The Lights of Home Part 4
Part 4: Some Rumors Going 'Round That Someone's Underground
Somewhere Between Pennsylvania and Indiana - January 2009
Castiel had come with them on the salt-and-burn, standing motionless by the grave while Dean and Sam dug and sweated and sometimes cursed each other for getting in the way when their shovels clashed with a tooth-rattling ring of metal. The ghost didn't show up, perhaps because it was just one of those times when things went easily, perhaps because it didn't want to mess with the statue of unbearable radiance that was an angel of the Lord. In any case, it went smoothly and they were on the road the next morning, Dean occasionally casting a skeptical eye at their tag-along, wondering if he had even slept. Castiel hadn't come into their motel room and they hadn't invited him, so who knew what he had done all night. Stood outside the door like a dog on guard? Wandered over to the 24-hour place across the street for coffee and pie? Turned on his angel radio and had a lovely chat with his brothers?
Whatever. Dean didn't want to know. He wasn't curious or anything. Just idly wondering to pass the time. Definitely not looking in the rearview mirror every five minutes to keep an eye on the guy in the backseat, and definitely not thinking about the last time there had been an angel sitting back there, because that was just too freaking weird.
Castiel was completely different than Anna in every way, for one thing. Anna had been like a beam of sunlight, shining in on Dean's dark places and warming him, gently and sweetly, revealing too much but doing it out of kindness and a desire to help. And if Anna was the sun, Castiel was the moon, his radiance harsh and cold and silvered, beaming in from far out in the black void of space. He was uncomfortable and strange and made of sharp, hard angles, crazy, non-Euclidean shapes that didn't fit anywhere in the pragmatic world of Dean Winchester. His touch burned and his voice shattered glass and he wasn't here to perch on anyone's shoulder, that was for damn sure. Dean bet he didn't even like chocolate cake, and that was just plain wrong.
They stopped at a gas station, and Sam went inside for snacks and coffee while Dean manned the pump. Castiel slowly climbed out of the Impala and stood next to Dean on the concrete island, staring into the distance as if he could see their destination from here. Maybe he could.
"You remember Woodlan."
Dean shot Castiel a narrow glance, but the guy was still staring away, his face completely smooth and serene.
"Yeah," he said shortly, turning his eyes back to the pump. It was nice, having the gas prices so low, but Dean didn't expect it to stay that way. Better enjoy it while he could.
"It will be difficult for you to return there."
"Yep."
"Emotions and memories you have held buried for most of your life may resurface, causing you refreshed pain."
Dean huffed and pivoted away from the pump, glaring at the angelic pain in his ass. "What's your point?"
Castiel turned his head to face him, letting Dean see that his eyes were anything but serene. "You should tell your brother. He will want to support you."
"No way, man. I've put more than enough burdens on that kid lately. He doesn't need even more of my shit." Dean turned back to the pump, keeping his head down, refusing to look at Cas again.
"Sam is stronger than you think. He can shoulder more than you have given him."
Dean just shook his head, watching the numbers crawl upward. It didn't matter how strong Sam was. This wasn't his job, and Dean shouldn't have even told him what he already had.
Fortunately, Sam chose this moment to return from the gas station, cradling two cups of coffee between his arm and torso and frowning at something in his other hand. Dean raised his head to give him a sunny grin. "Why the long face, Sasquatch?"
Sam looked up, still frowning prodigiously. "I wanted some Laffy Taffy, but dude, they aren't the same. Look it!"
He held up the colorful pieces in his hand. Instead of the blocky squares Dean remembered from childhood, these were oblong and flat, wrapped in thin plastic wrappers instead of waxed paper. Dean nodded sagely, well-versed in the ways of candy.
"They've been that way for awhile now. What, you didn't buy any Laffy Taffy at Stanford?"
Sam shook his head, stopping by the Impala to set the coffee down on the hood. He opened a piece of taffy and stuck the neon red stuff in his mouth, then stared at the blank wrapper in disappointment. "Where are the jokes?"
Dean took the wrapper from his hand and turned it right-side out. "They're on the outside now, hidden under the crease. See? Oh, man, you tore this one." He held the two pieces together at the tear, trying to read the joke.
"I like the old way better." Sam was still frowning, his tone the same as that of an elderly geezer decrying the activities of "kids these days."
"What, where the jokes would be cut off sometimes and you couldn't see the answer or the question? You liked that better?"
Sam nodded sadly, his eyes large and round. He looked seven years old again, concerned about nothing but finding pennies and acquiring as much candy as possible. Dean grinned at him, warmed to the core. "Okay, I got this one. What does Batman's mom say when she calls him in for supper?"
Sam's forehead wrinkled. "Batman doesn't have a mother. By the time he was Batman she had died."
"Yes, yes, I have taught you well, young Padawan." Dean nodded solemnly. "But seriously. What does she say?"
"I give up. Why don't you tell me?"
"Dude, you didn't even try!"
Sam sighed gustily and turned his head sideways to glare at him.
Dean raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay!" It was not a good idea to get between Sammy and his Laffy Taffy jokes. He gave the answer in a rapid sing-song. "Dinner dinner dinner dinner dinner dinner dinner dinner, BATMAN!"
Somehow, Castiel's blank stare at them both made it even better. They were cracking up all the way through that half of Ohio.
~*~
Woodlan, Indiana - August, 1990
July had been a great month. Dad did so much stuff with them it was hard to believe that this was the same man who had been so absent in body and mind during the entirety of June. Sammy didn't even whine about doing chores when it was Dad giving the orders instead of Dean. He only went on one hunting trip the whole month, just a weekend thing, Saturday and Sunday and he was back on Monday just like he promised, a little grim around the edges but smiling brightly and catching the boys in his arms as soon as he stepped in the door.
Deep down, Dean knew he should feel guilty about it instead of enjoying having Dad around so much. He knew what had caused the change. Dad had started sticking around more after he found out about Dean's massive screw-up with Coach Peters, after he realized that his oldest son couldn't be trusted to take care of just himself, let alone his innocent little brother. That was why Dad had spent so much time at home, because he knew that Dean shouldn't be left alone, weak and pathetic as he was. So Dean had thrown himself into the training and worked his butt off to prove himself. He knew it was almost impossible now, after his terrible, terrible mistake, but he had to try.
At long last he knew that it had worked, because Dad started spending more time at the library again. One morning at breakfast Sammy asked, "Can we play baseball again tonight?" and Dad didn't even look up from the newspaper to say "Sorry, kiddo, there's something I have to look into this evening." Sammy's face practically fell into his cereal, and Dean felt bad for him, and for himself. But he was also glad and relieved, because that meant that Dad was trusting him to keep watch at night again instead of coming home early to do it himself.
Maybe, if Dean was very, very good, Dad would even tell him what this one was about. Sometimes he did that-sometimes he told Dean about the case he was working on, taught him about the methods of killing and tracking and fighting he would need to use against this particular threat. Dean never felt more important and grown-up than he did then, when Dad treated him like a fellow hunter. Those times were few and far between, though, since Dean was still mostly a useless kid. Someday he was going to help his dad on every single hunt, though. Someday.
But Dad didn't tell him about this one. He was completely absorbed in the hunt, didn't even notice when his feet started sticking to the kitchen floor again. Dean saw a newspaper article about some freak electric storms and heard gossip around town about a cow being killed in a weird way out on the Neuenschuander farm, and he figured those things probably had something to do with it. It was probably really important, and his dad was going to be a hero and save people from horrible things again.
Dean didn't mind, really he didn't. Dad's work was important and Dean understood that; he wanted his father to do it. He just wished that he could help, sometimes.
~*~
Dad hadn't even blinked when Dean asked for permission for Sam and him to go to Eddie Stoller's birthday party. Just said, "Oh, Megan Stoller's in charge? I'm sure it will be fine." Dean didn't bother telling him all the details about it, since it was clear that his father was too busy to deal with it right now. Anyway, Metea Park was only a few miles away from Woodlan, so it shouldn't be any problem, right?
So here they were at Eddie's swimming party, Dean trying not to feel stupid in his threadbare trunks and holey t-shirt, Sammy too young and too dumb to care, laughing gleefully as he splashed in the dirty brown water of the pond. The other boys-and there were a bunch of them-mostly had newish-looking clothes, or at least ones with no holes. No one said anything, but Dean felt it, nonetheless. They were different. They were Winchesters.
"All right," a harried-sounding Mrs. Stoller said after a few hours of pre-teen boys splashing and rough-housing and trying to kill each other in the water. Her hair was standing up on her head and her eyes were wide, and Dean knew that she had been trying to watch everyone at once, trying to make sure they were safe. He knew, because he'd been doing the same thing. "All right, you kids, go take a hike."
The boys laughed, but she was serious. She made them dry off and get dressed, then handed out trail maps and safety whistles. Metea Park was mainly a nature preserve, with acres of meadows and woods and at least a dozen trails. Dean and Sam were assigned to take one of the back trails. "Remember the buddy system, and don't waste too much time," Mrs. Stoller ordered in a voice that was scarily like Dad's. "By the time you get back Eddie's dad will be here and we'll have grilled hot dogs and cake and ice cream."
With a ragged chorus of cheers, the group wandered off. Sam trotted at Dean's elbow, avidly reading the trail map and quickly beginning to whine about their given route. "It's all the way in the back, and it's called the Mound Trail. What does that even mean? It sounds boring. I wish she had given us the Butterfly Trail. That sounds cool. Or the Wildflower Trail. I bet there are a bunch of them out this time of year."
Dean smirked, all set to tease his brother mercilessly for being so eager to see butterflies and flowers, for pity's sake. Honestly, he didn't care, as long as the Winchester brothers were together. He shuddered to think of the trouble Sam could have gotten into without Dean to keep an eye on him. No matter which boy Sam was paired with, the other kid wouldn't have stood a chance against the younger Winchester's persuasive abilities. Orders would have been disobeyed and trails switched, and it just would have been a total disaster.
The Mound Trail turned out to be pretty cool, though. It was in the woods, at first a new-growth forest, hundreds of smaller trunks and unruly underbrush, but then it gave way to an old-growth area, enormous trunks, heavy leaves above shutting out the sun. It was like being in a temple. With air-conditioning. Sammy quit complaining, staring around in fascination. Mrs. Stoller had picked a good one for them, after all.
Eventually they reached the mound that gave the trail its name. Dean could see that it was unnatural, a grass-covered hill rising too smooth and symmetrical and round, like the man-made hill near the new park in Woodlan, though this one was far, far older. There was a feeling of ageless centuries, here, a timeless waiting, a sense of ancient, patient anticipation, as if the people who had built this place had only stepped out for a moment and would return soon. The old-growth trees ended abruptly on the edge of the mound, as if the forest did not dare to set foot there. It made all the hairs on Dean's back stand up, gooseflesh rippling across his arms and neck.
Sam read aloud the enormous trail marker that stood nearby, eyes wide, voice hushed. "'These mysterious mounds have been built all over the United States, and many Midwest states possess one or two. As with Stonehenge in England and the ziggurats in South America, their builders have passed out of memory, as has the purpose of these strange structures. Metea Park's mound is thought to have been constructed by the Miami tribe, perhaps for some religious or cultural reason, but the significance has been lost.' Oh, man, Dean, this is so cool."
"Yeah, cool," Dean said. "C'mon, we gotta get back. Hot dogs, man. I'm starving."
Sammy ignored him, stepping off the trail and onto the slope of the mound. "C'mon, Dean, let's check it out! We came all this way-we can't leave now!"
Dean shifted from foot to foot, shoulders rising to his ears. He didn't want to be here, but he couldn't say why. "Come...come on, Sam. We're not supposed to go off the trail. It's not safe."
Sam actually turned around at that, though he didn't step back toward the trail, just stared at his brother with his mouth hanging open. He didn't have to say it aloud. When did you start caring about the rules?
Dean scowled fiercely, but finally shook himself and stepped forward. "Fine, fine, I'm coming. But if we get caught, this was your idea."
"Sure!" Sam peeped cheerily, already racing to the top, small frame bathed in the sudden sunlight after the shade of the trees. "C'mon, let's see if it's as fun to roll down this hill as the one in Woodlan."
Dean followed as quickly as he could make himself, racing to Sam's side. No matter what, he should stick with his little brother. "Nah, don't roll down this one. You could hit the trees."
Sam saw the sense in this and contented himself with running from one side of the mound to the other, arms outflung, yelling what he thought were Indian war whoops. After a while Dean, too, lost his trepidation, and they ran and raced and chased, then fell on each other wrestling in the soft, green grass. Dean could have won easily, as always, but he let Sam get the upper hand. The boy grabbed Dean in a headlock that stretched his shorter arms to their limit and rolled them both over into a spot where the ground felt suddenly soft, spongy and weird....
And then, with twin yells of shock and fear, they fell through the earth into a place that was dark and cold and terrifying, far from the sun.
~*~
"Dean?" Sam's voice was tiny, shaking uncontrollably. "Where are we?"
Dean coughed and tried to sit up. He could feel the loose dirt that covered his body sliding off with the movement, though plenty of it still stuck to him, damp and clammy. It felt gross, awful, intolerable-pretty strange, since he usually didn't mind being dirty.
It was dark, really dark, yet somehow Dean was able to see, though dimly. Like everything was lit with some sort of dim, blue light. It made him think of the chapters one of his teachers last year had read from The Lord of the Rings, the barrow-down, the corpse lights, though he didn't know why those phrases came to him and felt so right.
Sitting up wasn't going so good. He coughed again, and groaned, letting his head fall back into the cold dirt. Why did his chest hurt so bad?
"Dean?" Small hands fumbled for him, soft fingers brushing over his face, then digging into the shoulders of his t-shirt and hanging on. "Dean? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I think I landed on you when we fell."
Dean raised a shaking hand to his chest, almost patting himself down. His ribs ached, and breathing was kinda painful, but nothing felt cracked or broken. It was okay. He was going to be okay.
He had to be okay, because this was a bad, bad situation, and he and Sammy were stuck right in the middle of it. With a sudden ferocity that left him momentarily breathless, Dean longed for his father. Dad would know what to do. Dad would take care of everything.
"D-D-Dean?" Sam's trembling fingers stroked over his face again, then pressed hard on his cheeks, sharp and desperate. "Why'd you quit breathing? Dean!"
Dean sucked in a breath, steeling himself against the pain. He had to be strong. Sam was just a little kid, and he didn't know what was out there. Dean had to take care of him.
He pushed himself ruthlessly to sitting, ignoring the way his ribs cried out, though he couldn't quite stifle a small, harsh gasp that seemed to echo around them, instantly eaten up in the cold, still air. "'Sokay, Sammy. 'S gonna be okay."
His own voice almost scared him, though. It hardly sounded like him at all. He wasn't surprised when Sammy let out a tiny, frantic sob and latched onto him with both arms, clinging to his neck. "Dean! Dean Dean Dean Dean Dean! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't've made you play on the hill, you were right, we shoulda stayed on the trail..."
"Sammy, Sammy, shh, it's okay." He patted the kid's back clumsily with one dirty hand, still fighting for breath. "We just gotta...we just gotta stay still and figure this out, okay? What does Dad say when he sends us out in the woods to practice finding our way back?"
Sam sat still, though his chest still heaved against Dean's arm, far too fast, and Dean could feel the little guy's heart beating quick quick quick. "Don't go harin' off into the trees," he said after awhile, unconsciously deepening his voice in an imitation of their father.
"Right, yeah, you can't let yourself get panicked. That just gets you worst lost. Gotta, gotta...take stock. Then you make a plan and follow through."
"Okay." Sam's voice was still small, but it wasn't shaking so bad now. "Take stock."
"Right. So...where are we?" Dean had lost time there for a bit, he knew that-he must have blacked out. No use telling Sam that, though. Just let the kid answer questions as if this was another training exercise.
"We fell through the dirt? And we landed down here. And I don't know where here is, but it's dark and cold and scary."
Sammy was still clinging to him with both arms and seemed inclined to wrap his legs around Dean, too, but that was okay. "Right. We fell through the dirt." Dean craned his head back to look up, but couldn't really see a hole or anything above them. There were some pinpricks that might be daylight, but they seemed distant, unreachable. "So we're...we're inside the mound, I guess."
"We have to get out of the mound," Sam said, trying to make his voice firm, even though it persisted in wobbling. "We're missing the hot dogs and cake and ice cream."
"Yeah, that sucks." Dean stretched out his hands and found the wall, sheer and steep, loose dirt that slid under his fingers, the dark brown, clay-y topsoil of Indiana. "Let me get up."
Sam slowly disentangled his limbs from Dean, then pushed to his feet and helped Dean up, pulling on his big brother's arm with both hands and grunting ostentatiously with the effort. Dean placed his hands against the wall, then his feet, tried to see if climbing was possible. It wasn't. He just kept sliding down, and though he landed on his feet every time, the repeated shocks made his chest hurt even more.
"Okay, we can't go up." He kept his voice calm, even though it was really, really hard. "We have to find another way out." The area they were in looked like it narrowed down into a tunnel, but Dean didn't want to go down it. His belly felt full of stones at the very idea. But what choice did they have? "Okay. Keep taking stock. What supplies do we have?"
Both boys emptied their pockets. Dean had gum wrappers, a few dollars in change and crumpled bills. Sam had two pieces of pink chalk, six jellybeans crusted with lint, a yo-yo, and a thick loop of string he'd been using to learn to play cat's cradle with one of the little girls at the houses where Dean mowed. Neither of them had any water or walkie talkies or anything. The trail map was pretty useless here, but Dean stuck it in the back of his jeans anyway. The safety whistle, though, had been jammed with dirt somewhere in the fall, and only made a thhbbb noise when they tried to blow it.
Dean picked up the yo-yo, squinting at it in the blue light. It was one of those big, trick ones with a super-long string, the most expensive one the drug store carried. "All right, we can use this. We gotta keep track of each other." Sam didn't even peep in protest as Dean unwound the string and snipped it off with his teeth, then undid the knot on his cat's cradle string and tied the two lengths together. It was pretty long, enough to go around a few corners, maybe. "You hold one end and I'll hold the other, so no matter how dark it gets we won't lose each other, okay?"
Sammy took his end of the string and held on tight. "Dean...I'm scared."
"Don't worry. They'll figure out we're missing and come looking for us. And maybe we'll even find our own way out of here."
Still, the boy just kept staring at him, eyes so wide that Dean could see a glimpse of white, made blue and alien by the weird light. Dean melted, of course. He always melted.
"Okay, I'll tell you what. This string is pretty long. You hold onto your end and you sit here where we know it's okay. I'll scout ahead, and when I know it's safe, I'll tug on the string and you follow me. And then we do it again, and again, until we're out. How's that?"
Sam nodded, the movement huge and exaggerated in the dimness, just to make sure Dean got it.
"All right. Here goes. Sit tight."
Dean walked into the darkness.
~*~
Everything looked the same. Dean tried to keep track in his head, tried to make a mental map the way Dad taught them to do on those wilderness training missions. But it was all just one cold blue tunnel after another, no differences that he could see, nothing distinguishable in the dark. Every time he tugged the string to bring Sammy forward, he wished he hadn't, because he wasn't truly certain that it was safe. Nothing felt safe. He didn't want to lie to his little brother, make him believe it was safe when it wasn't, but they needed to keep moving forward, and Sammy was so scared....
The feeling of old patience was much stronger down here. Dean didn't feel like there were eyes on him-he felt like he was inside the eye of some terrible enormous creature, and even if it blinked it would still see him, because he was too close for hiding, no matter what he did. And worse, his little brother was in the same fix, and Dean couldn't get him away, couldn't cover him up from the all-seeing presence. Terror beat incessantly in his chest, wearing him down with every step.
The only real measure of time's passage was his steadily increasing hunger, then his thirst. Oh, he longed for those hot dogs, that cake and ice cream. He was careful not to mention it, though, didn't want to torture Sammy with the thought of what they couldn't have. So far the younger boy seemed too scared to even think about being hungry, and Dean wanted to spare him anything he could, even something that small. Eventually he knew that that meal had to be long, long gone, it had been such a length of time since they'd fallen into this sullen blue underworld, and yet his stomach continued growl. Hadn't they noticed that the Winchester boys were missing yet? Hadn't they sent help? What was taking them so long?
Maybe Sam and Dean should stop moving, just sit still and wait for help. But that had never been John Winchester's way, despite what they told you in the safety classes at school. If you were in trouble, if you were in a dangerous situation with no help in sight, you never, ever just sat on your ass and waited for someone to rescue you. Cops and firefighters didn't even know half of what was out there to threaten innocent civilians, and you couldn't count on that one-in-a-hundred-thousand hunter to miraculously appear, either. It was you or nothing.
After what seemed like years and years of crawling half-blind in the dark, Dean saw something different up ahead. A hint of light that was red, not blue. Dean did not find this at all reassuring. If anything, his heartbeat sped up even more.
Hand trembling delicately, Dean fumbled his way back along the string to Sam, found his little brother standing rigid with fear, hunched shoulder pressed into the dirt wall. "Sammy, I see something ahead, but I'm not sure what it is, if it's safe. It's farther than the string, but I don't want you to follow yet, okay? I'll come back as soon as I know it's all right."
Sammy's hand darted out, still clenching the string in twisted knots, and bit into Dean's forearm, nails too long despite the biting they'd been subjected to in the past hours. "You promise, Dean? You promise you'll come back?"
"As soon as I know it's safe, yeah. I swear I will."
Sam raised his shaking pinky finger, and Dean laughed breathily and pinky swore, doing his best to keep his voice solemn despite the hysterical giggles that threatened to overpower him. "Coming back, Sammy. No big deal. Everything's hunky dory."
Sammy giggled a little-they both thought that phrase was hilarious-but his nod was anything but lighthearted. "Okay, okay. I'll wait for you to come back."
Dean hesitated, then grabbed his brother in a quick, impulsive hug. "Gonna be fine, dude," he murmured in the soft, too-long hair.
Sam was small in his arms, clutching back desperately for a moment, then letting go and pushing him away. "Get outta here, then. Sooner you go, sooner you come back."
"Yeah, yeah, exactly."
Dean let go of the string and walked toward the red light.
~*~
The light was still cold, which didn't make sense, because red was supposed to feel warm, right? But the closer Dean got to the source of that light, the colder he felt. It wasn't right, nothing was right, but he had to keep going.
The sameness of the tunnels finally gave way to something new, a cramped chamber that looked like it should be bigger than it felt. Candles, a firepit, a...a table covered with a cloth and...and stuff Dean didn't recognize...a figure in dark robes, just standing there, watching, waiting, face invisible in the shadow of the hood...
Dean felt the room go all swimmy and stumbled back a few steps, his shoulder hitting the wall, sore ribs crying out at the jolt. His breath was suddenly harsh and loud in his ears, a rusty rasp. Who...what... Nothing made sense. Nothing made sense. The oppressive feeling of the place was overpowering here, terrifying, taking all the strength out of his legs. He knew now that he was going to die here. He was going to die, and so was Sammy, and no one would even find their bones.
"Where is your brother, Dean?"
The voice was too light, too gentle. Dean didn't see how it could possibly be real, how that sweet tone could possibly match the dark, malevolent figure that loomed over him. A knife glinted in the red light, swooping slowly forward until it paused under his chin.
"Where's little Sammy? We're just waiting for him, and then the festivities can begin."
Dean's whole body shivered, caught in the throes of winter, so far from the August above ground. He didn't understand. Why was that voice so familiar?
"Nuh...nuh...no."
It was all he could manage. One stuttered syllable, but he meant it with everything he had. No. Not Sammy. Not here, not now, not ever.
"Come now, little Dean. I've been waiting so patiently. Years and years and years. He has the spark, the tang, that little something extra." He...it...she...she licked her lips, thick and wet as two fat slugs. "The two for one deal is nice, I won't lie, but it's Sam I want."
"Muh...Mrs. Stoller?"
Her? Eddie's mother. The kind lady who gave them lemonade and cookies and paid Dean more than he was worth to mow her lawn. What was this?
She chuckled, low and sugar-soft. "Not exactly."
Dean felt himself being turned to ice, paralysis creeping up from his feet, through his body, freezing his throat, reaching icy tendrils into his brain until all thoughts were turned to mush. Dad had taught him a little about monsters, but not enough, he didn't know, he didn't know what could make itself look human, what could steal a person's body and speak with their voice. He had no weapons and he was just a kid and it was the same as last time, just the same, he couldn't move he couldn't move and what was he supposed to do?
Hunter's son. Dean closed his eyes as the knife pressed closer, tickling his cold skin with its slender heat. You're a hunter's son. You're John Winchester's son, damn it. Act like it!
"Come now, my dear, don't be a troublemaker. Give me what I want, like a good little boy."
The punch was pure instinct, evenings in the backyard and afternoons spent practicing alone translating his sudden rush of adrenaline into the dart of a fist, just one solid strike, one hit like a small stone thrown into a lake sending ripples all along the surface. Small, such a small impact, not enough, but at least he could see it, could see that he'd done it, made a mark however fleeting. It was all he got, one good hit, and then the hands grabbed him, shook him and tore him nearly to pieces from the inside out, but his one punch was powerful, and that was a comfort.
"I won't tell you where Sammy is!" he was screaming, and that was a triumph, too. "I won't I won't I won't!"
~*~
Dad's voice shouted "Christo!" and some other words Dean didn't know, a surge of Latin like a tide. Flashes of light burst on the other side of Dean's closed eyelids, red and blue being overcome by something else. Like the fireworks on the Fourth of July, beautiful and shattering, covering the sky, then gone. Dad's hands on his cheeks, patting, soothing, begging him to wake up, asking him where Sammy was. Dean wanted to respond, but he didn't know the answer.
Then there was a different kind of darkness, a breeze, and the shadows were speckled with stars. Dad had carried him, like that day when Dean fell apart and yelled in the backyard, the day Dad finally found out. The relief of it was similar, too, being borne away from something twisted and terrible into a place that was more open, more free, though it was still night out. Dad's arms were strong and sure, and they had taken him here.
Dean opened his eyes, then, and found them full of moonlight. He was laying in the cool grass at the bottom of the mound, a cavernous black opening gaping beside him, smelling of spiderwebs and death. Just like Frodo's barrow-down. Dean shuddered and turned on his side, and there was Dad sitting next to him, waiting, shotgun at his side.
"Dad," Dean croaked. He was so thirsty. Not hungry, though. Maybe never again. "You have to go get Sammy. Don't let him see. Carry him and make him hide his face. I don't want 'im to know."
Dad nodded quickly, gently, but didn't immediately move. Then Dean realized that his father was stroking his hair, long thick fingers carding through, sifting out the dirt of the tunnel, the fear of that long walk through changeless paths. "I'm sorry, bud. Shoulda saved you from this."
"This..." Dean blinked, swallowed. "This was your hunt?"
"Yes. I'm sorry, I didn't know it was Megan Stoller. Just knew it had to be someone near by. A demon, a witch, I don't know, I don't care. She wanted to sacrifice a child. The blood...powerful stuff, kiddo. No wonder Eddie was always sick. She must have been draining him for years. This mound... It wasn't built by Indians. Or if it was, they were witches and demons, too."
"Is it dead?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it's dead."
Dean turned over on his back and blinked up at the stars, breathing the fresh cool air of summer night. "Go get Sammy. He must be awfully scared."
"All right. All right. I'll be right back."
~*~
Daniel Stoller had organized a search party when his wife failed to return from fetching the two young boys who were taking too long on their hike, but before the rescuers arrived, the mound had been gutted with salt and fire.
The Winchesters moved out of Woodlan the next week.
Prologue & Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 & Epilogue | Warnings & Notes
Soundtrack & Picspam
Art by millylicious