn, some almost indecipherable. Almost giving up, Sam scanned the cemetery, his eyes catching on a new hard mound under the snow, and a freshly carved headstone.
"Yeah," he said, pointing with his shovel. "That one over there." His breath came out in clouds that in the slight breeze swirled around his face for a minute before whisking away. His nose felt raw on the inside, but the sun was bright and everything was melting. It should be an easy dig.
He led the way, hearing Dean tromp behind him in the soft snow, squinting against the glint of the sun, the brightness of the sky. "Yesterday it was a blizzard," he said. "Today? Tropical."
"Yeah," said Dean.
Sam stopped. "Here it is."
They began to dig.
*
Even with Dean digging like a madman without taking a single break to Sam's two five-minute ones, it took them till well afternoon, with the sun starting to move towards the ridge of the mountains, where clouds boiled up along the back range. Sam stood there for a moment, leaning on his shovel, puffing out steam, looking. Seeing how far he could see from this one high point at the edge of the town.
He looked down at Dean, who, after a long pause, had jumped down to break open the coffin and was now standing on the edges of it, eyes down. He was covered with dirt and ice; they both were. They would have to do rock, paper, scissors to decide who got the first shower, but then, Dean always lost.
"Okay," said Dean. "This is it." Dean climbed out and picked up the salt and poured it into the now open grave. The sound of it skittering across a not-so-old body was familiar to Sam. Normally the bodies they dealt with were brittle as dried leaves. He'd glimpsed the edges of the round flesh for a second before Dean waved him away, muttering something about it being really gross. Sam didn't mind being protected for a minute. He'd had his share of gross.
Sam handed him the gas can. Dean jerked his chin at him as they both took off their gloves so the leather wouldn't become soaked with gasoline.
"Hey," Dean said, starting to pour. "I think I forgot the matches. They're in the car."
The wind was brisk now as Sam turned to go, nodding. He was peeved that Dean had forgotten, but it seemed par for the course. He walked to the gate, listening to the sounds of Dean pouring the gas on the body, the fumes coming up like a familiar dank perfume across the snow. Something he'd smelled a hundred times or more. He opened the gate and looked at the path, thought about the distance to the Impala, and whether the sun would have started to set by the time he got back with the matches.
Going through the gate he smelled it. Sulphur. And then heard the snap and the sizzle. And stopped.
He turned around. Dean had matches and what looked like a large folder in his hand. He was about to set it on fire so Sam ran. Ran right at him and tackled him into the wet snow. The folder went everywhere, papers spilling, photographs. Handwritten notes. Dean's name on every one.
Part 8