Season Two

Episode Twenty: Unfinished

by Irismay42 & Thru Terry's Eyes

Part Four

Motel Paradiso, Mansfield, OH
Present Day

“I can’t believe you picked the same crummy motel, Sammy,” Dean said, shoving the door closed with one elbow while dropping an aromatic white paper bag on the table in front of his brother along with a copy of the Mansfield Morning News. “I mean – like this place wasn’t a dump fifteen years ago!”

Sam held out a hand without looking up from the dusty old book in which he was currently engrossed, and Dean shoved a Styrofoam cup into it with a grunt.

“They were all out of green tea, Samantha,” he said. “You’ll have to make do with a good old cup o’ Joe like the rest of us workin’ stiffs.”

“You never worked a day in your life, Dean,” Sam commented, still not looking up, sniffing cautiously at the coffee before taking a sip. “You forgot the sugar –” he began, finally meeting his brother’s gaze just as twenty sugar packets landed on the book in front of him.

“Don’t say I never give you anything.”

“Besides Chicken Pox when I was seven?”

“I’m an awesome big brother.”

Dean slumped down in the chair opposite Sam, taking a sip of his own coffee and pulling something vaguely resembling an egg McMuffin from the paper bag. He took a bite, grimaced, and pulled the newspaper towards himself, idly scanning the front page.

“You know, these books of Old Man Withers’?” Sam was saying, barely looking up at his brother as he tidied the sugar packets into a neat little pile before emptying several into his coffee. “There’s some seriously dark stuff in here. Can’t believe he kept them in a school library. Anyone could have found them.”

“Mmm, like we did,” Dean mumbled through a mouthful of muffin. “Good thing we weren’t looking to turn anyone into a horny toad or anything…” He swallowed, grinning to himself at his own turn of phrase before his eyes narrowed as they scanned the column toward the bottom of the newspaper’s front page. “They’re calling it ‘an unfortunate accident,’” he said, shaking his head as he read further down the page. “Mr. Entwhistle. Electrical short in the newly-refurbished library’s wiring.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam cocked a brow. “So how are they explaining Jared Macklin? Piranhas accidentally left in the pool by the construction company?”

“Slipped and fell through a plate glass door –”

“Before crawling eight feet to throw himself into the swimming pool?”

“Hey man, people don’t like loose ends. Especially where their kids are concerned. Easier to blame an electrical short than face the fact that your kids’ school is being terrorized by the ghost of a homicidal librarian –”

“Ghost of a Black Magic-practicing homicidal librarian,” Sam amended, tapping the page in front of him with the tip of his pencil. “Dean, seriously. The kind of rituals in these books? I think even Bobby would be shocked.”

Dean frowned, pulling the open book across the table toward himself. “I dunno, it takes a helluva lot to shock Bobby.”

Sam indicated the page Dean was looking at with his pencil. “That ritual there?” he said. “Describes how a person can transfer their soul into an inanimate object – a receptacle to hold their consciousness – until a suitable corporeal host is found who they can then possess.”

Dean frowned. “Like a demon possessing a person?”

“Pretty much.”

Dean whistled, eyes suddenly widening. “So I could possess the Impala?”

Sam sighed. “Yes, Dean. In theory you could possess the Impala.”

“Or Angelina Jolie’s underwear? ’Cause man–”

“Dean.”

“Huh?”

“Focus.”

“I’m focused.”

“On the homicidal ghost librarian.”

“Former homicidal ghost librarian.”

Sam bit his lip uncertainly. “Maybe…”

Dean’s gaze shot to his brother. “Aw man!” he burst out. “Don’t say that! I hate it when you say that –!”

“I’m just thinking,” Sam began.

“Never a good sign.”

“That maybe burning Withers’ bones might not have been enough.”

Dean’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into the stratosphere. “What?” he growled, low and quiet, deceptively calm. “It took us fifteen years to dig up that sonofabitch, Sammy –”

“I know that,” Sam agreed. “But look at this book, Dean. Look at the page.”

Dean followed the direction of Sam’s stabbing finger.

“This book opens straight to this page,” Sam continued. “As if this page has been read a lot more than the rest of the book. And look at the notes in the margins –” Dean could just about make out a tiny, spidery scrawl if he squinted. “Withers read this ritual, Dean. He studied it. He made notes on it –”

“To transfer his soul into an inanimate object? Like in those kid wizard books?”

Sam frowned, for a second wondering how the hell Dean would know about that, barely having read a book in his life unless it had pictures. “Ye-ah,” he said slowly. “Exactly like that. Y’know, I’m thinking angry spirits are usually attached to their own remains, right, but often attach themselves to an object or a location, like the house where they lived? Well what if this is something else? What if this isn’t a case of Mr. Withers haunting his old library because he was murdered there? What if he wasn’t murdered at all, but didn’t die of natural causes either? What if he used this ritual to transfer his soul into something? Into something he loved above everything else –”

“A book?” Dean hazarded.

“Exactly,” Sam agreed. “So the school board wanted him out, right? Wanted to modernize? He doesn’t want to let go, but the writing’s on the wall for him. So he finds a way to transfer his soul into one of his precious books so that he can bide his time until he finds a suitable vessel to possess from which he can continue his study and his research –”

“– But then the book he’s attached himself to gets crated up and doesn’t see the light of day again for fifteen years, trapping him in limbo and causing him to get even crazier than he already was?”

Sam nodded. “Tell me it doesn’t fit.”

“It fits,” Dean confirmed, his gaze falling on the piles of Withers’ books they’d boosted from the library the night before. “But in that case,” he said slowly, “the bastard could be in any one of these books.”

“Or any of those that didn’t burn in the library last night.”

Dean recognized the suggestive cadence in Sam’s voice immediately. “You got a particular book in mind, Sherlock?” he asked.

Sam nodded. “There was a grimoire,” he confirmed. “I saw it last night – it was on Helen Jensen’s desk on top of a pile of Withers’ other books. I thought it looked kinda familiar, but it was only this morning I remembered where I’d seen it before.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

“Old Man Withers’ office. When we broke in. Fifteen years ago.”

Dean blinked. “You remember a book you saw for, like, five seconds fifteen years ago?”

Sam nodded again. “I said it looked similar to ones I’d seen at Bobby’s.”

“Okay, you are never to rag on me for remembering the script to Star Wars ever again, okay?”

Sam smiled wanly. “Point is, it’s not here. The grimoire. It’s not one of the books we brought with us – Mr. Entwhistle’s little pyrotechnic display made it a little inaccessible.”

“And it might not even be the right book?”

“No, it might not.”

Dean sat bolt upright. “So we gotta burn them all,” he said decisively. “Starting with these and moving on to the ones that are still at the library.”

“Only way to be sure,” Sam agreed.

Mansfield Public School Library
Present day

It was eerily quiet in the deserted hallway outside the still-smoldering remains of the school’s new library. They’d had no problems getting in – the custodial staff were already around at this time of the morning, so there were no alarms to be deactivated, and only one measly fire exit to work their way through.

They’d made it to the library undetected and ducked quickly inside, careful not to disturb the plentiful police crime scene tape adorning the entrance but not in any way put off by its presence.

Looking around, Sam was oddly relieved that the new media center had largely escaped the fire unscathed, only the carpeting and the shelving units directly surrounding the area where Mr. Entwhistle did his whole human Roman Candle thing showing any signs of serious damage.

The floor was littered with various piles of soggy, charred library books, bought new only a few days earlier but now doomed to the trash before they’d ever had the opportunity to edify the enquiring mind of a youngster. Sam found that oddly depressing, and looked away, beyond the tape outline pressed into the incinerated flooring and over toward the charred door that now hung open in front of the store room that had once been Mr. Withers’ office.

“I’m surprised the fire investigators aren’t back on scene yet,” he commented, trying not to look down as he picked his way around the outline on the floor.

“It’s early,” Dean replied, following Sam’s lead. “They’re probably still off eating donuts somewhere with their cop buddies.”

Sam glanced back at him, shaking his head. “That’s such a stereotype,” he said. “Have you ever actually seen a cop eating a donut?”

Dean thought about that for a second. “Sure,” he said with a bright smile. “Chief Wiggum on The Simpsons. Eats them all the time.”

“And that’s so true to life,” Sam muttered, easing the barely-hung door aside as he stepped into Withers’ old office.

“Anything?” Dean called as he made his way past the office and over to the desk where they’d last seen the current librarian.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “There are a few books left here. We better take ’em and burn ’em. No point risking another fire here.”

Dean nodded, glancing around Helen Jensen’s desk but finding nothing resembling an ancient grimoire. “You find the book?” he asked. “’Cause I sure as hell can’t see it out here.”

Sam emerged from the office, arms full of crumbling old tomes. “No,” he said, shaking his head as he approached Dean’s position. “It’s not in there. It was out here, on the desk. I saw it last night, I swear…” He examined the small pile of old books balanced precariously on the desk, but reluctantly had to admit that Dean was right: the grimoire wasn’t here.

“Dammit,” Sam muttered, dumping the books he was carrying onto the desk, and hunting around for a dry and undamaged packing carton. Retrieving a likely candidate from under the desk, he started packing the books into it while Dean continued to hunt around some of the nearby shelves of books just in case the grimoire had found its way onto any of them.

When Sam was done packing, Dean turned back to him, arms spread wide. “It ain’t here, man,” he said, defeatedly.

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Getting that idea myself. But where else could it be? None of Withers’ books got burned when Entwhistle died –”

“Obviously,” Dean said. “Psycho nutjob librarian don’t care about torching a person, but he ain’t gonna damage his precious Satanic book collection.”

“– And no one else could have been in here after the fire,” Sam continued. “Only the fire service and the cops. Who else would have had access?”

He stopped suddenly, both boys’ eyes meeting as they simultaneously uttered the words, “Helen Jensen.”

“Ah, man…” Dean ran a hand through his hair and began to pace. “She wouldn’t…”

“She was really interested in Withers, Dean,” Sam said. “Really really interested in him. Admired the crazy old coot. Remember? For standing up for what he believed in?”

“You don’t think –” Dean began, paling considerably.

“If Withers is looking for a new vessel – someone who he can use to continue his studies and his research –”

“Then who better than the person now running his library?”

Sam nodded grimly. “We gotta find Helen Jensen.”

Helen Jensen's House
Present Day

Helen stared at her reflection in the mirror as she carefully brushed her dark hair until it fell in rich brown waves about her shoulders. She had slipped on a long white shirt, the one with the lacy ruffles at the ends of the sleeves and down the throat that she had bought in a moment of frivolous want. Normally after putting it on she would shake her head and return it to the padded hanger, uncomfortable with the image the mirror showed her, and pull out one of the tailored, mannish blouses she normally wore.

Looking at her reflection in the soft glow of a small lamp, somehow the shirt just seemed right. In a further display of abandonment she had only bothered to button two of the pearl buttons, allowing the shirt to hang open as it willed, enjoying the feel of her bare legs and feet moving unencumbered.

She felt….decadent. Expectant. As though she were waiting for something unknown to occur.

Considering the fact that three people had died under bizarre circumstances where she worked and that her office had been set on fire, she couldn’t quite grasp why she really didn’t give a damn.

She laughed softly and picked up the long-stemmed wineglass she was drinking from, drifting back out to her small living room and settling herself cross-legged on the rug before the fire she had built earlier. Setting the wineglass down on the hearth, she pulled towards her the heavy black leather book she had brought from the library after the rescue people had dragged Entwhistle off her desk.

What an idiot he’d been, she thought.

She ran gentle fingers over the tooled cover, tracing the outlines with a touch that was almost sensuous. With reverent respect she opened the book and began to page slowly through it, the rough touch of the parchment dragging against her fingertips as she admired the intricate woodcuts of the illustrations, her lips moved gently as she murmured the Latin text, the words familiar to her in a way she didn’t understand but also didn’t question.

The room grew deliciously warm as she moved through the pages, a soft breeze beginning to stir her hair.

She took another sip of wine but didn’t notice when the glass slipped as she set it back down, the scarlet contents spilling onto her white rug.

* * * *

Sam hurriedly finished dousing the pile of books with lighter fluid, battling his every instinct that burning books was a bad thing to do, especially when many of those books were damn near priceless one-of-a-kind antiques.

“C’mon, Sam!” Dean called from where he was watching by the car. “Set the damn things on fire and let’s go!”

Sam thumbed the lighter into life and after a brief but major conscience battle tossed it on the stack. He jerked back as the dry old books went up with a greenish whoosh of flame that practically reduced them to ash in one go. Swallowing, he turned and ran back to the car, sliding in as Dean fired it up. They had to get to Helen’s and get that last book since they had no way of knowing which book might be the winner of the Carlyle Withers Home Away From Home award.

The streetlights were burning by the time they slid to a stop in front of Helen’s address. A fast search through her desk had produced the information they were looking for, including a phone number, but repeated efforts to call her had gone unanswered.

Oddly wavering light spilled out the front window and they could see the curtains moving on the inside.

A quick exchange of looks and they bailed out of the car, running up to the front door, ringing the bell, banging on the door itself and calling her name.

After a long four second wait, Dean said, “To hell with it,” took one step back and kicked the door in.

The door slammed back into the wall and a hot wind blasted their faces, forcing them back a step, as they squinted into the howling rush of air.

The fire in the fireplace crackled and roared, flames sucking up the front of the bricks, scorching them; dozens of candles scattered about the room flickered madly but managed to stay lit.

Helen Jensen stood in the center of the room, a loose white shirt plastered to her body where it wasn’t sliding off one bare shoulder, head back, arms outstretched, feet braced and apart, her hair swirling about her head. Words poured from her lips so fast that Sam couldn’t have made them out even if they had been in English.

At her feet the black grimoire lay open, a small spinning cloud beginning to take shape over the pages, darting out as it grew to circle Helen’s legs then pull back, testing the touch.

“Get the book!” Dean screamed over the roar of the wind tearing through the room, “I’ll get her!” He threw out his arm to deflect the bric-a-brac that was starting to fly around. Behind them the door slammed shut with a reverberating crash.

Sam nodded, mimicking Dean’s deflective action as a tray suddenly sliced toward him. He had memorized the words to stop the ritual but he had to have the book in hand to make it work.

Dean tried to throw himself at Helen’s rigid form but was knocked back by the swirling funnel beginning to encompass her. He slammed back into the fireplace as more flames exploded outward, the heat searing the back of his legs.

“Shit!” he gasped, shaking his head.

Sam fell back as he tried to get close enough to sweep the book away, a brass candlestick, still with flaming candle, smashing into his forehead, opening a gash that sent blood spilling down his face in a narrow trail.

“You okay?” Dean yelled, crouching.

“You gotta get her away from the book!” Sam yelled, wiping the blood out of his eye.

“What the hell do you think I’m trying to do!!??” Dean shouted back. “If I shoot at it I might hit her!”

Dean grimaced, the room was becoming almost too hot to bear, sweat beginning to stream down his face. The funnel rising out of the book was now over their heads and Helen’s feet were no longer touching the ground as it began to suck her into the vortex.

Watching as Sam began to pull himself along the floor in the direction of the book, Dean likewise tried to get closer to Helen, her body vanishing in the tornado before them.

He stretched out his hands, swearing as the spinning winds bit into his skin like razors, forcing himself into the shifting mass.

His fingers closed on cloth, as his senses were assailed with flashing images of people he had never seen and emotions that almost overwhelmed him with anger: humiliation, triumph and need. It was almost too much and he had to fight not to succumb to it, drawing on his own fury and frustration to fend it off as he clawed Helen’s body into his arms.

Sam reached out long fingers to grip the edge of the book and try to drag it near, calling out the words to end this. He caught papers between his fingers that tore from the book, the book itself remaining in place as though welded there.

As the pages gave way, Dean felt the barest weakening of the hold on both his and Helen’s body. “Keep going!!!” he forced through stiff lips, pulling with all his might against the force holding them in place.

Helen began to jerk against him, struggling. She began to scream, fingers clawing into Dean. “NOOOO!!”

Sam ripped handfuls of pages from the book and began to shout the invocations, throwing the pages into the fire as quickly as he could drag himself over to it and back.

Abruptly, both Helen and Dean crashed to the floor, her body writhing and kicking as she shrieked, beating at him with her fists, nails tearing at his face.

Dean rolled across the floor with her, trying to hold her hands, her legs and feet causing serious damage to his lower regions. “For God’s sake Sammy, get on with it!”

Sam threw himself on the book, fingers clawing at the edges of the cover. He ignored Dean and rained Latin incantations on the book as he managed to get his fingers under the edge and pry it loose. He slammed it shut and threw himself back to the roaring fire, heaving the book into the flames.

Fire poured suddenly from the opening, turning the room into a furnace as it roared over their prone bodies, sound like a sonic boom shaking the house.

And then it was gone, the sudden silence as loud as the noise had been before.

Hesitantly, both Sam and Dean lifted their heads slightly and looked around.

“Is that it?” Dean asked hoarsely, still lying atop Helen who lay unmoving.

Sam dropped his head back on his arms. “I think so,” he wheezed.

Dean rolled slowly off Helen and shook out his hands, covered with dozens of tiny cuts that stung like a bitch, likewise his clothing was neatly shredded. So much for them, and thank God he hadn’t been wearing anything he cared about.

“Took you long enough,” he grunted, pushing himself to his knees. He felt like he’d been sandblasted.

“What?!” Sam barked in outrage, then shook his head and likewise climbed to his hands and knees, crawling closer.

“How’s she?” he asked, as Dean gently patted Helen’s face.

“She’s alive,” he replied, pausing to glance around at the destruction in her living room. “I don’t know how the hell we’re gonna explain all this though.”

“It might help a little if you button her clothes back up,” Sam said wryly as Helen began to move slowly, groaning, her shirt having pretty much come off during her struggle with Dean. He sat back and rubbed his still-bleeding forehead.

Dean ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting blood from where he had apparently bitten himself. “Ya know –” he began, unable to keep himself from admiring the view presented to him.

“Dean!”

“Okay! Fine! Don’t have a hemorrhage, I’m buttoning!”

Rest Stop, outside of Winchester, KY
May 1993

Usually, Dean got a kick out of driving through any town that shared his name. He wasn’t sure whether Dad had done it on purpose tonight – it was pretty much on their way to Athens, Tennessee – and he always said he liked to take the scenic route. Maybe he sensed the unease between his sons. The air of something not quite right between them, something hanging over them. Something left unsaid or unfinished.

Maybe he just wanted to make them feel better.

Whatever his reasons, Dean appreciated it, although tonight he was pretty much too tired to care that he could see a sign for Winchester, Kentucky lit up bright yellow on the highway.

Dad was pumping gas and Sam had been sleeping fitfully, slumped against Dean’s shoulder, the whole way from Mansfield.

Dean glanced at the clock on the dashboard and yawned: 2.45 a.m.

“Dean?”

Dean shifted slightly as Sam stirred awake, looking up at him with dazed dark eyes.

“Yeah, squirt?”

“We there yet?”

“Nah. Dad’s gettin’ gas.”

“He mad?”

“Don’t think so. Why?”

Sam shrugged. “You think he knows?”

“Knows what?”

“That we messed up.”

“How could he know that?” Dean smiled dismissively, although the same thought had crossed his mind, too. “He’s not psychic.”

“I’m not so sure sometimes,” Sam muttered, eyes following his father as he made his way to the twenty-four hour Stop n’ Shop to pay for the gas.

Dean nodded, eyes following in the same direction. “Yeah,” he said. “I know whatcha mean.”

“We should have told him,” Sam said bluntly. “We should have told him about Mr. Withers.”

Dean sighed. “We’ve been over this, Sammy –”

“I know, but we still should have told him.”

Dean nodded grudgingly. “Yeah well. Too late now.”

Sam turned his wide eyes back up to his brother, not awake enough yet to have remembered to pull away and retreat to the opposite end of the bench seat, like the grown-up boy he was. “You think anyone else will get hurt because of us?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “No more than would have gotten hurt if we’d never even tried to salt n’ burn the old bastard,” he said. “At least we tried, Sammy.” Sam nodded, head drooping back against Dean’s shoulder, and Dean just watched as his father approached the car. “At least we tried.”

Rest Stop, I-75 outside Toledo, OH
Present day

Sam could hear his father yelling even from this distance.

Dean was grimacing, elbows on his knees as he sat hunched forward on the wooden picnic table, his cell phone held a good couple of inches away from his ear as he stared down at his boots nervously scuffing the bench currently occupied by Sam, who was trying to feign interest in the remains of a chicken sandwich.

“Yeah, I know we should have told you, Dad –” Dean was saying, cheeks coloring considerably. “Yeah. I know. I know it was a long time ago. I – I don’t know. I don’t know why I decided to tell you today. I guess – I guess I just thought you ought to know, that’s all.”

Dean ran a hand over his face, the phone now pressed tight against his ear, as if he didn’t want Sam to hear anymore. He sighed, heavily.

“Yeah, I know people died, Dad. But you – you wanted to get to Athens to take care of that succubus, and it was late and I –” He stopped again, John’s voice once more loud in his ear. “I know,” he said finally. “I’m sorry.”

He shifted slightly, nodding even though he knew his dad couldn’t see him.

“It’s taken care of now, though, right?” John asked, voice slightly calmer as it emanated from the speaker of Dean’s phone, and Dean nodded again.

“Yeah. He’s toast. Or rather, the book he was haunting’s toast. We saved the girl and everything.”

“So his spirit was attached to the book, not to his remains or the library?” John asked, interest piquing in his voice.

“Yeah, this freaky-ass grimoire thing Sam remembered from when we were kids –”

“So it wouldn’t have made a difference,” John said shortly, sounding somehow relieved. “If you’d managed to salt n’ burn Withers’ remains back in the day.”

Dean shook his head. “Guess not,” he agreed.

“And I doubt we’d have been able to find that grimoire. Not if it was already crated up and put into storage.”

“Are you trying to make me feel better?”

There was a pause. “You should have told me,” John said.

“I know, Dad.”

“People died who shouldn’t have.”

“I know.”

“It was stupid, and careless, and irresponsible –” Dean’s cheeks colored more and more with each word, but something in John’s tone softened. “– And you were kids. Ultimately. Dean, you and Sammy were just kids.”

Dean straightened, surprised. “That’s not really an excuse, Dad,” he began, exchanging a glance with Sam, who was looking up at him, trying to figure out John’s end of the conversation.

“No,” John said. “It’s not. But at least you tried. At least you tried to do the right thing. And it’s finished now, right? It’s done. No one got hurt because of what you did.”

“No,” Dean agreed. “They just got hurt because of what we didn’t do.”

Dean could almost hear John shrug down the phone. “Well it’s over now. What happened before – it’s over. There’s nothing we can do about it now. The past’s the past. Let it go, son.”

Dean managed to cover a snort, imagining what Sam would think of Dad coming out with that particular platitude. “Yeah, Dad,” he agreed. “The past’s the past.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, just as Dean knew he would.

“So where are you and Sammy headed next?” John asked, deftly changing the subject.

“North Dakota,” Dean replied. “Somethin’ freaky goin’ on up there – maybe a Woman in White. What about you?”

John was silent for a good couple of seconds, and Sam reacted to the sudden tension in Dean’s shoulders by sitting up a little straighter himself.

“Got a lead to follow up,” John said eventually, his tone evasive. “Not sure where it’ll take me just yet. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

There was another pause, and this time Dean’s eyes met Sam’s.

“Dean? Just be careful, huh?”

“Yeah, Dad –”

“And take care of your brother.”

“Dad –?”

“I’ll talk to you soon.”

Dean shifted once more on the uncomfortable wooden table. “Dad, is something wrong?”

Another pause. “No son. I’ll see you both soon, okay? And – and I’m glad you told me. You boys did the right thing. You always do the right thing. You stay safe now.”

“Yeah, Dad,” Dean said quietly. “You stay safe too.” He closed the phone absently, still gazing at his boots.

“Dean?” Sam asked. “Is Dad okay?”

Dean looked up at him, considering the question. “I guess,” he said.

“He sounded pretty pissed,” Sam observed.

Dean smiled sadly. “Yeah. He was that alright. But he said we did our best. We were just kids. And even if we’d managed to dig up Old Man Withers it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

“No,” Sam agreed. “And at least it’s over now. At least we finished what we started.”

Dean regarded him for a second, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Yeah,” he agreed slowly, stowing his phone in his jacket pocket. “It’s over. Winchesters don’t leave a job unfinished.”

The End

Comment/Review the episode here

E-Mail the Author!

The Winchester Chronicles