Sam
didn’t really know how long it had taken for the
true degree of his solitude to kick in after reading
Gertrude’s entry. It could have been minutes,
it could have been hours. All he really had to go on
was the sun’s position in the sky, and how it
still seemed too hot to try and walk out of his sandbox
prison.
Gertrude
had thought that too, for a while.
Too hot.
Too
futile.
But
in the end, she had finally given in and started walking
– at least, that was what her diary’s last
entry had said. Maybe he should too.
Sam
nibbled on the pulp of another cactus, letting the moisture
wet his mouth, even if it didn’t quench his thirst.
How long could he last like this anyway?
He
tossed the stump of the plant he’d been eating,
watching as it bounced from the metal fuselage of the
plane and landed somewhere out of sight.
The
plane.
Why
couldn’t that help him? Why couldn’t there
have been some kind of long lost survival kit on board?
Sam’s
head jerked up as he thought he heard a sound behind
him. For a brief moment, a shadow fell across where
he was slumped, but then was gone.
A
fleeting silhouette playing with his subconscious.
I'll
walk alone because, to tell you the truth, I'll be lonely
I don't mind being lonely
When my heart tells me you are lonely, too
Words
began to filter across the dunes, a sweet harmony with
the same eerie, hollow, sound from before. This time,
it wasn’t “Big Band” music, but the
hunter instantly recognized it as the type of tune played
constantly during the Second World War.
This
was the kind of song Gertrude would have listened to
and enjoyed.
Sam
tried to swallow but found his throat was too dry again.
He coughed instead, eyes straying towards the half-buried
Mustang as he realized the music was emanating from
it.
It
seemed he and Gertrude had something in common. They
had both been stranded here in their respective decades,
and now, now somehow they had been brought together
and the flyer was letting him know she could help him.
Scrambling
to his feet, Sam skidded down the ridge he’d been
resting on, his boots sinking into the sand as he made
a dive for the crashed plane. He had to reach it. He
had to find the source of the music.
The
cockpit still lay open as he’d left it, and as
his eyes locked on the radio unit, Sam instantly understood
what he was hearing.
Somehow,
the Mustang’s battery was fueling the tiny receiver.
It should be long dead and devoid of all power, just
like its former owner. And yet, the thing still hissed
and crackled with life as Dinah Shore’s classic
continued to resonate across the Sonora.
Sam
leaned inside carefully, finding the tuner to change
the frequency. He had to find a different station, something
more modern. He had to find a way to transmit as well
as receive.
The
dial slowly moved as he teased at it with a shaking
hand, and eventually another familiar voice broke through.
Sam’s
mouth opened and he heaved out a breath in defeat as
Jack Benny began to crack another gag. This was a working
radio, but it was also a radio trapped in a long dead
era with only long dead transmissions playing out through
its speakers.
“I’m
going to die here,” he mouthed, only realizing
after that he was mimicking yet another sentence from
Gertrude’s journal.
History
was repeating itself.
Sam
ran a hand over his mouth, feeling the flesh on his
lips peeling. Suddenly, he didn’t want to wait
for nightfall to make an escape attempt anymore. He
wanted to run screaming away from this strange metallic
epitaph.
Shielding
his eyes, he looked up to the sun, and then to the horizon.
There was no surefire way to tell which direction would
take him out of the desert, but he wasn’t even
sure he cared anymore.
Anywhere
was better than here. Hadn’t even Gertrude decided
that?
Maybe
the desert was haunted or cursed?
Pushing
away from the Mustang’s frame, Sam gathered up
his remaining harvested Saguaro and began to walk, his
feet dragging through the sand because his muscles were
too tired to make them move properly.
A
bizarre track began to emerge like a twin snake trail
as he stumbled onwards, his mind reeling and his limbs
failing him.
How
long can I go on like this? How long before I fall flat
on my butt and die here?
Sam
didn’t think it would be long, but he fought it.
He fought it because in the back of his mind all he
could see was Dean finding his bleached bones and wondering
what had happened in those last, ephemeral moments of
life.
I’ll
always be near you wherever you are each night
In every prayer
If you call I'll hear you, no matter how far
Just close your eyes and I'll be there
The
ancient song was following him as he trudged onwards,
echoing through the halls of his mind rather than the
desert that entrapped him.
And
Sam did pray, that perhaps in some kooky mechanic’s
home his brother was already formulating a plan to find
him.
It
was the only thing that he could cling onto.
The
only thing keeping him breathing.
Sam
felt his foot slip and he realized he’d reached
another incline. As he concentrated all his energy on
climbing it, the wartime song magically vanished. It
was like Gertrude, or maybe just his fevered mind, knew
he needed to put his full attention elsewhere.
Something’s
still toying with me…
Sam
continued unabashed, perspiration pouring from his brow
as he climbed the slope almost on all fours.
There
has to be a house, a river, a road…just let me
see a road…
Jagged,
jutting rocks cut into the flesh on his palms until
he left a widening slick of blood in his wake, but he
wouldn’t surrender, scaling the rise with a new
kind of vigor born of desolation, not just desperation.
Sand
and dust covered his skin and clothes until he looked
almost as much a wraith as some of the creatures he
had hunted. His lips were cracked until the open welts
felt raw, but still he refused to collapse.
Sam
refused to just give in and die, because Dean would
never forgive him.
At
the top of the desert summit he finally let his muscles
give in, collapsing to his knees as his body felt like
he’d spontaneously combusted. Sam didn’t
know how he knew, but he was convinced if anyone had
been standing over him, they’d have sensed the
heat radiating from his overheated frame like they were
standing in front of an open fire.
He
coughed again, hands spread out in front of him to steady
his quivering form.
Taking
a deep breath, Sam forced his head up, the weight on
his shoulders almost impossible to support.
Where
he had hoped to find some signs of life was nothing
more than a vast expanse of scarred arid wasteland.
There
was nothing.
The
reality hit home like the buzzards were already picking
the dead flesh from his bones, and Sam finally accepted
it. Letting his body fall forwards, he buckled, slumping
onto the awaiting sand like it was a freshly made bed
inviting his arrival.
Sam
sucked down a breath, taking in a small spray of sand
with it. He was so thirsty, so desperately thirsty…
Sam
blinked, trying to force the same dryness from his eyes,
and it was then he finally saw her.
Perhaps
a mirage, perhaps a dying man’s last dream of
hope, but at the bottom of the slope, Gertrude Tompkins
Silver stood in all her former glory. Her uniform was
crisp and clean and her hair perfectly pinned under
her cap.
The
flyer’s eyes looked up with a strange spark of
recognition as he stared down at her, and Sam realized
with a certainty that she had been waiting for him here.
Gertrude
smiled at his realization, an outstretched hand beckoning
the young hunter to join her.
Sam
shook his head, attempting to convince himself her image
would blur and vanish, but Gertrude remained solidly
before him on the open landscape below.
Did
he really have anything to lose by not following?
If
I can even stand…
Sam
tried to make his shaking legs bear his weight, pushing
up with his forearms like a toddler learning to walk
for the first time. His muscles spasmed and for a moment
he thought he would fall again. Then, his knees locked
and somehow he was able to stand.
His
stance was that of a drunken partygoer, but Sam didn’t
care.
Gertrude
gestured again, her smile becoming so intoxicating the
hunter couldn’t fight its effects. He stumbled
forwards, not even heeding the steep gradient he was
about to clamber down.
He
wanted, needed this to be over and if that meant death,
then so be it.
Taking
a step over the edge, Sam instantly felt his boots begin
to sink heavily into the sand. He was slipping, and
there weren’t even any jutting rocks to grab this
side to slow his fall. He tried anyway, huge hands digging
into the soft terrain and coming away empty.
Tiny
loose boulders littered the incline, and as he slithered
further and faster they began to fall with him, forming
a strange and unsightly landslide.
For
a time, Sam felt like he was a kid again and his mind
turned to one long winter when he and Dean had slid
down a snow-covered embankment like this to while away
the hours.
Except,
ultimately, this wasn’t snow, and at the base
of this hill were sharp, deadly rocks that could smash
human bones to smithereens should they impact on the
harsh stones at enough speed.
Sam
blinked, and as his boot caught on one of the falling
rocks, he realized he had probably made the last bad
judgment call of his life. The jarring motion from the
small boulder twisted his gangly frame, and suddenly
instead of simply sliding, Sam was tumbling, rolling,
bouncing, until he had no control over where he was
about to land.
And
below, the protruding desert boulders waited patiently.
Hank
Pruitt’s Home
Cibola
“Dang,
if that thing ain’t a hard ass.” Hank listened
to the strange slithering sound as Pazuzu whipped across
his lounge, tossing down his shotgun in disgust at its
lack of usefulness. “Times like these I wished
I’d listened to my granddaddy about praying…”
“We
don’t need to pray,” Mia asserted. “We
need to let him have what he wants. We can’t win
in a straight fight. There’s only one way to get
rid of this thing and that’s exorcism.”
“Yeah,
well, even if I had Sammy’s pack of favorite crayons
handy, I don’t think we exactly have time to be
scrawling a Devil’s Trap around here.” Dean
raised a brow, but his usual playful smirk was nowhere
in sight.
In
the doorway, the monstrous visage of Pazuzu reappeared.
His maw opened and a hollow growl resounded through
the kitchen. To Dean, the sound was almost like that
of a Hell Hound – only more guttural.
Pazuzu
noted the hunter flinch and knew he was dealing with
someone familiar to his kind. The demon’s head
cocked and his hideous muzzle seemed to contort into
an animalistic sneer.
“Hell,
I’ve heard of crossbreeds, but your one ugly mother…”
The
demon appeared to appreciate the comment, his tail flicking
across the kitchen so swiftly several cupboards were
destroyed by its razor-like motion.
As
the stinger swished backwards, Pazuzu’s body began
to spin until all that could be seen was a vortex of
rapidly gyrating air and loose utensils from the surrounding
room.
“Whoa,
we got ourselves a regular Taz here don’t
we?” Dean winced. “Next thing you know Bugs
will be making a freakin’ cameo.” His eyes
narrowed and he looked at the mechanic warily. “Guess
you could pass for Elmer in a pinch…”
Hank
shook his head and looked to Mia as if at least one
of their group had gone a little crazy. “Honey,
your boyfriend’s car ain’t the only thing
not firing on all cylinders around here.”
“Don’t
worry about him,” Mia replied, backing away from
the edge of the circle they stood in. “He’s
always that way. What we really need to worry about
is that.” She pointed downwards to the
rapidly vanishing line of salt at their feet.
While
Pazuzu couldn’t cross the protective circle, he
was easily moving it with the harsh wind his spinning
was creating. Grain by grain, the salt was being blown
away until soon they would have no barrier to save them
from the vicious demon’s wrath.
Mia
turned, grabbing Dean’s forearm until he was looking
her in the eye. They’d been through enough together
back in Texas for him to at least listen and respect
what she had to say.
“We
can’t win this while he’s in that form.
You have to see that?” She tightened her grip.
“I’m the cause of this, let me be the solution.
Let him possess me, it’s the only way you stand
a chance of exorcising that bastard…”
Dean
pulled away, sensing the creature growing nearer but
not caring. He’d almost lost Mia to a pack of
chupas, he wasn’t going to lose her to the very
thing he’d promised to protect her from.
“And
what if that freak doesn’t want to possess you
anymore?” He began to shout, his words almost
becoming lost over the rising noise Pazuzu’s whirlwind
was creating. “What if he just wants to tear you
a new one, huh?”
“That’s
not his M.O. and you know it! In my body, maybe you
and Hank can overpower it enough to exorcize it for
good –” Mia yanked at the chain around her
neck, giving the small charm one last look before tossing
it to the floor.
She
was unprotected now. Vulnerable again.
“Like
all the other times? Are you friggin’ nuts? No
way!” Dean reached out to grab Mia’s arm,
needing to feel some kind of unconscious contact, but
it was her turn to jar away. “Mia!”
Mia
closed her eyes, pushing aside the hunter’s pleas
as she took a step out of the waning circle. Instantly,
the sound of the howling wind was replaced by a silent
lull that took over the whole kitchen.
It
was like standing in the eye of a storm – Dean
knew that from firsthand experience.
What
he didn’t know was what the semi-placated demon
would do next.
Pazuzu
slowed, his tornado-like motion becoming nothing more
than a slow spin. His strangely colored orbs shone with
an even brighter radiance as he appeared to relish his
victory.
The
demon took down a long breath, staring again for the
longest time at Dean before he closed his wildly feral
eyes and began to change. His solid form began to melt
like an ice cap thawed by the summer sun, and in just
a few short moments Pazuzu had dissipated from something
having a real presence into nothing more than a thick
black smog that flowed and ebbed around Mia’s
feet.
Although
the girl’s eyes remained closed, she gasped as
the blackness touched her legs, intertwining itself
with her mortal being as it leisurely worked its way
up her body.
“No!
You sonofabitch! Don’t you touch her!
Don’t you dare touch her!” Dean yelped out
his threats and was barely held back inside the remaining
salt lines by Hank’s firm grip.
He’d
seen Mia possessed too many times now, but not like
this.
Not
giving herself to the damn thing. For him.
The
oozing raven miasma didn’t seem to hear his threats,
or if it did, it wasn’t intimidated by them. Pazuzu’s
true self appeared to wrap around Mia’s neck and
seemed to pulse there like it was waiting for some unseen
command.
In
the center of the blackness, a new solider shape began
to develop, and as Dean and Hank watched, the demon’s
animal features reformed just for a split second.
And
Pazuzu laughed.
Not
an evil chortle, not even a frightening cackle –
simply a triumphant statement of fact that he had won
– again.
As
the laughter ended, Mia screamed and the obsidian smog
billowed outwards like a sudden explosion was sending
it into oblivion. At the last moment, the fog appeared
to retrace its path at high speed, giving the effect
that it was now being sucked backwards into Mia.
For
Dean, it was like watching the scene on rewind.
Mia
yelled again, and as the last of her scream left her
lips she collapsed onto the kitchen floor.
This
time, Hank couldn’t hold the hunter back.
Dean
tore away from the mechanic’s grip and skidded
down onto one knee, knowing there was very little time
if they had any chance of still winning the fight.
“Hank,
grab something to tie her! Rope, cord, dammit, anything!”
Dean rolled the unconscious girl onto her stomach, grabbing
her hands behind her back ready to secure them. Even
now, he could feel movement in her muscles as Pazuzu
once again took his hold.
Behind
him, the hunter heard cursing and the cold-room open
before Hank finally returned with a short length of
rope. Why the mechanic kept it in the pantry was anyone’s
guess, but today Dean was glad of it.
Wrapping
the rope around Mia’s wrists several times he
yanked down hard, making a secure knot that would probably
cut off blood flow if left too long.
Not
that he expected the rope to even hold her that length
of time – not with the strength of a demon inside
her.
“Now
what? You mean to tell me that thing is in the gal now?”
Hank had taken off his cap and was scratching at his
forehead as if the motion would invite his brain back
to the party.
Dean
followed Hank’s move, running his hand back through
the spikes of his hair in concentration.
This
was the part Sammy usually took care of.
The
part I can never friggin’ remember…
“We
gotta exorcise that freaky puppy before Mia stops fighting
him and he wakes up and kicks our asses. That’s
what…”
Dean
pushed up from his crouched position and tried to think.
He’d tried to recall the Rituale Romanum word
for word so many times, but somehow it just would never
stick in his brain. It wasn’t that he couldn’t
be bothered, it was more like a mental block he’d
never been able to get past.
Right
now, that fritzing piece of Winchester cerebrum was
probably going to get him killed.
Remember
Sammy. Just remember Sammy, for crying out loud…
And
somehow, Dean did.
Words
began to roll from his mouth, but in his mind it was
Sam he could see and hear doing the exorcism. It was
like Sam speaking through him, even though it was really
some deep, dark recess of his mind he couldn’t
normally access.
“Exorcizo
te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei…”
Mia’s
head snapped up and her eyes jerked open to glower at
both men. The corners of her mouth began to crease until
she was smiling like someone who had just won the lottery.
If the rite was bothering her, she didn’t show
it.
“You
should know by now, Dean, that I don’t go into
the night easily…” Mia pulled at her bonds,
splitting the strands that formed the rope as if they
were made from paper.
As
her arms became free, she back-flipped into an upright
position faster and more lithely than any circus performer.
Her hand made it to a half outstretched, offensive position
before she was flung across the kitchen by the impact
of a chair leg.
Hank
grinned as he tossed the broken piece of furniture to
the floor and dived like a Kamikaze on top of the girl,
attempting to pin her for as long as his rather excessive
weight would allow. “Sorry, missy, I ain’t
usually this forward with the ladies, but right now,
you sure ain’t no lady…”
Dean’s
eyes widened and his mouth opened, but instead of making
a wiseass comment, he continued with the ritual while
his mind still allowed the rite to flow freely.
“…Sancti,
ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei…”
Mia
screeched an inhuman wail that had all the resonance
of someone scratching their fingernails down a chalkboard.
Her muscles convulsed and contorted until it appeared
as if every strand of sinew in her body would snap.
And
now, as she writhed under Hank’s prone body, it
was easily apparent her extra strength was waning.
It
was cruel to watch, cruel to inflict, and yet it had
to be done. Dean pushed onwards, his Latin dialogue
surprising Hank with its fluidity and precision.
When
the ritual was completed, he sagged to his knees, the
energy sapped from him as surely as it had been sapped
from Mia.
“Is
it over?” The mechanic blinked, examining the
girl he still straddled for signs of possession.
“It’s
done you great big ox, and if you don’t get your
ass off of me your jewels will be feeling my kneecap
to prove it…” Mia let her head fall back
onto the kitchen floor in exhaustion, but there was
still enough strength to her voice to scare Hank into
submission.
Hank
rolled free from her body and eyed her wearily before
retreating to recover his recently lost shotgun from
the life-sized trashcan that was now his home.
Dean
smirked as the mechanic looked twice at the gun and
then dropped it back on the floor, realizing it held
little worth on this very crazy day.
Leaning
forward, Dean sifted through the rubble and smashed
crockery until he saw the familiar glint of the thing
he was searching for.
Plucking
the charm from its hiding place among the clutter, he
held it over the panting girl with a soft but pleading
look on his face that was the nearest Dean Winchester
ever came to begging.
He
raised a brow. “You know the scene in House
of Wax where Mr. Creepy glues the chick’s
lips?” The familiar cocky smile began to seep
into the edges of his features.
“Um,
yeah pretty much,” Mia offered, pushing up onto
her elbows in curiosity.
“Well,
pull a stunt like that again, and I’m gonna do
pretty much the same and stick this thing to your butt
– and I can tell you, I’ll sure as hell
enjoy doing it.” He winked, trying to be playful
even though he truly knew what Mia had almost sacrificed
again.
How
could Sam ever think she wasn’t batting for their
team? How could he have said such cruel things,
made such accusations? The questions revolved in
the hunter’s mind as he gave Mia a hand up and
helped her into a chair.
She
was bruised, battered, and still she’d come out
fighting to the end.
And
yet, Sammy’s hunches are rarely off base…
No way, Mia’s a friggin’ martyr!
The
mental battle continued as he checked Mia over, stopping
to wince at the purple bruising already appearing where
Hank’s hands had dug into her flesh to hold her.
“I would ask if you’re okay, but I get the
feeling you’d only chew me out.”
“And
then some, Winchester.” Mia smiled, biting her
lip as she touched her side where Hank’s chair
leg had impacted. “But hey, I might just have
to get myself possessed all over again-” She ran
a hand gently over the growth of stubble on his chin.
“You know how sexy you sound when you spout that
Latin crap?”
At
the mention of the Rituale Romanum, he pulled away,
all thoughts turning to the one who had helped him recite
it.
Sammy…
Mia
might be safe for a little while, but Sam was alone,
God only knew where, and Pazuzu might just be after
his ass as much as anyone’s.
Sam
was a thorn in the demon’s side as much as Dean
was.
“Hank,
you got any spray paint around here?” Dean shot
the puzzled mechanic a quick glance, avoiding Mia’s
curious gaze.
Hank
rubbed at his ear absently and then turned to shuffle
back into the pantry. When his head popped back out,
it was shortly followed by a hand waving a small aerosol
of green automotive paint.
Dean
blinked. “Is there anything you don’t
have in that friggin’ stash hole?”
Mia
clambered up from the floor, absently brushing dust
and small pieces of debris from her jeans. “Trust
me, you so don’t want to know-”
“Thought
so…” Dean grabbed the can from Hank’s
extended hand and kneeled, quickly beginning to spray
onto a relatively clear patch of flooring. Within seconds,
the symbols became recognizable as those in a protective
circle – obvious, at least, to a hunter or anyone
with supernatural knowledge.
“You
think that freak will come back that quickly?”
Mia licked away a small blob of blood from her lower
lip and joined the hunter in a crouch.
“Nope,”
Dean admitted, finishing off his somewhat crude but
effective handiwork. “But if he does, I’ll
at least know you’re safe while I’m gone.”
“Gone?
You can’t just up and leave me here. Not after…not
after what just happened…”
Dean
took Mia’s arm and gently tugged her over into
the Devil’s Trap. He wanted to hug her, to kiss
her and tell her he’d never leave her again, but
he couldn’t.
Not
while Sam was missing.
Not
while the only constant in his life might be in danger.
“I
have to go look for Sam, and it won’t be safe
for you.” Dean jerked his head towards the shotgun
on the floor and then shifted his gaze to Hank. “Dude,
can you toss me that and then go grab some spare salt
shells from the Impala?”
When
Hank nodded obediently and picked up the gun, Dean returned
his attention to Mia. “We’ll leave you some
weapons, but you gotta understand I can’t leave
Sammy at that thing’s mercy. For all I know it
somehow split us up on purpose in the first place. Divide
and conquer or something…”
“It’s
me it wants. It’s always me.” Mia crossed
her arms and huffed like a spoiled child, and for the
briefest second Dean thought she was going to condemn
him for caring about anyone but her.
She
sighed, and all the anger seemed to exit her along with
the air from her lungs. “I’m sorry,”
she said flatly. “I just get so damn tired of
this crap.”
“Me
too, sweetheart. Me too…” So much you’ll
never know.
Dean
spun on his heels and met Hank in the doorway as the
mechanic returned with the shells. He took the box of
ammo from his host, tossing it to Mia.
She
grabbed the carton with one hand. “Just remember,
chicks only dig so many scars, dude. Don’t go
getting more anytime soon, okay?”
“It’s
a deal,” Dean agreed, plucking his .45 out from
under his jacket, much to Hank’s chagrin. “Besides,
I’m just gonna go find Sasquatch’s gigantor-sized
ass and drag it back here. He’s probably chatting
up some chick in a local bar or something.”
Hank
huffed and his face scrunched up so tightly he looked
like a wizened piece of fruit on a bad day. “Fella,
have you seen the kind of talent on offer in our local
bar? Even your brother ain’t warped enough to
go for somethin’ that damned ugly.”
Dean
slipped out onto the porch and looked around for the
mechanic’s truck. The pale blue ’67 Ford
pickup was sitting next to the house with its windows
down. “Mind if you give me a ride there, Hank?”
Pruitt
looked over his shoulder to the remnants of his house
and then tugged out the Ford’s keys from his pocket.
“Hell no. Not like I got anything to be doing
around here ’cept for rebuilding my house…”
Dean
smirked, admiring the mechanic’s dry humor that
some people would probably mistake for ignorance. Hank
might come across as a complete yokel, but looks could
be deceiving.
The
hunter jogged over to the pickup and pulled himself
onto the bench seat as Hank turned over the ignition.
The V8 grumbled begrudgingly to life and began to rattle
like a bag of marbles.
Dean
winced. “Dude, tell me you fix gearboxes way better
than you work on engines?”
Hank
chomped on a fresh chunk of tobacco he’d retrieved
from the glove box and then patted the sun-bleached
dashboard affectionately. “Sonny, I ain’t
done a speck a work on this beauty since I owned her,
and she ain’t never let me down once. Now quit
worrying about your wheels and let’s go find your
brother.”
Dean
bit into his bottom lip and nodded. The problem was,
where to start. There wasn’t much outside the
few homes that speckled Cibola except desert and a few
back roads. It was hard to believe Sam had tried to
traverse either of the latter two.
Unless
he’s hitching a ride again like the time we argued
about dad…
…and
look how great that friggin’ worked out. The jerk
found himself a new demon buddy named Meg!
“Listen,
Hank, Sam was pretty pissed at me and I guess maybe
I deserved it. Is there anywhere around here he could
have gone just to cool off? You know, somewhere in walking
distance he coulda stayed the night?”
Hank
gripped the huge wheel of the truck with one hand, letting
his free arm dangle from the window as if it would cool
his whole body down. He took down a breath in thought
and then spat a wad of tobacco out over his arm.
Dean
could have sworn he saw the wad smack some kind of lizard
as if the mechanic had been purposefully aiming for
it, and for a second he gaped.
“I
don’t think your brother will have gone far on
foot. Not in this heat,” Pruitt eventually offered.
Dean
nodded knowingly. Hank was suggesting, without actually
saying, that Sam could die out in the wilderness in
less time than he’d been missing. Sunstroke alone
would be enough, without all the other dangers present
in such an arid and somewhat hostile environment.
“That’s
what I’m afraid of.” He rubbed at his forehead,
wishing for once, just once that John could be here
for him instead of being AWOL.
But
as usual, without Sam, he was nothing but alone.
Sonoran Desert
Sam
felt sharp fangs biting into his yielding flesh, and
he realized too late that he had been more than stupid
to race into the vampires nest without backup.
Vampires?
The
young hunter squeezed open his eyelids just enough for
his pupils to be visible through the slits.
The
sunlight that entered reminded him that he hadn’t
been fighting vampires.
No,
he had been fighting a long fall that ultimately led
to a very sharp and painful end – an end he was
now feeling in all its insane glory.
The
fangs he could feel sinking into him were jagged rocks
that had no doubt mangled his body until he was only
sensing half the pain he should be.
Sam
tried to move anyway – he tried to lift his head
just enough to see where he had landed – and ultimately,
where he would die.
The
movement wasn’t as excruciating as he’d
expected, but still the effort it took reminded him
that he was near the end of his physical limitations
without any injuries he may have sustained.
Still,
the view the movement gave allowed him to see that Gertrude’s
beckoning figure had vanished. Not that the news was
good, given what had replaced her ethereal form.
On
the sandy outcrop where the flyer had been standing
was something Sam easily recognized.
Bones.
Not
just animal bones, but the yellow-white aged bones of
a human skeleton, and from their position on the ground,
it looked like the person – Gertrude – had
died here.
The
bones haven’t been scattered by animals, this
is where she died, just like I’m going to.
Sam
considered why the downed pilot had been so insistent
on calling him here. Had she wanted him to die in the
same manner she had?
Sam’s
head dropped back onto the desert and he felt the heat
of the sand beneath, warming his flesh. It reminded
him of more recent, happier times when he and Dean had
visited Miami. The gig they’d been on had kept
them busy, but even the hunters had managed a little
R & R before they’d moved on to their next
hunt.
But
there would be no more hunts – not for Sam.
Dean
would have to continue on alone.
Dean
wouldn’t simply lie down and die like this. Winchesters
don’t go out without a fight, dammit!
Sam
tried to think of all the times his brother had cheated
death. All the times he’d fought the odds and
won – even against a reaper. Am I going to
go out without even trying?
Sam
moved his left arm, and when the small maneuver didn’t
make him want to throw up, he continued until both his
palms were facing down under his chest.
All
he had to do now was push and he should be
able to get up – pain or no damn pain.
But
thinking something was way easier than actually
doing it.
Sam
put all the strength he had left into his arms, wanting,
willing them to lock as he forced upwards. His frame
shook with the strain, perspiration dripping from his
forehead as he tensed every muscle that still worked.
For
a moment, his body teetered and he thought he would
make it, but instead, his arms simply failed him, collapsing
until he was once again nothing more than a heap of
skin and bone in the Sonora that would soon become buzzard
feed.
How
will Dean tell dad?
It
was an insane thought, given that John Winchester had
seemingly abandoned his sons once again in favor of
the hunt, and yet it was something he couldn’t
push from his mind.
Sam
tried to laugh, but his throat was too dry even for
that one last guilty pleasure. He coughed instead, pausing
his fit of dry retching only when he felt something
tingle across the back of his hand.
It
was a familiar feeling, but he couldn’t place
it. All that he knew was that it was a bad omen –
a sign perhaps – that his time was almost at an
end.
Sam
let his neck roll sideways until he had a view of the
hand in question. The open palm was innocent enough,
but the shadow that fell over it was a far more ominous
one.
On
any other day, the scorpion was a thing Sam could have
crushed under his boot or nudged with his toecap to
send skittering away into the wastelands.
But
today, in his fading condition, it was the last straw.
And
it was poised to strike, stinger at the ready as if
he had angered it in some way. Perhaps he had, encroaching
into its natural habitat.
Despite
the knowledge that he would be too late, Sam instinctively
tried to jerk his hand away from the desert creature.
It was a reflex action more than anything, and he should
have known better, but right now, what was there to
lose?
Sam’s
limb moved back so sluggishly from fatigue and exposure
to the desert heat that he never had any chance of evading
the poisonous barb.
Make
it quick…
Maybe
he’d never intended to.
As
the poison seeped into his system, Sam let his eyes
close for the last time. He wanted to sleep forever,
he wanted to dream of Jess and Mary, and forget that
places like Hell really existed.
But
most of all, he wished that he’d had the chance
to say goodbye to Dean.
