Episode Eighteen: Redemption

By Kittsbud

Part Two

Dean didn’t know how long he’d been in the water. In his predicament, seconds seemed like hours, and a minute seemed like all of eternity. All he knew was that as his mind had begun to fog as his body succumbed to the lack of oxygen, a welcoming hand had somehow grabbed his jacket’s collar, hauling him from an early, watery grave. Must be Sammy…

The hunter felt his body collapse onto the river bank, and before he could thank his brother he was forced to roll onto his side, hacking up water until his lungs felt like they would burst. “Thanks, man,” he eventually mustered.

“Yer welcome, young fella. I thought you were a gonna there for a minute…”

The voice was not what Dean was expecting, and despite the urge to cough more he looked up. His savior smiled back with a lopsided, toothless grin on a face that was so wrinkled and etched with deep grooves he looked like he’d been carved from stone.

“I err, thought you were my brother,” Dean admitted, pulling his soaking body upright. “Tall, gangly kid. Seen him around anywhere?” Sammy might be in danger. That friggin’ rider didn’t look like he was about to quit killin’ anytime soon.

The old man shook his head. “No, sir, can’t say as I have, but then we don’t get too many newcomers around these parts.”

Dean nodded, wondering just how many locals lived in Black Creek. Sam had described the place as tiny, but so far everyone Dean had met looked like they belonged in a retirement home.

He glanced down at his soggy clothes and then across to the river. It looked like the old-timer had pulled him out from the opposite side to where he’d fallen in, and it was going to be hard to get back over. No way did he want to try traversing the treacherous waters at night. One near-drowning was enough.

“I need to find my brother. He might be in trouble. Is there any way back across the river without actually swimming?” Dean wrung out the bottom of his jacket as he spoke, already feeling the cold seep into his body from his damp attire.

The old man’s face contorted strangely until he looked both sad and apologetic. “Sonny, once yer this side, there ain’t no way to cross back over.” He patted Dean on the back, trying to move away from the subject. “You’re soaked, boy. Why not come on into town with me and I’ll buy you a drink to warm your bones?” He held out a hand, reminding Dean of Hank Jessop. “My name’s Arthur, but most folks around here call me Arty.”

Dean looked back towards the river. In his current condition a drink sounded good, but he was worried about Sam. He stuffed a hand in his pocket for his cell phone, but despite its waterproof casing it showed no signal. Dean huffed restlessly and stuffed it back in its soggy resting place. Maybe there will be a payphone in town.

“Name’s Dean Winchester,” he offered truthfully, following Arty as he struggled almost arthritically up a small slope.

“Like the rifle?” Arty’s voice hitched up a notch in awe and his face brightened, eyes sparkling.

“Yeah, like the rifle, I guess…”

“Folks in town are gonna love you,” Arty winked cryptically as he led Dean towards muted lights in the distance.

Lights that were far too dull for the modern luminance of electricity.

* * *

Sam reached the rendezvous point in record time. The sensation in his gut was making him feel physically nauseous, and it was getting worse not better. He’d left Dean, knowing full well something was going down - something bad. Now, if anything happened to the older brother, he would blame himself just like he had after Jess.

No worse. Sam didn’t know if he could go on living with the knowledge he’d led Dean into a death trap. He’ll be fine. I’ll find him back at the Impala cursing because I’m late back…

Sam stopped in his tracks as a girl’s hitched sobbing caught his attention. He wasn’t far from where he’d left Dean, and as he spun around, flashlight in hand, he realized that he’d found a cemetery. If I’ve found it, Dean found it.

Sam broke back into a jog, moving his light back and forth until he discovered the weeping, blood-covered girl at the base of a small wooden cross. She sat on her knees, cradling the head of another teenager as the remains of his eviscerated stomach coated her blouse.

As Sam approached, the girl looked up, startled and the young ghost hunter held out a hand to calm her fears. “It’s okay. I’m here to help you.”

The girl shook her head, tears streaming down her face as she looked back to her dead boyfriend and his two jock buddies. “No one can help us. Not after what we did…” Her voice caught in her throat, strangled by more choked sobbing, and even though her eyes saw them, she seemed to refuse to accept that the people with her were very dead. “He’ll come back. It’s what he does. He hunts…”

Sam winced. The girl was obviously in shock, both from the atrocities she’d witnessed and from a nasty cut to her arm that didn’t want to stop bleeding. Without trying to pry more from her, he pulled out his cell phone and as he flipped it open, was relieved to see it had a full signal. Where the hell is Dean?

He dialed, pushing away bad thoughts. “Hello, I need an ambulance out at the old ghost town in Black Creek…” Sam shook his head as the operator didn’t recognize the location. “Just tell the rig crew to follow Breach Lane as far as they can. I’ll meet them there.”

The voice on the line began asking more questions and Sam flicked his phone closed. He wanted to remain “anonymous” right now. He kneeled, pulling a clean handkerchief from his pocket and gently tying it around the girl’s wound. “Shssh, help will be here soon,” he soothed.

She winced, but not from the pain in her arm. She was beyond help. She had toyed with the afterlife, and now she and her companions had paid. “He takes everyone who crosses his path…”

Sam’s head cocked to one side, but his voice remained low, soft, cajoling. “Who does? The guy on the horse? Do you know who he is?”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “Death…”

The answer was all-too familiar. Every time Sam asked a question in Black Creek he got the one word response that filled his heart with dread. Something’s wrong. It’s Dean…

The younger brother carefully took the girl by the shoulders and stared her straight in the eyes. He needed her to focus, to think. “Listen, I know you’re afraid, but I need to ask you something. Have you seen anyone else out here tonight? A guy, a little shorter than me, blue jacket…” Sam stopped his description as a flash of recognition crossed the girl’s features. “Where?” He demanded, abruptly feeling his pulse pound in his ears.

“The rider…” More hitched sobbing. “The rider took him…”

“WHERE?” Sam screamed out the question so loud the girl flinched back and began to shake even harder than she had been before. He hadn’t meant to scare her, but if Dean was in danger, he couldn’t waste time.

“The river,” she offered sorrowfully. “He’s gone now, just like the others…”

Sam grabbed his flashlight and pointed it towards the sound of running water he could hear to his left. After a tense moment, he spotted the muddy river bank and scrambled to his feet, making a dive for the burbling stream, because heck, Dean’s life might depend on it.

The younger Winchester’s boots slipped in the soft gloop as he neared the embankment, and he re-aimed the beam from his light to find the mud had been churned by a multitude of deep hoof prints near the edge.

Along with the horse’s tracks, was a lone set of footprints.

Sam instantly recognized the ‘CAT’ logo imprinted in the mire. Dean had bought the new boots not more than three weeks ago after he’d ruined his last pair trudging through a bog searching for the elusive “Loveland Frog.”

The tracks seemed to end perilously close to the embankment, and as Sam eyed them more closely he felt his heart begin to lurch. If Dean had fallen or been tossed into the river, his body could have been carried far away downstream, or worse, battered on underwater rocks.

Sam frantically aimed his light at the gushing surface of the river. “DEAN! DEAN!”

The only response was the slow wail of a siren in the distance as the ambulance he’d called sped ever closer.

* * * *

Dean trudged along behind Art, scowling as water squished in his new boots as if he’d been wearing sponges on his feet. Son of a…now I gotta buy another new pair…

“Sounds like they already revved up for the night at the saloon.” Arty turned to Dean and grinned as an out-of-tune piano began to play some indistinguishable song totally off key. A female voice was nevertheless attempting to sing along. “I might even try a game of poker later. Care to join me, son?”

Dean frowned and finally looked up from his ruined boots to see the town he was headed for. Black Creek might be small, but he couldn’t believe anyone called a bar a “saloon” anymore, not to mention play piano like they belonged in some John Wayne movie.

“That’s Black Creek?” The hunter’s eyes widened and he couldn’t help but wince, as if the sight of the place pained him. Instead of seeing a street spattered with cars and houses, all that lay before him were a few wooden structures that looked like glorified barns. Outside the farthest building was a horse trough complete with two brown mares. “Man, you gotta be kiddin’ me!”

“Somethin’ wrong, sonny? You look like you seen a ghost.” Arty patted his newfound friend on the back and gestured with a gnarled finger to the building most of the noise was originating, including the hellish piano tune. “C’mon, let’s get you that drink. You done turned whiter than a sack of flour on me.”

Dean moved to follow, but his step faltered. This couldn’t be real, could it? “This is one of those towns they recreated, right? Like for tourists and shooting movies?” It was a dumb suggestion, but the only one the hunter could accept.

Arty rubbed at his chin in fascination. “Movie? Sonny, you musta bumped your head on somethin’ in the water.” He tugged at the elder Winchester’s arm until Dean succumbed, gawking as he was led unceremoniously inside the timber-built structure.

“Sonofa…” Dean pushed through the double wooden doors and stopped dead. Inside was just as he’d imagined any western saloon would look: Musty, dusty, and with a distinct odor of spilled liquor and stale sweat. “I know I said I wanted to be a cowboy, but this is ridiculous...”

“What’ll ya have to drink, sonny?” Arty didn’t seem to notice his guest’s astonishment and began chatting with the bartender as if he was a welcome regular at the establishment.

“Whiskey,” Dean swallowed.

“How about a double to warm ya through?” Arty nodded knowingly and winked.

“Yeah, well I was more thinking of a bottle.” Dean pulled out a small wooden chair in the corner of the saloon and watched as locals listened to the blonde woman at the piano belt out another warbling mantra. I must be having a freakin’ nightmare Sammy style here…

A bottle of whiskey appeared, and Dean was about to snatch it from Arty’s wizened hand and take a long gulp when he realized the deliverer of said bottle was not the old-timer. The hand was much too soft, too…feminine.

Instinctively, Dean looked up, half-expecting the woman from the piano to have joined him, because heck, he was the best damn catch in this geriatric town. Instead, he almost fell back off his chair. “Layla?” It can’t be. Layla’s in Nebraska, or…

Layla smiled and pulled out another chair. “Dean…”

“Man, I must be dreaming, because no way can any of this be really happening.” Dean finally took the bottle, looked at it as if it were a mirage, and then whipped out the stopper, taking a long swig. The liquor was much coarser than he was used to and he had to stifle a bout of gagging as it burned his tongue and throat.

“It’s happening,” Layla offered cryptically. “And yes, I’m not in Nebraska anymore…”

Dean let the bottle slip through his fingers and slam down onto the table as he realized the implications. It had been months since he’d met the young girl with a brain tumor. The chances that she had survived this long were pretty slim. The chances that she was alive and well and had moved to Black Creek were even slimmer. That left him with another, different choice he wasn’t sure he wanted to accept.

The hunter eyed the young girl, searching for signs of illness. I was in the water. Cold, dark…dead...

“I’m not in Black Creek, am I?” Dean suddenly didn’t want the whiskey. He didn’t want anything except to be sick as the vile tang of river water abruptly assaulted his taste buds, reminding him of how much he’d swallowed earlier.

“You’re in Redemption, Dean.”

Layla’s gentle tones brought back memories of a hotel room conversation, and of a promise to pray even though he considered himself to have no set religion.

Dean cleared his throat and swallowed hard, unsure how to respond to the revelation. “Redemption’s gone. It’s just a ghost town. Has been for years. Where am I really?”

“I think you know, or at least suspect.” Layla placed a hand atop his. “Redemption is a place for lost souls, Dean. A place through which some must pass to be cleansed of past transgressions…”

Dean licked his lips. Just because he didn’t conform to any set religion, his job meant he knew pretty much all the world’s different beliefs and customs. This was one he was almost too familiar with. “Purgatory,” he mouthed almost inaudibly. “A place of punishment for those who are not without sin before they can enter heaven…”

Layla’s head cocked and then she shook it with a playful laugh. “Not exactly the description I would use, but…”

Dean grabbed the whiskey bottle and took several long gulps. Hell, was it even possible to get drunk once you were dead? After a moment his thoughts turned to Sam, to the quest they were supposed to be on together. Sam. I can’t leave Sam. This can’t be real. Layla was too good for Purgatory…

“Me?” Dean swirled the bottle, watching in fascination as the liquor sloshed to and fro. “I get why I might end up in a place like this. I’ve killed things, even if they were evil. I’ve lied. I’ve manipulated people to do my job. But you? I can’t believe if there’s a God he’d send you here. You don’t deserve that.”

Again, the innocent, knowing smile. “I’m not here to atone,” Layla glanced around the darkly lit room. “Consider me your friend. Your guide…”

Dean smirked. “No offence, but I killed enough dead things in my time not to need a guide this side of the fence. Maybe a bodyguard, but no guide. Dead is dead, unless you happen to be best buds with a reaper.” He cocked his head apologetically. “Kinda been there too, although I think you already know that…”

“You’re not here for forgiveness, Dean. You are here to right a wrong.” Layla lifted her left hand and slid it under the amulet dangling from the elder Winchester’s neck. “Sins of the fathers…”

“Yeah, fall upon the children, but what’s that supposed to mean? Dad piss this spook off sometime and then not finish the job?” Dean pulled backwards until the amulet slid back against his chest. He touched it, somehow feeling comforted by the sensation. Then he recalled the rider, and what had also hung around his neck. “This have something to do with that freaky bastard that put me here?”

Dean pushed away from the table, unexpectedly needing air. Maybe it was the startling sensation of drowning again that had enveloped him, or maybe it was just the idea that he and the rider were somehow connected. Either way, he needed to be outside before his last meal ended up on the bar’s already filthy floor.

Layla followed as he stumbled into the dully lit street, hanging onto a wooden support beam to keep his balance as he suddenly became disorientated by his unearthly surroundings.

After taking a breath, he turned back to the young woman whose life he had surely taken the night he’d stopped Roy le Grange. “Why a western town? If I’m dead, why do I see Redemption? Is it because of the rider?”

“Death is such a definite word, Dean. But yes, everyone sees their home town, their own era when they come here.”

“Then why don’t I see Lawrence, and Mom? Why don’t I see the Impala instead of a bunch of horses and a bunch of tumbleweed?” Dean barked out the question. It wasn’t fair that he was here. It wasn’t fair that Layla had died. Life, death weren’t fair.

“You see his reality, his world. You followed him back through a portal that should never have been opened, and now he must be stopped before more lives are taken.” Layla looked into the distance. The night sky here looked no different from the real world. The clouds still hung low in the sky, and the moon’s muted light still cascaded from the heavens.

She turned back, her usually sparkling eyes suddenly grim. “Sins of the fathers, Dean. You have to stop him, but if you die here, you die forever…”

“If I’m already dead, what does it matter? You tellin’ me I can freakin’ die twice? Great; “two for the price of one” just took on a whole new meaning.” Dean turned, scrutinizing the town that may well be all he would know for the rest of eternity. “I am dead, right? That’s what this little sermon has been all about? I drowned, didn’t I? Now you expect me to take out some other dead dude who escaped your little prison here? Ghostbusting from beyond the grave. Wait till Sammy hears about this one. ”

Layla sucked down a breath. Explaining to someone so unsure about his own beliefs was one of the hardest tasks she could have been given. But this was no ordinary newcomer. He was someone she considered a friend, even though their meeting in a past life had been brief and somewhat tragic. “You don’t have to die here, Dean. Time has no dominion in Redemption…”

Dean’s brow furrowed. Great, this is worse than having a conversation with freakin’ Yoda! “The old guy said there was no way back when he pulled me out of the water. He didn’t mean I couldn’t cross the river, he meant no way back to the living. How can I go back? It’s been too long already…”

“It’s not your time, Dean. Let’s just say you’re a guest here.” Layla sighed. Even though she didn’t belong in Redemption, she had no choice, no chance to return to her loved ones, to her mother who had fought so hard to save her.

Dean grimaced, not noting the sudden look of sadness on the girl’s face. “Yeah, you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. What is this, freakin’ Hotel California?” The classic guitar riff from the Eagles song filled his head, mercifully drowning out the grating piano sounds for a few blissful seconds. “So tell me,” he finally asked. “If I’m here to stop “sword-happy cowpoke” exactly how do I send his sorry ass to hell without any weapons? Cos I tell ya, no way am I gonna try praying him outta here…”

Layla’s scowl broke into a slight smile again. Dean still couldn’t think outside the box, not even after he’d been shown the “other side.” Evil things he killed without question, but believe there was some inherent good lurking unseen in the world? He just wouldn’t accept it. “You can kill him here and it would be the equivalent of setting his soul to rest. But as I said…”

“Yeah, I can get canned here too.” Dean stepped away from the wooden saloon and ambled into the center of the dusty street. It was still like a dream - a bad one. There were so many unanswered questions. So much he wasn’t even sure he trusted. “Tell me this: How the hell does this yahoo get out? I mean God or whoever runs this show never intended for people to go back, right?”

Layla nodded. “He had help from the other side. There was never meant to be a way back, but someone inadvertently opened one…” She moved quietly to Dean’s side, abruptly wishing the hunter hadn’t been dragged into a mess that may already have cost him his life should he make one wrong move. “He terrorizes Redemption, makes the place more like hell than merely a stopover for those who wish to repent.”

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and wished he hadn’t as he felt the lining of his jacket squish with water. He turned to face Layla, still unsure whether he was dreaming or not. “No offence, but why can’t the big guy in charge stop this creep? I mean come on, Moses could part a sea, Jesus rose from the grave, and the big boss man can’t stop some lifeless bozo escaping the freakin’ dead zone?”

“Of course he can,” Layla hooked an arm around Dean’s and slowly began to guide him towards the two mares he’d seen earlier. “That’s were you come in. It’s as much part of your destiny as finding Haris…”

Dean pulled back, his brow creasing somewhere between surprise and annoyance. “You know about that yellow-eyed freak too?”

“Like I said, time is relative here. I know and have seen lots of things that have past, and that will be. Intervening, however, in those matters isn’t my task…”

Yoda, she’s definitely been having lessons from the little guy with the big ego…

Dean inhaled, about to try a different approach when a horse whinnied somewhere behind them.

The pair turned to find the rider watching them from his steed. The eyes that had locked on Dean back at the cemetery sought the young hunter out again, and the horseman fixed his gaze on what hung around Dean’s neck.

Dean watched, fascinated as the grey charger paced forward, its hoofs sending tiny dust whirls into the night. He expected the phantom rider to speak, to demand where he had gotten the amulet, but the sandy-haired killer merely looked to the elder Winchester and then to Layla.

Layla stepped back as he drew nearer, knowing the rider recognized her - not as a person, but as an emissary of light, intent on sealing his fate. “Why can’t you let the past die with you?” The words came out muffled, a hint of fear clouding the clarity of the statement.

Still the horseman refused to speak. Only his dour expression, complete with scowling, maggot-ridden cheeks gave away his anger.

Gripping the reins of his steed and jerking them to the right, he commanded the pale stallion to turn tightly, and as the ghostly animal moved, he reached down and pulled his all-too-familiar saber from its sheath.

Dean watched, transfixed by the spirit’s gall. This thing that in death wore his amulet, had the unwavering disrespect to attack a woman who had done nothing but confront his heinous acts in the real world as well as in the afterlife.

“Hey, why don’t you come over here and take your problem up with a guy instead of picking on a defenseless woman?” Dean stepped forward determinedly, even though he had no weapon to fight back with. “Or maybe you’re as big a coward dead as you were alive?”

The rider moved in his saddle, abruptly torn as to whom to attack. Both interlopers had dared to enter his world fully intent on banishing him. Did it really matter who he disposed of first? He shook his head, not rising to the bait that Dean had dared to offer up. Layla would be sent back to her own resting place. She deserved that much for meddling in his affairs.

“No!” Dean saw the sword blow coming and knew that even though Layla had technically died already, he couldn’t allow it to happen again in Redemption. Maybe it would mean her soul would be lost forever like his mother’s. Maybe it meant she would be displaced to some other, darker place, where only the evil normally resided, and he couldn’t have that on his conscience. Not after what had happened in Nebraska.

Dean dived forward, putting his own body between the harsh blade and Layla without a second thought.

“Sins of the fathers, Dean. You have to stop him, but if you die here, you die forever…”

The slightly curved saber caught Dean’s side just as he dashed in front of the girl and sliced cleanly through flesh and sinew. He grunted, suddenly aware that there was now a piece of metal embedded in his body that shouldn’t be there, and that it had actually both entered and exited.

Layla screamed, not from fear for herself, but for her savior. Dean hadn’t been brought here to die for her. He was meant for so much more in the real world. Even Roy le Grange had sensed that.

The rider smirked at her anguished cry and expertly withdrew his blade, a scarlet ribbon of blood staining its already tainted metal as he quickly re-sheathed the weapon.

Dean grabbed impulsively at the tear in his body the saber had left behind, and as his hands began to stain red with his own blood, he tumbled forward into the loose dirt on the desert floor.

Hoofs pounded near his head, and the injured hunter forced his body to roll onto his side to look up at his attacker. Pain began to seep through the numbness he had initially felt, but he fought it, needing to keep his eyes focused for as long as his body would allow.

Through gritted teeth he demanded, “Why? Why kill people you don’t even know, you bastard?” His eyes clouded and his vision blurred, but he refused to give in to oblivion and let the killer have the satisfaction of seeing him die here until he had an answer. “Did the kids back at the cemetery have something to do with this?”

The rider sat forward in his intricately carved saddle and let his right hand slide to a holster under his grime-coated jacket. He withdrew a six-shooter and cocked it, pointing the barrel down as if he intended to send a silver slug straight into his foe’s forehead.

Dean coughed and wondered if he was bringing up blood or just bile. He wanted to look, to see if he was bleeding to death from inside as well as out, but he couldn’t, because the weapon now aimed at his skull was as familiar as the amulet that dangled from his enemy’s neck.

The Colt, with its carefully carved hilt, seemed to draw the young hunter’s attention, mesmerizing his already dazed mind until he couldn’t see anything but his father offering up the weapon back in Salvation. “You’re the hunter…the hunter Samuel Colt made that gun for back in 1835…You were one of the good guys…”

At Dean’s sudden epiphany, the rider hesitated, scowling as if some deep, dark secret had been revealed; a secret that would cost him his soul. After a moment, he pulled back on the hammer and re-holstered the gun without firing. His icy hazel eyes bored into Layla for the briefest of seconds, and then he yanked back on his steed’s reins and kicked with his heels until the horse broke into a fast gallop out of town.

As the devilish animal vanished beyond Redemption, Layla dropped to her knees and quickly pulled Dean’s head into her lap. She looked down, her eyes darting in panic to the blood now oozing through his t-shirt and jacket.

“Guess I should have told you I never listen to warnings until it’s too late. I’m thinkin’ that attitude right there is gonna cost me big time today, huh?” Dean swallowed hard and then grunted as Layla pressed a hand over his wound just a little too hard. “Think maybe you could pray for me this time?” He winked, some roguish spark still present in his weary mind, but underneath he was afraid: Afraid to leave Sammy to deal with Haris. Afraid that the end had come and gone and he’d never had chance to say goodbye to his little brother.

Tears began to form in Layla’s eyes and she brushed a stray lock of his hair away from his forehead. She knew his thoughts, sensed his inner pain. “Don’t be afraid, Dean. If you have faith, miracles can happen, remember?”

Dean flinched. His prayers hadn’t been answered, had they? Even though he’d kept his promise and prayed, Layla was still here- had still died. But then, maybe you had to have the devote faith Layla had for it to work.

He squeezed her hand and noted how cold she felt. Maybe he did too. “Promise me, if I can’t, that you’ll watch over Sammy? I’m getting kinda tired…”

Layla nodded, squeezing back reassuringly. “Your brother will be just fine. He has the best guardian angel anyone could wish for…”

Dean squinted, trying not to look into the bright white light that was beckoning at the edge of his distorted, blurred field of vision. “You?” He asked, tiredly, forcing out the words even though it hurt.

Layla shook her head and began to fade away as the brilliant opaline light took over the scene. “Not me,” she revealed. “You, Dean…”

Through the burning sting in his side, Dean couldn’t stifle one last huff, followed by a quirky smirk. “Sweetheart, me an angel? That would be a miracle right there…”

Layla smiled back wanly, remembering a time in a small hotel room when all she’d understood was that Dean had probably cost her her life. She nodded briefly, wanting him to know she appreciated his little witticism, and then was gone, replaced by the vortex of white, sucking him in like some quantum singularity, dragging his soul to some unknown place.

Dean let his head drop and closed his eyes, finally accepting this was the one thing he couldn’t fight. Something, someone, called to him repeatedly, and he succumbed, allowing his essence to be transported wherever fate intended.

* * * *

Sam flicked his flashlight across the water’s surface for the third time and paused. Something was bobbing in the center of the river that looked like a body floating, hands outstretched, lifeless.

It’s nothing. Just some junk in the water and you’re letting your imagination run wild.

Sam jogged closer, not allowing the beam of light to move from its target. As he neared, the bobbing material took on even more shape and color, and he realized with a sudden dread that the thing was exactly the same color blue as Dean’s jacket.

“DEAN!” Sam shouted repeatedly, until his throat grew hoarse with the cry. But there was no response. There couldn’t be, not when Dean was face down in the tumultuously flowing stream where the river forked towards Black Creek.

Sam skidded to a halt at the edge of the embankment and tossed down his light. It was waterproof, but there was no way to hold it and Dean once he was in the water.

Thinking before acting, the younger hunter tugged off his khaki jacket and threw it to one side. It might hold him down in the water, and later he might need it to keep Dean warm and dry. If he’s still alive…

Sam didn’t dwell on the thought, and instead took a carefully timed dive into the frothing water. The current didn’t appear to be too strong, but he wasn’t taking any chances given Dean’s current predicament.

As his lanky frame hit the river he noted just how cold the water temperature seemed to be and abruptly wished he could swim faster. He kicked hard against the flow, and within a few strokes had reached his brother’s motionless form.

“DEAN!” Sam wrapped an arm around his brother, rolling him until his mouth and nose where clear of the water. He looked pale, lifeless, and his skin was cold and clammy to the touch. Too long. He’s been out here too long…

Sam kicked hard in the water, keeping one arm carefully around his brother as he towed him back to the embankment. Seconds seemed like hours, and the young hunter couldn’t help but wonder if a reaper wasn’t watching, waiting somewhere out of sight like it had in Missouri. I didn’t let him die then, I won’t now!

Sam winced, tears welling in his eyes as he pulled Dean’s limp body out of the river and realized his hands were covered in blood - Dean’s blood. It was happening again, just like in the Impala, just like in Missouri. My fault. I led him here…

Dean lying bleeding to death, lungs full of river water, and nothing feeble Sammy could do about it.

“NO!” Sam screamed into the night, even though there was no one to hear his embittered cry.

He slipped a hand to Dean’s neck, feeling desperately for the throb of blood that meant his brother was alive. But as he expected, his fingers met nothing but cold, graying flesh.

Dean wasn’t breathing, and no matter how hard he pressed, Sam couldn’t even find a weak pulse.

Maybe reapers believed in the old adage: “third time pays for all…”

Continue...

Discuss the episode here!

E-Mail the Author!