Against the Clock 10/13 (Gen, PG-13, Dean, Sam, Casefic)
Against the Clock
by Swanseajill
Chapter 10
Sam stared into Randall Miller’s eyes and realized that the man had totally lost touch with reality. Yesterday, his eyes had been full of grief and Sam had related to him, understanding some of his pain. Now those same eyes burned with an almost missionary zeal.
Miller’s warped consciousness saw nothing irrational in what he was doing. He truly believed that Sam was his wife’s killer.
Sam stole a glance at his watch. It was 9:30 p.m., already into the window of opportunity for the murders to have taken place. Sam began to strain against his bonds again, knowing that Karen Miller’s spirit could appear at any moment. Miller sat watching him, but seemed uninterested in his desperate attempts to break free.
Miller checked his watch and settled more comfortably into his chair. “It started just after her funeral,” he said conversationally. “I wanted to give her a proper burial, but she’d always said she wanted cremation, and I honored her wish. What else could I do? But I had to keep something - some part of her - to remind me of her.”
He looked down at the open locket, gently running his finger across the lock of hair inside. “She had such beautiful hair,” he said softly, a fond smile on his lips. “It was the color of sunshine.”
Miller looked up. “That was when everything changed. Wearing that locket - somehow, I could feel Karen with me, all the time. It made life bearable. And then, I saw her. About a week before the first anniversary of her death, I saw her - right where you’re sitting. And she told me she wanted revenge on the man who’d killed her.”
Sam stopped struggling and frowned. “She told you that?”
Miller smiled. “She didn’t have to tell me. Karen and I could always communicate without words. I just knew.”
“Why did you choose Scott? Did you just know that, too?”
“Karen led me to him,” Miller answered simply. “The very next day I saw him, walking along the sidewalk as if he didn’t have a care in the world. As if he wasn’t a murderer. He was exactly as he’d been described, and I knew. I knew he was the one.”
“But he wasn’t, was he?” Sam tried to sound patient, though he was screaming inside with frustration. “When did you realize you had the wrong man?”
“I didn’t, but Karen knew. As she was taking her revenge. She looked… disappointed. I knew I had to try again.”
Sam guessed that Karen herself hadn’t been sure of her killer’s identity - had the man worn a mask when he’d killed her? Whatever the explanation, when she’d touched her victim, she must have seen into his mind and known that he was innocent. By then, it had been too late.
“And you weren’t concerned that your wife had murdered an innocent man?”
An expression of confusion crossed Miller’s face, and for a moment, Sam felt he was making a breakthrough. Then Miller shook his head vehemently. “You don’t understand. He wasn’t the one, but he could have been.”
With a stab of panic, Sam realized he was never going to break through the distorted reality in which the man was living. The guy was too far gone.
Suddenly Miller stood up and cocked his head. “I can feel her. Karen’s coming.”
An involuntary shiver ran through Sam as the room went cold. A moment later Karen Miller’s ghost materialized a few feet from him. Sam recognized her instantly from the photo he’d seen at Miller’s house. She was dressed in jeans and a pale-blue T-shirt stained by blood leaking from a hole in her chest.
Miller’s face was alight with joy. “Karen, sweetheart!”
Karen turned to look at him.
He gestured at Sam. “Karen, I’ve brought your murderer to you, just as you wanted. You can finally have your revenge.”
Karen turned back to Sam and cocked her head to one side. As she studied him, her expression morphed from curiosity to malevolence.
Sam began furiously struggling at his bonds as she advanced toward him, flickering in and out of existence, her face a mask of hatred. Miller stood by, watching the scene unfold.
Karen leaned over Sam and he rocked the chair violently in a desperate attempt to get away as she reached out a hand. She touched one finger to his chest and a red-hot, burning pain shot through him. The chair fell sideways, and as Sam hit the ground, he heard a piercing scream followed by a loud explosion.
…………………………………………..
“Stop the car over there.”
Rachel pointed to an area that was little more than a clearing in the trees with space for one or two vehicles. Dean steered the Impala into it and killed the engine.
Rachel had been right about the Lower Lake being hard to find. There were signs for the Upper Lake, but alone he would never have spotted the narrow, unmarked track to the Lower Lake. Not only that, but his concentration was shot to hell by the piercing pain in his head, and his vision blurred by vertigo. Several times his steering had wavered, and he’d been saved by Rachel’s shouted warning.
He was lucky he’d made it this far without wrapping the car around a tree.
He glanced at Rachel. Judging from her white face and tight lips, she was in full agreement.
Rachel blew out a long breath. “You know what, hotshot? Next time, I drive.”
Dean snorted. “Not in this lifetime, sweetheart. So, where’s the cabin,” he went on hurriedly as Rachel shot him a heated glare that might have set him alight if the fever wasn’t well on its way to achieving that goal.
Rachel huffed and pointed to a track leading out of the clearing. “The cabin should be about two hundred yards that way, toward the lake.”
Dean would have liked to leave the Impala further away - the sound of a car engine would travel a long way here, where the only other sound were occasional bird calls. However, it was already nine p.m. The coroner’s reports had indicated that all the victims had died within the same timeframe - nine p.m. to three a.m. - which meant that Karen Miller could appear to claim her latest victim at any moment. Time was against him, and he had to get to that cabin as quickly as possible.
The clearing, which shielded the Impala from view of anyone inside the cabin, was an acceptable compromise.
Dean got out of the car, wincing as aching back and leg muscles protested. His legs buckled and he steadied himself against the door, then pushed his .45 into the waistband of his jeans and hefted his shotgun. He turned to Rachel.
“You’re not coming with me this time,” he said firmly.
“Why not?”
“I’m serious, Rachel. It’s too dangerous. I want you to stay here.”
Rachel vigorously shook her head. “No way. You should see yourself, Dean. You look like hell, and you’re so dizzy you can barely focus on me. How are you going to save your brother if you pass out on the way to the cabin?”
Dean slumped back against the door of the Impala and closed his eyes for a moment. Rachel was right. The vertigo was a constant companion now. Every muscle and joint in his body ached and throbbed, speaking was beyond painful and his head hurt so badly he just wanted to scream for the pain to go away. The heat through his body told him the fever was intensifying, despite the chills that racked his body more and more frequently. He felt on the edge of collapse and cursed the illness that had stolen his strength. What if his body betrayed him before he could get to Sam?
Rachel took a step toward him and laid a hand on his arm. “You can do this, Dean. You’re almost there. You just need to let me help you.”
He could do this. He had to do this. There wasn’t a choice. “Okay.” He took a wavering breath and drew himself up straight. “You can come as far as the cabin.”
Rachel nodded.
They set off, Dean giving his whole concentration to putting one foot in front of the other. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ground - looking ahead confused his senses as all he could see was a blur of trees. Several times he stumbled, and Rachel steadied him with a firm hand on his arm.
After what felt like a lifetime but which in reality must have been less than five minutes, Rachel nudged him and pointed ahead. He made out the lake as an expanse of darkness in the distance and, in front of them, a small, one-story building. A weak light burned inside, and outside stood a Toyota jeep.
Dean felt his heart rate speed up, and a surge of adrenaline bolstered his diminishing strength. He’d been right. Miller was here.
He turned to Rachel. “I’m going to look for a way in,” he said in a low voice. “You stay here and keep out of sight.” He expected her to protest, but this time she simply nodded. He handed her the car keys. “If I’m not out in twenty minutes, or if you hear gunshots, get the hell out of here and call the police.”
Her eyes widened. “I can’t just leave you here.”
“Yes, you can. You have to. I’m not risking your life, too.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Good luck.”
Dean edged up to the wall of the cabin. He couldn’t see in, but pressing his ear to the window, he heard raised voices. Although he was unable to make out the words, he was sure one of them was Sam’s.
He wanted to burst in then and there, but fear for Sam held him back. He needed to assess the situation before he took any rash action.
Edging his way around the cabin to the back, he found an open window. The drapes were back and it was dark inside. The door to the room stood ajar and beyond, he could see light shining.
He carefully pushed the window open further and fished out a small flashlight from his jacket pocket. Holding it between his teeth, he took a deep breath and hoisted himself up and through the opening. He’d barely set his feet down before his shaky legs gave out and sent him sprawling to the floor. He lay panting from the exertion for a moment, trying to ignore pain screaming through protesting muscles, then quickly got to his feet. Once upright, he flattened himself against the wall beside the door, ready in case someone had heard the noise and came to investigate.
Nothing happened. After a few moments he edged closer to the door. He could hear the voices again, coming from the next room.
The angle prevented him from seeing clearly inside, so he risked pushing the door open a couple more inches. The voices were louder now, and one of them was definitely Sam’s. Dean’s heart jumped in relief. His brother was still alive.
He nudged the door a little more. Now he could see Sam, tied to a chair in the middle of the room. He was talking to someone who was just out of Dean’s line of vision.
Dean was debating his next move when a voice said, “I can feel her. Karen’s coming.”
The air around him took on a frosty chill and Dean’s mouth went dry. This was it.
“Karen, sweetheart!”
Dean took a firm hold on the shotgun.
“Karen, I’ve brought your murderer to you, just as you wanted. You can finally have your revenge.”
Dean saw a form, the spirit of Karen Miller, move into his line of vision, heading for Sam.
He slammed the door open and burst into the room.
Karen was leaning over Sam, arm stretched out and Sam’s face contorted in pain as her finger touched his chest. The chair fell sideways as Dean fired, emptying both barrels into Karen.
She wailed and dissipated. Dean braced himself and his eyes went immediately to Sam. He studied Sam carefully, checking him for injuries and was relieved to see no obvious damage. “Sam, you okay?”
“I’m fine, Dean.” Sam’s eyes widened, focused on something over Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, behind you!”
Dean spun round. Randall Miller, a look of rage on his face and a poker from the fireplace in his hand, uttered a cry of rage and charged him, driving him hard into the wall behind. The shotgun clattered to the ground as his head connected with the solid wood with a sickening thud. Pain exploded, reverberating through his skull like a shockwave and his vision blurred. Hee struggled to stay on his feet as Miller began to beat at him wildly with the poker.
Fortunately, Miller was no trained fighter. Dean gathered his scrambled wits, ducked a wild swing and caught the other man with a right hook that knocked him onto his back. The poker flew across the room. Dean moved in on Miller, hearing Sam shouting, “The locket! Get the locket!”
Way ahead of you, little brother, Dean thought. He pinned Miller down, grabbed the locket hanging around his neck and gave it a sharp tug, easily snapping the makeshift string. Miller screamed with rage and began beating at Dean with his fists. Hampered by the need to hold on to the locket and his own rapidly diminishing strength, Dean struggled to fend the man off. Miller landed several punishing blows before Dean finally landed a punch to the jaw that dazed Miller long enough for Dean to scramble away.
He stood up unsteadily, pulled out the .45 and trained it on Miller as he searched frantically in his pocket for his lighter.
“Don’t move!” he shouted as Miller dazedly began to climb to his feet.
Dean found the lighter and fumbled to open the locket with the same hand. He looked down briefly and heard Sam’s frantic warning a fraction of a second after the air once again took on an ominous chill. No way. He’d emptied both barrels into Karen - there was no way she should have been able to come back so quickly. But back she was, and before he had time to react, she turned his way and thrust out a hand.
The force hurled Dean across the room, and for the second time, he slammed into the wall with brutal force. This time, his left shoulder took the brunt. The .45 flew from his hand and pain lanced through his shoulder. Black dots danced before his eyes, and his legs gave way as he dropped heavily to the ground.
Karen ignored him, and out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw her advance on Sam. Sam fought desperately with his bonds, rocking the chair, and shouted, “The hair, Dean! Burn the hair!”
Dean bit back a groan and rolled his eyes. “Dude, I’m trying!”
He heard a cry of outrage from Miller, and the next moment the man was on him, stamping down hard on the hand holding the locket. Dean cried out in pain as he felt bones snap, but closed his fist and held on grimly. Miller lifted his foot again and Dean shifted, summoned all his strength and kicked out hard, catching Miller soundly below the knees. Miller went down, and his head struck the corner of the table, momentarily stunning him.
Dean fought darkness and nausea and opened the locket with shaking fingers. He tore the lock of hair out, flicked the lighter into flame and held it to the hair.
Come, on, come on, come on. The flame was taking forever to take hold, and he could see Sam squirming as Karen reached out toward him. Come on!
The lock of hair ignited in a burst of golden light and Karen screamed - a long, drawn out, inhuman wail. Dean lay back, totally spent, and watched through cloudy vision as her body dissipated.
Then she was gone.
Miller was back on his feet, blood streaming down his face from a cut on his head, the .45 clutched in his hand and pointed at Dean. His hand was wavering wildly, and his finger hovered over the trigger.
Dean swallowed, knowing that Miller was on the edge. The slightest thing could tip him over and cause him to pull the trigger.
Dean noted that both the .45 and the shotgun were beyond his reach as he got slowly to his knees, holding his hands out before him in a gesture of surrender. “It’s over, Miller,” he said steadily.
Miller’s face was a mask of pain. “She’s gone. I can’t feel her any more.”
“She’s at rest now,” Dean said softly.
“No!” Miller shook his head violently. “No, she can’t be gone. I can’t… you have to bring her back!”
“We can’t bring her back,” Sam said. Dean kept his eyes trained on Miller, calculating the distance between them as his brother spoke firmly to the distraught man. “There’s nothing holding her here now. She’s at peace. Isn’t that what you’d want for her?”
“No!” Miller’s voice was laced with anguish. “I can’t lose her! Not again.”
“Randall…” Sam began.
“I can’t… I can’t live without her.”
Before Dean could even think of reacting, Randall Miller put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.
The sound of the shot echoed around the room like an explosion. Miller toppled to the ground, half his head blown away. Dean shakily got to his feet, looking down at the still body and sightless eyes. It was over.
He looked across as the door opened a few inches and Rachel’s head poked through. She glanced around the room, her eyes widening in shock as she saw Miller’s body. She pushed the door fully open and walked in, a metal snow shovel grasped tightly in both hands.
“Is that him? Did you… did you shoot him?”
Dean shook his head, which proved to be a big mistake as the room immediately began to spin. His head was on the verge of exploding, his legs were like Jell-O and his shoulder and shattered hand hurt like hell. “He shot himself,” he explained wearily, then frowned as he remembered his instructions to her. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded. I told you to wait outside. What part of ‘wait outside’ didn’t you understand?”
Shouting? Not such a good idea. He grimaced and put a hand to his head as a particularly violent stab of pain lanced through it.
“I thought you’d been shot,” Rachel retorted. “What did you expect me to do?”
“I expected you to do what I told you-”
Loud throat clearing interrupted him.
“Uh… guys?” Sam said. “I hate to break up the lovers’ quarrel, but… bit of help over here?”
With difficulty, Dean focused on Sam, still tied to the chair on its side on the floor. That had to suck out loud. “Sorry, Sam.” Dean pulled out his knife, bracing his legs as his knees threatened to buckle. He frowned, wondering which of the four Rachels dancing before him he should focus on. “Rachel, would you cut Sam loose?”
He held the knife out in their general direction, and one of them stepped forward to take it.
“Sure. What are you going to do?”
Her voice seemed to come from a great distance, almost drowned out by the roaring in his ears.
“Me?” He glanced at Sam - alive, whole and safe.
His vision was beginning to close in. “I think… I think… I’m just gonna… pass…”
As the floor rushed up to meet him, all Dean felt was a sense of profound relief.
Chapter 11
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
by Swanseajill
Chapter 10
Sam stared into Randall Miller’s eyes and realized that the man had totally lost touch with reality. Yesterday, his eyes had been full of grief and Sam had related to him, understanding some of his pain. Now those same eyes burned with an almost missionary zeal.
Miller’s warped consciousness saw nothing irrational in what he was doing. He truly believed that Sam was his wife’s killer.
Sam stole a glance at his watch. It was 9:30 p.m., already into the window of opportunity for the murders to have taken place. Sam began to strain against his bonds again, knowing that Karen Miller’s spirit could appear at any moment. Miller sat watching him, but seemed uninterested in his desperate attempts to break free.
Miller checked his watch and settled more comfortably into his chair. “It started just after her funeral,” he said conversationally. “I wanted to give her a proper burial, but she’d always said she wanted cremation, and I honored her wish. What else could I do? But I had to keep something - some part of her - to remind me of her.”
He looked down at the open locket, gently running his finger across the lock of hair inside. “She had such beautiful hair,” he said softly, a fond smile on his lips. “It was the color of sunshine.”
Miller looked up. “That was when everything changed. Wearing that locket - somehow, I could feel Karen with me, all the time. It made life bearable. And then, I saw her. About a week before the first anniversary of her death, I saw her - right where you’re sitting. And she told me she wanted revenge on the man who’d killed her.”
Sam stopped struggling and frowned. “She told you that?”
Miller smiled. “She didn’t have to tell me. Karen and I could always communicate without words. I just knew.”
“Why did you choose Scott? Did you just know that, too?”
“Karen led me to him,” Miller answered simply. “The very next day I saw him, walking along the sidewalk as if he didn’t have a care in the world. As if he wasn’t a murderer. He was exactly as he’d been described, and I knew. I knew he was the one.”
“But he wasn’t, was he?” Sam tried to sound patient, though he was screaming inside with frustration. “When did you realize you had the wrong man?”
“I didn’t, but Karen knew. As she was taking her revenge. She looked… disappointed. I knew I had to try again.”
Sam guessed that Karen herself hadn’t been sure of her killer’s identity - had the man worn a mask when he’d killed her? Whatever the explanation, when she’d touched her victim, she must have seen into his mind and known that he was innocent. By then, it had been too late.
“And you weren’t concerned that your wife had murdered an innocent man?”
An expression of confusion crossed Miller’s face, and for a moment, Sam felt he was making a breakthrough. Then Miller shook his head vehemently. “You don’t understand. He wasn’t the one, but he could have been.”
With a stab of panic, Sam realized he was never going to break through the distorted reality in which the man was living. The guy was too far gone.
Suddenly Miller stood up and cocked his head. “I can feel her. Karen’s coming.”
An involuntary shiver ran through Sam as the room went cold. A moment later Karen Miller’s ghost materialized a few feet from him. Sam recognized her instantly from the photo he’d seen at Miller’s house. She was dressed in jeans and a pale-blue T-shirt stained by blood leaking from a hole in her chest.
Miller’s face was alight with joy. “Karen, sweetheart!”
Karen turned to look at him.
He gestured at Sam. “Karen, I’ve brought your murderer to you, just as you wanted. You can finally have your revenge.”
Karen turned back to Sam and cocked her head to one side. As she studied him, her expression morphed from curiosity to malevolence.
Sam began furiously struggling at his bonds as she advanced toward him, flickering in and out of existence, her face a mask of hatred. Miller stood by, watching the scene unfold.
Karen leaned over Sam and he rocked the chair violently in a desperate attempt to get away as she reached out a hand. She touched one finger to his chest and a red-hot, burning pain shot through him. The chair fell sideways, and as Sam hit the ground, he heard a piercing scream followed by a loud explosion.
…………………………………………..
“Stop the car over there.”
Rachel pointed to an area that was little more than a clearing in the trees with space for one or two vehicles. Dean steered the Impala into it and killed the engine.
Rachel had been right about the Lower Lake being hard to find. There were signs for the Upper Lake, but alone he would never have spotted the narrow, unmarked track to the Lower Lake. Not only that, but his concentration was shot to hell by the piercing pain in his head, and his vision blurred by vertigo. Several times his steering had wavered, and he’d been saved by Rachel’s shouted warning.
He was lucky he’d made it this far without wrapping the car around a tree.
He glanced at Rachel. Judging from her white face and tight lips, she was in full agreement.
Rachel blew out a long breath. “You know what, hotshot? Next time, I drive.”
Dean snorted. “Not in this lifetime, sweetheart. So, where’s the cabin,” he went on hurriedly as Rachel shot him a heated glare that might have set him alight if the fever wasn’t well on its way to achieving that goal.
Rachel huffed and pointed to a track leading out of the clearing. “The cabin should be about two hundred yards that way, toward the lake.”
Dean would have liked to leave the Impala further away - the sound of a car engine would travel a long way here, where the only other sound were occasional bird calls. However, it was already nine p.m. The coroner’s reports had indicated that all the victims had died within the same timeframe - nine p.m. to three a.m. - which meant that Karen Miller could appear to claim her latest victim at any moment. Time was against him, and he had to get to that cabin as quickly as possible.
The clearing, which shielded the Impala from view of anyone inside the cabin, was an acceptable compromise.
Dean got out of the car, wincing as aching back and leg muscles protested. His legs buckled and he steadied himself against the door, then pushed his .45 into the waistband of his jeans and hefted his shotgun. He turned to Rachel.
“You’re not coming with me this time,” he said firmly.
“Why not?”
“I’m serious, Rachel. It’s too dangerous. I want you to stay here.”
Rachel vigorously shook her head. “No way. You should see yourself, Dean. You look like hell, and you’re so dizzy you can barely focus on me. How are you going to save your brother if you pass out on the way to the cabin?”
Dean slumped back against the door of the Impala and closed his eyes for a moment. Rachel was right. The vertigo was a constant companion now. Every muscle and joint in his body ached and throbbed, speaking was beyond painful and his head hurt so badly he just wanted to scream for the pain to go away. The heat through his body told him the fever was intensifying, despite the chills that racked his body more and more frequently. He felt on the edge of collapse and cursed the illness that had stolen his strength. What if his body betrayed him before he could get to Sam?
Rachel took a step toward him and laid a hand on his arm. “You can do this, Dean. You’re almost there. You just need to let me help you.”
He could do this. He had to do this. There wasn’t a choice. “Okay.” He took a wavering breath and drew himself up straight. “You can come as far as the cabin.”
Rachel nodded.
They set off, Dean giving his whole concentration to putting one foot in front of the other. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the ground - looking ahead confused his senses as all he could see was a blur of trees. Several times he stumbled, and Rachel steadied him with a firm hand on his arm.
After what felt like a lifetime but which in reality must have been less than five minutes, Rachel nudged him and pointed ahead. He made out the lake as an expanse of darkness in the distance and, in front of them, a small, one-story building. A weak light burned inside, and outside stood a Toyota jeep.
Dean felt his heart rate speed up, and a surge of adrenaline bolstered his diminishing strength. He’d been right. Miller was here.
He turned to Rachel. “I’m going to look for a way in,” he said in a low voice. “You stay here and keep out of sight.” He expected her to protest, but this time she simply nodded. He handed her the car keys. “If I’m not out in twenty minutes, or if you hear gunshots, get the hell out of here and call the police.”
Her eyes widened. “I can’t just leave you here.”
“Yes, you can. You have to. I’m not risking your life, too.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Good luck.”
Dean edged up to the wall of the cabin. He couldn’t see in, but pressing his ear to the window, he heard raised voices. Although he was unable to make out the words, he was sure one of them was Sam’s.
He wanted to burst in then and there, but fear for Sam held him back. He needed to assess the situation before he took any rash action.
Edging his way around the cabin to the back, he found an open window. The drapes were back and it was dark inside. The door to the room stood ajar and beyond, he could see light shining.
He carefully pushed the window open further and fished out a small flashlight from his jacket pocket. Holding it between his teeth, he took a deep breath and hoisted himself up and through the opening. He’d barely set his feet down before his shaky legs gave out and sent him sprawling to the floor. He lay panting from the exertion for a moment, trying to ignore pain screaming through protesting muscles, then quickly got to his feet. Once upright, he flattened himself against the wall beside the door, ready in case someone had heard the noise and came to investigate.
Nothing happened. After a few moments he edged closer to the door. He could hear the voices again, coming from the next room.
The angle prevented him from seeing clearly inside, so he risked pushing the door open a couple more inches. The voices were louder now, and one of them was definitely Sam’s. Dean’s heart jumped in relief. His brother was still alive.
He nudged the door a little more. Now he could see Sam, tied to a chair in the middle of the room. He was talking to someone who was just out of Dean’s line of vision.
Dean was debating his next move when a voice said, “I can feel her. Karen’s coming.”
The air around him took on a frosty chill and Dean’s mouth went dry. This was it.
“Karen, sweetheart!”
Dean took a firm hold on the shotgun.
“Karen, I’ve brought your murderer to you, just as you wanted. You can finally have your revenge.”
Dean saw a form, the spirit of Karen Miller, move into his line of vision, heading for Sam.
He slammed the door open and burst into the room.
Karen was leaning over Sam, arm stretched out and Sam’s face contorted in pain as her finger touched his chest. The chair fell sideways as Dean fired, emptying both barrels into Karen.
She wailed and dissipated. Dean braced himself and his eyes went immediately to Sam. He studied Sam carefully, checking him for injuries and was relieved to see no obvious damage. “Sam, you okay?”
“I’m fine, Dean.” Sam’s eyes widened, focused on something over Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, behind you!”
Dean spun round. Randall Miller, a look of rage on his face and a poker from the fireplace in his hand, uttered a cry of rage and charged him, driving him hard into the wall behind. The shotgun clattered to the ground as his head connected with the solid wood with a sickening thud. Pain exploded, reverberating through his skull like a shockwave and his vision blurred. Hee struggled to stay on his feet as Miller began to beat at him wildly with the poker.
Fortunately, Miller was no trained fighter. Dean gathered his scrambled wits, ducked a wild swing and caught the other man with a right hook that knocked him onto his back. The poker flew across the room. Dean moved in on Miller, hearing Sam shouting, “The locket! Get the locket!”
Way ahead of you, little brother, Dean thought. He pinned Miller down, grabbed the locket hanging around his neck and gave it a sharp tug, easily snapping the makeshift string. Miller screamed with rage and began beating at Dean with his fists. Hampered by the need to hold on to the locket and his own rapidly diminishing strength, Dean struggled to fend the man off. Miller landed several punishing blows before Dean finally landed a punch to the jaw that dazed Miller long enough for Dean to scramble away.
He stood up unsteadily, pulled out the .45 and trained it on Miller as he searched frantically in his pocket for his lighter.
“Don’t move!” he shouted as Miller dazedly began to climb to his feet.
Dean found the lighter and fumbled to open the locket with the same hand. He looked down briefly and heard Sam’s frantic warning a fraction of a second after the air once again took on an ominous chill. No way. He’d emptied both barrels into Karen - there was no way she should have been able to come back so quickly. But back she was, and before he had time to react, she turned his way and thrust out a hand.
The force hurled Dean across the room, and for the second time, he slammed into the wall with brutal force. This time, his left shoulder took the brunt. The .45 flew from his hand and pain lanced through his shoulder. Black dots danced before his eyes, and his legs gave way as he dropped heavily to the ground.
Karen ignored him, and out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw her advance on Sam. Sam fought desperately with his bonds, rocking the chair, and shouted, “The hair, Dean! Burn the hair!”
Dean bit back a groan and rolled his eyes. “Dude, I’m trying!”
He heard a cry of outrage from Miller, and the next moment the man was on him, stamping down hard on the hand holding the locket. Dean cried out in pain as he felt bones snap, but closed his fist and held on grimly. Miller lifted his foot again and Dean shifted, summoned all his strength and kicked out hard, catching Miller soundly below the knees. Miller went down, and his head struck the corner of the table, momentarily stunning him.
Dean fought darkness and nausea and opened the locket with shaking fingers. He tore the lock of hair out, flicked the lighter into flame and held it to the hair.
Come, on, come on, come on. The flame was taking forever to take hold, and he could see Sam squirming as Karen reached out toward him. Come on!
The lock of hair ignited in a burst of golden light and Karen screamed - a long, drawn out, inhuman wail. Dean lay back, totally spent, and watched through cloudy vision as her body dissipated.
Then she was gone.
Miller was back on his feet, blood streaming down his face from a cut on his head, the .45 clutched in his hand and pointed at Dean. His hand was wavering wildly, and his finger hovered over the trigger.
Dean swallowed, knowing that Miller was on the edge. The slightest thing could tip him over and cause him to pull the trigger.
Dean noted that both the .45 and the shotgun were beyond his reach as he got slowly to his knees, holding his hands out before him in a gesture of surrender. “It’s over, Miller,” he said steadily.
Miller’s face was a mask of pain. “She’s gone. I can’t feel her any more.”
“She’s at rest now,” Dean said softly.
“No!” Miller shook his head violently. “No, she can’t be gone. I can’t… you have to bring her back!”
“We can’t bring her back,” Sam said. Dean kept his eyes trained on Miller, calculating the distance between them as his brother spoke firmly to the distraught man. “There’s nothing holding her here now. She’s at peace. Isn’t that what you’d want for her?”
“No!” Miller’s voice was laced with anguish. “I can’t lose her! Not again.”
“Randall…” Sam began.
“I can’t… I can’t live without her.”
Before Dean could even think of reacting, Randall Miller put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.
The sound of the shot echoed around the room like an explosion. Miller toppled to the ground, half his head blown away. Dean shakily got to his feet, looking down at the still body and sightless eyes. It was over.
He looked across as the door opened a few inches and Rachel’s head poked through. She glanced around the room, her eyes widening in shock as she saw Miller’s body. She pushed the door fully open and walked in, a metal snow shovel grasped tightly in both hands.
“Is that him? Did you… did you shoot him?”
Dean shook his head, which proved to be a big mistake as the room immediately began to spin. His head was on the verge of exploding, his legs were like Jell-O and his shoulder and shattered hand hurt like hell. “He shot himself,” he explained wearily, then frowned as he remembered his instructions to her. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded. I told you to wait outside. What part of ‘wait outside’ didn’t you understand?”
Shouting? Not such a good idea. He grimaced and put a hand to his head as a particularly violent stab of pain lanced through it.
“I thought you’d been shot,” Rachel retorted. “What did you expect me to do?”
“I expected you to do what I told you-”
Loud throat clearing interrupted him.
“Uh… guys?” Sam said. “I hate to break up the lovers’ quarrel, but… bit of help over here?”
With difficulty, Dean focused on Sam, still tied to the chair on its side on the floor. That had to suck out loud. “Sorry, Sam.” Dean pulled out his knife, bracing his legs as his knees threatened to buckle. He frowned, wondering which of the four Rachels dancing before him he should focus on. “Rachel, would you cut Sam loose?”
He held the knife out in their general direction, and one of them stepped forward to take it.
“Sure. What are you going to do?”
Her voice seemed to come from a great distance, almost drowned out by the roaring in his ears.
“Me?” He glanced at Sam - alive, whole and safe.
His vision was beginning to close in. “I think… I think… I’m just gonna… pass…”
As the floor rushed up to meet him, all Dean felt was a sense of profound relief.
Chapter 11
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9