Supernatural - Touched: Ch 2 / ?
Fandom: Supernatural
Story Title: Touched
Chapter Title: Chapter 2 Slow Burn
Rating: PG-13/Teen for violence and minor language
Link to Previous Chapter(s): PROLOGUE & CHAPTER 1
Spoilers: Spoilers for Season 6, but not for Season 7. AU past Season 6's finale.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters in the universe. I'm borrowing them for fun, not profit. All kudos and copyrights remain with Kripke.
Summary: Post Season 6. It was God who finished him, God who cleaned up the mess, or at least that's what the Winchesters thought when Castiel was suddenly… gone. Four years later, though, a small boy grabs hold of Dean's hand and stares up at the hunter with bright blue eyes. Dean knows those eyes: "Cas?" What does it mean? And why is there a demon coming for them? A demon they've never met before, one who knows their names, one who wants them dead, one who is bent on revenge.
Chapter 2: Slow Burn
The diner was nested against a wall of cut limestone, as a long, oddly shaped building hiding in the shadow of the rock. To the side of its parking lot, a thirty second drive up a paved incline led to a motel twice its size with almost matching architecture. The effect made them appear as if the two businesses were giant steps stacked atop one another. But it wasn't their placement but the two signs shining brightly in the night, both red, which caught the eyes of the Impala's two owners: "Vacancy" and "24 Hour." The Winchesters were drawn in like moths to a flame.
"I dunno, Sam, I think she likes you," Dean smirked. He found a good grip on his cheeseburger and met it half way, humming in satisfaction when he ripped into it. A tear of mustard ran down his chin. "Seriously, you should get her number, dude."
Sam glared at his brother. The expression was nothing compared to the one the "her" in question was currently sending their direction. Long since over-the-hill, her hair dyed an unnatural shade of auburn, the waitress narrowed her blue-lined eyes and huffed before she turned to top-off another customer's cup of coffee. Sam felt the heat rise to his face. Honestly, if his order hadn't been wrong, he wouldn't have needed to have sent it back three times.
"The salad dressing was gross," Sam muttered.
Dean was still chuckling. Not because it was all that funny, but because it had sent Sam a hundred and eighty degrees. Or so he thought.
"And would you quit trying to change the subject?" Sam snapped.
Dean sobered up with a shrug, realizing he wasn't going to get off that lucky. "Sam, there are other jobs."
Sam stabbed a lettuce roll. "Dean, we're already here. Come on, it's less than forty minutes away. It won't hurt to check it out in the morning."
Dean was staring at his plate. "Forty minutes in the wrong direction," he replied.
Wrong direction. Sam snorted. The only thing wrong about it was that the location was just south of the church they'd left. And the child they'd left. Dean could feel the thought rolling off his brother like perspiration. So he kept his gaze down.
"Plus, I got a text message this afternoon. Dani and Louise are going to be heading through this county in about two days if the salt 'n' burn in Troy goes as planned." Dean shrugged. "Let the newbs take care of it. Hell, they need the chance to cut their teeth on some witchcraft."
But Sam had taken advantage of Dean's downcast gaze and slid the I-Pad across the table. It was a newer model, thinner. Frickin' delicate looking. And it made Dean roll his eyes. He remembered the first time Sam had talked him into the new toy-there had went their damned dragon's gold… But Dean cleared his throat, unable to stop himself from reading the news article across the screen. A note at the top said it had been updated only twenty minutes ago with new details. Which explained why Sam had his panties in an even bigger twist.
Messy death. Occult symbols. Satan worshiping teenager as a victim. Maybe the article didn't say as much but it had all the right wording, just like small town journalists loved to use when something juicy happened locally. Ah, and there was the bingo: the teen's place of death didn't quite match the place where he'd been found, but both areas had been covered in symbols.
"I've been sifting through some blogs. One local kid said the body was found in his neighborhood and that the news wasn't reporting everything." Sam left the statement dangling until Dean looked up, unable to hold back his interest. "Bloody shoeprints. Apparently, the teen who died, Bradley Upchurch, walked the three miles to the new location."
Dean raised a brow. "So, he was injured and booked it until he fell over dead?"
"That's the thing." Sam smiled. "Bradley was eviscerated at the first crime scene. Kinda hard to get a workout when you leave your running shoes and a few organs back home."
"Unless you've got help. Think Bradley summoned something?"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you for the past half hour, Dean. We need to get a look at the symbols to find out what it was-the 'newbs' don't won't know what they're looking for." Sam sighed. "You know how they are."
He didn't have to finish that thought. Dean remembered well enough how he and his brother had run across the green-at-the-gills hunters a few months ago. Bleeding out while attempting to convert a few ghouls to vegetarianism. Regular multitaskers. Personally, Dean blamed sparkling vampires for that particular brand of stupid. Since then, he and Sam had been sending the two on softer jobs, hoping they wouldn't get themselves killed. Bobby had money on them surviving fourteen months, tops.
Dean swept a napkin over his lips and shrugged. "Alright, maybe we can look into it. But I'm not hanging around here long. Got places to go. Crap to deliver to stubborn old codgers. We'll check out the case in the morning."
Sam smiled, pleased with himself, and popped the lettuce into his mouth. A grimace replaced the grin. "Fine, but we're not eating breakfast here."
The hot water pounded into his shoulders, but not hard enough to do much good. Brother Aaron Matthews reached up, running his fingers over the back of his neck, trying to work out the kinks. Who knew lugging around first graders and tossing water balloons would be such a workout? Of course, it was like this every year, always more stress than he anticipated, but Vacation Bible School was still a worthwhile experience. If only because he got to see the children smiling every night for a week.
Well, maybe not all of them. Little Cassidy didn't eat pizza with the other kids. And when his grandmother picked him up, he was still wearing that numb expression on his face. As if he were dazed, or sad, or both. But, Brother Matthews knew he'd be better. They were painting tomorrow. A giant tapestry to put in the hallway to the youth classes. Cassidy loved colors, like most four-year-olds. He'd smile again. It would be a blessing to see.
Matthews grinned to himself, despite the fact that the happiness he felt when he thought of the children always drudged up more insecure thoughts. Like how he'd never have any of his own if Tammy had her way.
Damn. He winced, pushing it down. There was anger there, deep inside, more than he knew a preacher should be carrying around, but he couldn't help it. Part of him almost wished he had his watch on, just so he could look at the time, count exactly how many hours late Tammy was getting home. From the office. From the gym. A different excuse for a different day of the week, but always the same smell of men's cologne on her body when she finally crawled home, shamelessly ate the leftovers he'd put the oven, and showered.
He knew exactly where she went. Even if he didn't have it in him to call her on it. While he was leading the kids into another verse of "If You're Happy and You Know It," she was with him, doing God knows… Matthews slapped his open palm against the tile to get rid of that image.
The water was already turning cold on him. He smirked. Good. It would be harder for her to wash off the scent tonight.
He stepped out, dripping onto the linoleum. Steam left streams running down the mirror.
He knew what his papa would say about those thoughts. "That's a one way ticket to the devil, boy." The last time the old minister had said that, he'd finished it with a gift. "But every one of God's knights has a chink in his armor. This'll make sure it don't show so much." Papa had pressed the watch into Aaron's hand, told him it was made by a friend, to wear it always.
Aaron had spent so many nights holding it instead of wearing it, running his thumb over the symbol engraved into the bottom. It didn't look very Christian, but Aaron knew what Papa had meant by…
Aaron's breath froze in his chest. The moment of panic hurt, physically hurt.
So many years safe, so many years without Papa's friends coming around, filling his head with warnings. He'd forgotten his Papa's ways, the salts and symbols, the protections. And that realization sent ice down his bare back.
It was four feet away at best, the watch. Just four feet.
Aaron told himself the panic was nothing. It was just some subconscious reaction to seeing the Winchesters earlier today. The visit had drudged up old worries, that was all.
No. No, it wasn't.
Aaron made a dive for the watch, but was blinded in an instant. The smoke was thick, cutting off the light above him, smothering him as it pushed against his skin, threw him to the floor. He slipped and slid, trying to get away. But his lips parted. Fire and sulfur and death poured into him, shoving its way past all his barriers until he was full, bloated with it.
And then Aaron didn't think much of anything.
He rolled his neck, his spine popping slightly with the stretch, and sat up. Fingers wound in and out, flexing. He rolled the tips of them over the skin of his arm, examining the flesh, and sat up. The mirror had lost its foggy sheen. He could see himself.
He moved his head to one side, then the next, taking in his shape. Observing how the muscles of his jaw tensed.
"It'll work," he said. And smiled when he heard his own voice. He tilted his head, glancing at the watch at the end of the counter. Then he chuckled, as if he'd read a joke on the back of it. "It'll work."
He found clothing first, the office second. Tossing aside the Sunday school guides and the sermon notes, his eyes landed on the Church attendance book. She was under members, as he knew she would be. The phone number and address was listed beside her name: Grayson, Pearl. He thought about giving her a call and decided against it. Who didn't like a surprise?
The grin was on Aaron's face, but it wasn't his own.
He ripped the page out of the ledger.
He'd had this dream before.
Maybe not often over the past few years, but then again, there were always newer nightmares to keep him busy, especially after his time down under. And then after his brother's. Somehow, the nightmares that were the worst, though, were the ones that weren't even his to have.
Dean had thought that before. When he'd had this particular dream. He'd had no memory of this, at least no direct one. Not from the night itself. But Sammy did, he was sure, somewhere deep down. For some reason, Dean didn't feel he had a right to these false memories. Not when there were so many others to choose from. Plenty of monsters. Decades of Hell. So, why this one? Why would this dream ever return?
Stomach sliced open beneath her nightgown, flames flaring out around her pressed body, hiding her face from him. The light off the fire too bright. Blinding. Mom. Mom burning. Again.
But there was something different this time. Dean couldn't quite put his finger on it at first. And then it occurred to him. The angle. The angle was all wrong. He wasn't below her, not like the other times. He was far away, pressed tight against something, hidden. Staring through little slits.
Watching in horror.
"Come out, come out," a voice sang. Masculine, playful.
The man was there, too. There was something different about him, as well. Something off. The body was familiar. One he knew, and it was lounging in one chair, arms crossed over his knees, as if he were waiting for something.
Dean felt his heart racing. He could hear his breaths, shallow. Knew he was trying to keep them quiet.
Because the man was waiting. For him. For him to come out of hiding.
The man didn't turn his way, just stared up, as if studying the woman burning above him. "What do you think, champ? Will this get their attention?" Then his head turned, watching. Knowing. Dean held his fingers over his mouth, quieting his breaths. But the man didn't look away. "I think it will."
Dean's eyes fluttered open. He stumbled back, feeling an arm catch him around the shoulder, holding him upright. That was the first indication that something was wrong. He wasn't in bed. He wasn't having a nightmare.
And his arm was on fire.
Dean bit his cheek to hold back the scream. His knees nearly buckled, but, still, the arm held him up. Sammy's arm. He'd know that touch anywhere. It was the one piece of awareness that slipped past the pain.
Dean groped at his shoulder, following it down, following it to the fire. But there was none, just the sleeve of his shirt. But the pain flared out, right there. Where the hand print had been burned into his flesh. Cas' mark.
"Dean, what the hell?"
Sam's hiss was against his neck. The younger man was bent forward, supporting his brother's weight. Dean realized as much and tried to straighten. The pain lessened, easing back to a slow burn. The skin beneath the cloth felt tender, like it had been blistered by the sun.
"Shit, Sammy, this is supposed to be your area," Dean breathed, because frickin' visions were so not his deal. He straightened, managing to stay up on his own two feet. He drug his eyes across the hotel lobby. An eight by eight foot square with a counter dividing manager and guest. A man who looked entirely too much like Kenny Rogers' skinny clone, had his back against the key rack and was pressing a phone against his ear, eyes shot wide with worry.
Sammy already had a hand out to stop him. "No really, he's fine-there's no reason to call an ambulance. I'm just going to take him out to the car."
"Thought you were havin' a heart attack," Skinny Kenny muttered. But he sat down the phone.
Dean let Sam push him back through the glass door.
"Dean, what happened back there?" Sam circled in front him to catch his wondering gaze. "You were scared. You looked like someone had just strapped you onto an airplane. And you were in pain, man-I know what you look like when you're in pain."
He said it like Dean was planning to deny it. Which wasn't usually far off base. Dean caught his bottom lip in his teeth, cutting off his initial stream of curses. Because, damn, this hadn't been his plan for the evening.
"Sam, get in the car."
"But, Dean…"
Dean sped up. He reached the Impala's door before he answered his brother. "Sam-we need to go back. Now." He swallowed. "Get on your computer and see if…" Damn, damn, what had the preacher said her name was? "Grayson. See if Pearl Grayson is listed in the white pages. I need an address."
He slid into the driver's seat, hand shaking when he turned the ignition. Sam had barely shut his door when she lurched back in reverse.
"You mean the grandmother?" Sam already had the screen on his lap. His brow was low, already putting the pieces together. "What if I can't find her?"
Dean eyes still stung from the nightmare. Vision. Whatever-the-hell.
"Then we look for the fire."
"The fire?"
Dean put a hand to his chest, feeling the heart beat. The racing, the racing pulse hadn't been his own. He knew that now.
"Shouldn't be too hard to spot."
CHAPTER 3