Season Three

Episode Nineteen: Behold A Pale Horse

By Tree

Part Two

Mendota Community Hospital

The emergency room waiting area was claustrophobic and uninviting, lacking in any distracting media and decorated in “Early American Boring.” Any one of those qualities would have set Dean on edge, but combined, it was enough to sap the meager patience and control he possessed, especially considering the circumstances.

Tossing the empty paper cup into the trashcan, he paced his way back toward the closed double doors that lead to the treatment area. Stopping just shy of the entry, Dean leaned forward, his palms pressed flat against the milky glass as he fought the urge to storm back to the trauma room and find Bobby.

“Sit down and relax, Dean,” Sam’s voice called from behind him. “Working yourself into a tizzy isn’t gonna help Bobby.”

Dean spun around; anger, frustration and worry all synergistically combining and venting explosively in his furious response.

“Don’t tell me to relax, Sam!” he shouted, his fist clenching tightly at his side as he stood glaring at his younger brother. “And I’ll sit down when I’m damn good and ready, thank you very much!”

He immediately regretted lashing out as Sam’s head dropped, his brother attempting to hide his face behind shaggy brown strands of hair; but not before Dean caught the look of hurt and sadness contained within the younger man’s blue-green eyes.

“Sammy…” Dean began apologetically. “You know…”

“Yeah, Dean, I do. I’m worried too, okay. I might not show it like you do, but I am,” Sam responded without looking up. “Do you think it was a picnic for me doing CPR on Bobby in the back of the Impala all the way here?”

Dean turned away, the image from the rearview mirror burned into his memory; his brother feverishly compressing the older hunter’s chest while intermittently delivering life-sustaining air. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever pushed the old Chevy as much as he had this afternoon, his foot barely lifting from the gas pedal as he sped across the narrow country roads on the way to seek help for Bobby.

Now, he could only hope that they’d made it in time.

“He’s gotta be okay…” Dean whispered. He hadn’t meant to actually voice the desperate statement and cringed slightly at the bare emotion he’d exposed when Sam replied.

“No news has to be good news. Right? I mean, if he was… gone, then someone would have come out and told us by now,” the younger Winchester offered.

“I guess so,” Dean agreed. “But dammit, what the hell are they doing in there?”
Before Sam could respond, the automatic doors swung open with a whoosh of air. A scrub-clad middle-aged man stepped into the tiny waiting room, a clipboard held in his hand as his eyes glanced from the chart to the two brothers.

“Are you family of Mr. Singer?” he asked.

Dean was already in motion before the doctor spoke and he eagerly met the physician at the edge of the hall.

“Yes, we’re his nephews. We’re the only family he has. What’s going on with him, doc?” he fired off rapidly.

The physician’s heavy sigh did nothing to instill optimism in the elder Winchester, but Dean forced down the heavy lump that had lodged in his throat as he waited for the reply.

“Well, first, he’s alive, albeit barely. You did a great job of getting him here and considering that most folks from Paw Paw never make it this far, that’s encouraging.”

“What happened to him, Doc?” Sam asked as he drew up to Dean’s side.

“We’re not completely sure. Physiologically, his electrolytes are severely depleted and ketones are building up to critical levels in his muscle tissue,” the physician replied.

“And that means exactly what to us mere mortals?” Dean snapped in irritation.

He felt Sam’s hand reach out and clasp his arm, the silent touch conveying a subtle blend of warning and calming reassurance.

“Sorry, doc. It’s just that we found him like that and he was perfectly fine not more than a week ago,” Dean explained.

“I wish I had answers for you. I wish I had them for all the others. But the truth is, it’s almost as if your uncle is starving to death. We see the same blood chemistry results in someone that hasn’t eaten in weeks.”

“Weeks? But that’s not possible,” Sam exclaimed.

“I know, I know. He doesn’t look emaciated like you would expect, but I’m telling you, on a cellular level, that’s what’s happening. The cardiac arrest was a manifestation of that.”

“So what now? You can fix him right?” Dean asked hopefully.

“Again, I can’t promise that. We don’t know what’s causing this. For now, we have him stabilized and are pushing fluids through his IV. As soon as he can tolerate it we’ll be putting an NG tube down so we can boost his caloric intake, but…”

“But what, doc?” the brothers asked simultaneously.

“Your uncle isn’t the first patient to be admitted in this condition,” the doctor replied.

“How many more are there?” Sam queried, his eyes narrowed with concern.

“A dozen so far; and what’s even odder is they’re all from Paw Paw. I’ve notified the CDC, and I’ve been waiting to hear back from them. But something is going on over there.”

“Doc, the other patients, how are they doing now?” Dean asked hesitantly.

The physician paused again, his face downcast even before he spoke.

“Only one has survived to this point. I’m sorry boys, I wish I could be more optimistic, I just don’t have any answers.”

“Bobby’s gonna survive, doc. He just has to…” Dean insisted, his eyes dark and intense despite the slight cracking in his voice.

The doctor reached out and gripped Dean’s arm, nodding as he acknowledged the fierce sentiment in the young man. “I’ll do my best,” he assured them. “Would you like to see your uncle now?”

“Yes, please,” Sam eagerly responded even as Dean pulled away from the older man’s contact.

“I’ll take you to his room, but be warned; the severe electrolyte loss causes tissue to breakdown and muscles to contract. In addition, there’s often a fair degree of dementia. If he’s awake, he’ll likely not be lucid.”

“We understand,” Sam answered.

“Follow me then.”

***

Sam followed his brother into the hospital room, stopping at the doorway and allowing his eyes to take in the bleak surroundings. He hated hospitals. Not for the same reason that Dean hated hospitals; it wasn’t like he had spent nearly the amount of time being put back together as his brother had. No, he hated hospitals because every time he was in one, he was generally keeping a bedside vigil for someone he cared about.

He watched as Dean pulled close to the side of Bobby’s bed, and even with his back to Sam, the younger sibling knew that his brother was taking all of this hard. That Dean and Bobby were close was no huge secret, no matter how hardened either of them pretended to be. It had always been that way and next to Pastor Jim, no one had perhaps understood how the young hunters had been forced to grow up or the sacrifices Dean had made along the way as well as Bobby did.

Sure, he and his brother were close, but Sam knew that when it came to truly seeing beneath that reinforced exterior, Bobby was one of the rare folks that possessed the ability to call Dean on his stoic behavior and rarer still, a person that Dean actually tolerated doing that.

The room was quiet other than the intermittent beep of the IV pump as Sam moved further inside. Nearing the bed, he saw the quick movement of Dean’s fingers as he withdrew them from where he had been clasping Bobby’s hand. His brother’s eyes glanced nervously to the side, and Sam granted Dean the privacy of the moment. Any other time, he would have pounced on the opportunity to tease his older brother about the rare show of emotion, but this wasn’t the time or the place.

“He doesn’t look good,” Sam commented taking in the numerous sores that were scattered over Bobby’s exposed flesh.

“The doc said to expect this but…” Dean’s voice trailed off as he slowly shook his head. “What happened to him, Sam? This just can’t be natural.”

“No. Especially considering the doctor said there were others like him. What did Bobby tell you on the phone Dean?”

His brother shrugged, his eyes still solidly glued to the silent form of the older hunter. “Nothing that made any sense. He just mumbled something about a demon, him being sick and to be careful. He was calling for help, Sammy. Maybe if we would have just got there sooner…”

“Don’t do that, Dean. I know you’re thinking that somehow this is your fault but you gotta know better. Bobby was here on a hunt. Whatever’s happening to him now, I’m betting it has something to do with why he was in Paw Paw in the first place,” Sam insisted.

“We got nothing to go on,” Dean grumbled dejectedly, running a hand through his short-cropped hair.

“So? You’re giving in?”

Sam knew he deserved the fierce glare he received from Dean with that remark, but he’d done it purposely. He remembered all-too-clearly how his brother had reacted when seeing their father in the hospital in Springfield. Not that Dean had “shut down,” but his fear of losing their dad and the memories of their encounter with the Baba Yaga had taken their toll on his brother’s usual steadfast, “never say quit” spirit. In fact, the recent hunt in Memphis had been Sam’s way to get his older brother’s head “back in the game,” even if Dean would never admit to needing it.

Before Dean could respond, a soft moan lifted from the gurney. The brothers turned their attention back to their ill friend even as Bobby’s eyes fluttered open.

“Bobby!” Dean called out, turning back and leaning down, making no effort to hide it this time when he reached out to gently touched the man’s arm. “Bobby, its Dean. I’m here.”

The elder man’s eyes flew open. Red-rimmed and sunken, he looked like one of the many spirits the brothers had dispatched over the years. Yet despite being conscious, Bobby’s gaze was wild and unfocused.

“No…nonononono…” he cried out, arms thrashing about as he appeared to fight against some unseen antagonist.

“Easy… easy, Bobby. Just be still. It’s okay. You’re gonna be all right,” Dean assured him, even as he gently wrestled against the older man’s flailing arms.

“Not okay… bad… very bad…” Bobby groaned.

“What’s bad? Bobby, what happened in Paw Paw?” Sam questioned as he came to stand at the foot of the bed.

“Gotta stop it…”

“Stop what? Bobby, come on, help us out here. What do we have to stop?” Dean pleaded.

“The horsemen…”

Sam looked over at his brother even as Dean glanced at him, each questioning Bobby’s peculiar response.

“The horsemen? Bobby, what horsemen?” Sam asked intently.

“Gotta stop it…” Bobby repeated once more, drawing in a shuddering breath as his eyes closed and his body ceased to struggle.

“Bobby?” Dean called out as he carefully shook the bearded man’s upper body. “Bobby, come on, wake up. We don’t understand. Dammit!”

Sam watched his brother pull away when it was apparent that their friend was no longer responsive, frustration even more evident on Dean’s face. Sam knew what was coming next just as surely as he could gauge the pent up worry that his brother was trying to mask.

So he wasn’t greatly surprised when the solid crash of Dean’s fist impacting the drywall to the side of the doorway echoed throughout the small room. He equally wasn’t shocked to look up and see that Dean had disappeared into the hallway, leaving behind a bloody smear on dented plaster.

He waited the requisite couple of minutes, just long enough to allow Dean to reinforce his emotional façade but not so long that Sam couldn’t get to him before he tried to hide what was likely going to be a broken hand.

Sam whispered encouragement to Bobby and a promise to return, watching a moment longer in the vain hope that there might be some reaction from the older man. When there wasn’t, he left the hospital room, finding Dean leaning against the corridor wall, his cell phone snugged up against his ear. He flipped it closed as Sam approached.

“I tried to call Dad,” Dean announced. “’Course, he didn’t answer, but I left a voicemail anyway.”

Sam nodded, “Maybe Bobby told him something before he left Springfield.”

“Yeah, ’cause both of them are so good at sharing that sort of information,” Dean grumbled as he absently rubbed his abused hand.

“You okay?” Sam asked, motioning his head toward Dean’s still-bleeding knuckles.

“Do I need to waste my breath in answering that?” his brother snapped with a piercing glare.

Sam rolled his eyes in response to Dean’s irritating, but expected, reply. Even though he’d spent nearly every waking minute over the past couple of years with his brother and was used to Dean’s behavior when it came to being injured, it still pissed him off to no end.

Running a hand through his unruly hair, Sam pushed back his own frustration, ignoring the obvious trail of blood across the back of Dean’s hand and deciding that if the stubborn jerk didn’t care, then why should he?

Jackass! Sam silently groused. “So what’s our next move then?” he asked instead.

“I just don’t know,” Dean admitted with a characteristic swipe of his hand across his mouth. “But we can’t just sit here and let Bobby die. There’s gotta be an answer out there.”

“We need to find out what happened to him, backtrack his time here or something. If we can find out who or what he’s come in contact with, then we might figure out what caused this. Hey! Maybe we ought to talk to that old man, Henner?”

“Henner?” Dean exclaimed. “That old whack job?”

“He seemed to know a good deal about Bobby. Maybe he knows what Bobby was hunting here,” Sam suggested.

“I dunno, Sam. I think the old guy is a few toppings short of a supreme pizza.”

“He seemed pretty coherent to me,” Sam insisted.

“Dude, he sees angels! Angels named ‘Don,’ no less.”

Sam groaned. “That doesn’t make him crazy, Dean.”

“It does in my book,” the elder sibling mumbled in reply.

“This isn’t the time for a debate on that subject, Dean. We’re running blind here. We need answers if we’re gonna help Bobby.”

Sam watched Dean’s body relax, tension borne of a fervent disbelief of everything spiritual giving way to his desire to “do anything” to help their friend.

“So, we head back to Paw Paw?” Dean asked, a hint of acquiescence in his voice.

“That seems to be ground zero.”

Dean nodded in agreement before glancing over his shoulder toward the entrance to Bobby’s room. Sam followed his gaze, sensing his brother’s reluctance to leave the older hunter, knowing Dean was torn between staying at Bobby’s side versus heading back to the little town to seek answers.

“We’ll figure it out, Dean,” Sam offered with more assurance than he really felt.

Dean turned away and began walking down the corridor toward the elevator, his silence speaking volumes about his frame of mind.

Sam sighed, taking a final peek at Bobby’s frail-looking form lying deathly still on the hospital bed. Sucking in a deep breath and steeling himself against the sudden shudder that enveloped his body, he turned and trailed after his brother.

New Life Church of God
Paw Paw

They arrived back in Paw Paw well after dark and at a slower speed than when they left earlier. The town was still eerily quiet, closed storefronts sunk into the shadows with only the meager glow from the half dozen streetlamps barely illuminating the main thoroughfare.

A solitary halo of light rose at the far end of the street, emanating ethereally from the small church the brothers had passed in the afternoon. The only sign of life in the dismal town, Dean aimed the Impala in the direction of the sanctuary, following the sounds of music and voices that filtered out of the structure.

Pulling into the gravel lot, the Chevy’s headlights flashed across Mathias Henner standing at the edge of the property, his signboard held before him as he ranted loud enough to be heard above the noise coming from inside the church.

“Dean, look!” Sam called out, pointing at Henner.

“Yeah, I see him,” Dean snorted with derision.

“We should talk to him,” his brother reiterated as Dean parked the car in an empty spot in the lot and killed the engine.

The elder sibling stared at the old man then glanced back to the well-lit church.

“He’s all yours,” Dean replied, pushing open the driver’s side door and stepping out.

“Where are you going?”

“You talk to Methuselah, I’m heading inside to see what’s going on,” Dean answered, his eyes still focused on the building and the multi-hued light peeking through the stained-glass windows.

He moved off in the direction of the steps, turning back to his brother just as his booted foot hit the first riser.

“Hey, Sammy!” he called out. “If you meet Don, ask him if he can hook you up with Roma Downey.”
Dean chuckled slightly, enjoying his brother’s look of disdain. He took the remaining steps two at a time, reaching the heavy oak door and pushing it open slowly.

The smell struck him first, overwhelming him with its intensity and causing him to shrink back even as he raised a hand to cover his nose and mouth. The stench of body odor, fetid and rank, filled the inner sanctuary and made the interior resemble a locker room more than a holy sanctuary.

A quick look around confirmed what his nose already told him. The people within the building looked worn and disheveled, their ragged appearance affirming the lack of attention to hygiene. As Dean stood there, the acrid hint of ammonia reinforced that at least a few of the members hadn’t even bothered to move outside to “relieve” themselves.

Stunned by the shocking conditions, Dean swallowed hard and moved further inside coming to stand just behind the last row of pews. He accidentally rammed his knee into the corner of the hard wood seat, muttering a curse barely less than a whisper as he reached down to rub the throbbing joint.

If anyone noticed his arrival, or his somewhat sacrilegious comment, they didn’t react.

Standing atop the pulpit, a gray-haired man clothed in a wrinkled robe spoke to the congregation, his hoarse voice cracking as he led the assembled in prayer. Before him, a mix of young and old stood, many swaying precariously, heads bowed in supplication as they repeated the pastor’s words.

“…Save us, oh Lord, your faithful servants, in this hour of our despair. Protect us, oh gracious God, from your wrath as you prepare to cleanse this world of sin and evil…”

Dean shook his head in disbelief. He never subscribed to organized religion mostly because in his mind, he’d never seen anything positive come out of it. The scene before him only served to reinforce his skepticism.

“…We are your children, dear Lord, submitting ourselves to your will, trusting in your great design to deliver us in these end times…”

“Well you sure are betting on a lame horse…” he grumbled under his breath.

“…We’ve seen the signs… we prepare ourselves for the hour of your judgment… the wicked shall perish and the righteous shall be borne unto everlasting glorious life…”

“Righteous? Yeah, right,” he huffed, shaking his head.

To his left, a quick flash of movement followed by the soft sound of a body colliding with the hard wood of the pew diverted Dean’s attention.

Next to him a young woman reached for the struggling form of the small boy who had collapsed to the floor. At her side, a curly-haired little girl stood wearily watching, blue eyes looking dull and vacant as though she saw but didn’t comprehend. Or didn’t care…

As Dean observed, the mother pulled the boy back to his feet, holding him steady even as his knees threatened to buckle once again.

“Please, Momma! I’m so tired… and thirsty,” the small boy pleaded, blue-green eyes staring up at the young brunette woman.

Dean felt himself become angry as he watched the mother “shush” the child and then turn her attention back to the clergyman. She looked as worn and dazed as the children at her side and he wondered exactly how long the family had been there.

When the child collapsed again, he couldn’t ignore it any longer. In three steps he was beside the tow-headed boy, lifting the surprisingly light child into his arms. The boy’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused, his head bobbing on neck muscles that seemed too weak to hold it upright.

“Please… mister…” the boy croaked, a single precious tear trickling down his cheek as his eyes met Dean’s.

The young hunter looked up at the brunette, really “seeing” her now that he was so close.

She was pretty, would have been beautiful were it not for the hollow, sunken cheeks, the dark rings beneath her eyes and the tangled, dirty strands of hair that hung limply to her shoulders. Worse still was the unmistakable smell of a body that hadn’t been washed in some time and while her clothing was likely her “Sunday go to meeting” best, the wrinkles and sweat stains made it look like she’d spent time in a dumpster rather than a church.

There was no denying that this family, hell everyone inside the sanctuary, had been here for a while, days even. It was then that the cook’s words raged back into Dean’s mind.

… Once in a while someone comes over and gets some food to take back, but otherwise they’ve been locked up in there for nearly three days now. Praying, singing, listening to the damn preacher going on and on about repenting their sins…

Days?

Was it possible? Had she and her children been standing there for nearly a week with no food or water? The thought was staggering, yet the way they and everyone else looked, there really was no denying what Dean was witnessing.

“Leave my son be…” the woman hissed weakly, looking down at the hunter and the small boy in his arms.

“Ma’am, your son is sick. He’s dehydrated, if not worse,” Dean returned.

Reaching into the interior pocket of his jacket, he pulled free the silver flask filled with Holy Water.

It might not be cold… but it’s still water… he thought to himself as he unscrewed the cap with his thumb.

He was about to press the mouth of the container against the small boy’s lips when his mother lashed out and struck Dean’s arm. The flask skittered across the floor, precious liquid spilling out onto the worn carpeting.

“What the hell!” Dean shouted, glaring up at her.

“Stay away from my son,” she snarled again.

“Your son is sick. Don’t you give a damn?”

“God will provide…”

“Lady, I don’t exactly see God raining down Evian on the church right now,” Dean snapped back.

But the woman turned away, focused again on the monotonous sermon. Dean glanced back down to the little boy in his arms, the youngster’s pale face meeting his gaze with wide imploring eyes.

“Please…” Dean begged again. “Please let me get your kids something to eat and drink.”

“You’re a non-believer. Get away from my son,” she screeched, stooping down to pull the weakened boy out of Dean’s arms and back to her side.

Dean returned to his feet, still staring in disbelief, even glancing around the crowded church to see if anyone else had taken note. But like the young mother, all of the others were focused on the altar and the continuous droning of the pastor. If anyone had observed the exchange, no one seemed concerned.

As the voices of the congregation began to rise following the lead of the church organ, Dean reluctantly backed away. With his back to the large doors, the young hunter couldn’t peel his eyes away from the two children.

Part of him wanted to grab both kids and whisk them out of the church. He knew he could do it – they were small and he was certainly strong enough and in far better shape than anyone in the sanctuary that would potentially try to stop him.

Sure… why not add kidnapping to the laundry list of capital crimes I’m wanted for? he sarcastically mused.

Yet while his brain couldn’t come to terms with the level of religious conviction that caused a mother to stand by while her children weakened and possibly died, Dean also understood the single-mindedness that caused a father to raise his sons to hunt down and kill anything that smacked of supernatural origins regardless of the toll it took on their childhood. Perhaps this woman was in essence no worse than his dad. Still, no matter how obsessed John Winchester had been during his and Sam’s childhood, outside of hunting, he’d never purposely put them in a situation where their lives were grossly in danger.

Off-key voices rose once more as the assembled broke into the chorus of Rock of Ages. Dean shivered unconsciously, it was all too surreal. Whatever was going on in this small town, it definitely had a hold on the residents in some bizarre way.

His eyes went back to the small children then on to the glazed faces of the surrounding adults. So absorbed in the worship service, Dean was pretty sure the church could catch fire and burn down to the foundation and the congregation would do nothing to save themselves. Memories of Leicester resurfaced, throngs of citizens “hearing voices,” behaving irrationally. Was that happening again here?

“No friggin’ way…” he grumbled aloud. “I’m not watching some kid starve to death just because the adults have whacked out on religion.”

He made a move back towards the two small children, his heart pounding with adrenaline at what he was about to do. But as he took the first step, a strong grasp of his arm startled him and he whirled around, right fist ready to swing.

“Sonofabitch, Sam. You nearly ate a knuckle sandwich, dude,” Dean chastised, lowering his hand with an exaggerated intake of air.

“You’re a little tense there, big brother. Maybe you oughta cut back on the caffeine a bit,” Sam teased in response.

Dean glared at him in reply, but turned back to locate the weary siblings. Sam followed his gaze, his brief humor fast fading as he picked up on Dean’s obvious uneasiness.

“What’s up, Dean? Did you find out anything in here?” Sam asked.

Dean turned back slowly, torn between watching the children and answering his brother.

“I dunno, Sammy. Everybody in here is out of their minds if you ask me. Not a soul has even looked up to notice that we walked in. They’ve done nothing but pray and sing the entire time I’ve been standing here,” he replied.

“That’s not so unusual, Dean. What did you expect them to do, stop the service and welcome you in?”

“No, smartass. But take a look around. Take a big whiff of the air. These people have been here for a while, non-stop is my guess. Either that or there’s a serious lack of personal hygiene being taught during health class at the local high school,” Dean snarked. “Seriously, Sam. That little boy over there is nearly dead on his feet. He was begging for water but when I tried to give him a sip from my flask, his mother went nuts and slapped it out of my hand. She doesn’t even care that he’s so hungry and dehydrated that he can barely go on. She just keeps saying that God will take care of them.”

“The power of faith can be pretty strong, Dean. Dozens of cultures and religions believe in the power of prayer.”

“That’s crap, dude and you know it. Look at Roy LaGrange, look at what happened in Rapture’s Climb. The only power there was demonic. There’s something evil going on here too, I can just feel it,” he insisted.

“Well, according to Mathias Henner, the people all believe the Apocalypse is coming and soon. That’s why they’re here, Dean,” Sam informed him.

“The Apocalypse? Here? In podunk Illinois?”

“There have been some strange signs, Dean. Crop failures, bizarre weather, people coming down with odd sores, some even dying like the cook at the diner; stuff straight out of Revelation. And here’s the kicker, Henner says that God has even sent an angel down here to help guide and protect the faithful.”

“Oh yeah, Don the angel. Well, it must be true if the old man says so. I mean, not like he could possibly have Alzheimer’s or anything…” Dean said mockingly with a fast roll of his eyes.

“Now who’s the smartass? Come on, Dean. After everything we’ve seen lately, especially in Leicester. You heard what Lucifer said. He has every intention of bringing Hell to earth,” Sam insisted, his face pinched with seriousness. “Who’s to say this isn’t the beginning of the end?”

Dean shook his head, his hand waving as he gestured to the still-oblivious congregation.

“Even if I was going to buy all that end of the world crap, then where the hell is their savior? Where’s this messenger of God to help deliver them from Satan? All these people are blindly following that so-called pious bastard up there in the pulpit. If he gave one good damn about these people, he’d send them home, or at the very least have some pizzas delivered. No! No way, Sam. That preacher up there, LaGrange, Leviticus Cross, even that old man outside, they’re all tools, dude. And I’m not talking the useful kind of tool either. This isn’t some sort of second coming. At the very best, this is mass hysteria and these religious types are just preying on the weakness and fear of these innocent people.”

The elder hunter stole one final glance at the two children, swallowing hard when the little boy looked up and met his gaze with hollow, pleading eyes. Dean turned away, anger, frustration and guilt making a fearsome emotional concoction.

“I’m not buying this religious mumbo-jumbo, Sam. People are dying, something’s going on here, but just like always, the only people I see rushing into the fight are you and me. If God and Lucifer are sending in the troops, I sure as hell wish they’d step up to the line and quit using the rest of humanity as sacrificial pawns,” he snarled as he broke for the large door making no effort to minimize the loud bang as he exited and allowed the massive oak to slam shut behind him.

Wahlstrom farm

They rode back out to the abandoned farm in utter darkness and silence. The moonless night and endless fields of corn made it feel as though they were the last two people on the planet.

The relative quiet of the car was only broken by Dean’s thumb as he tapped out a nameless beat on the top of the steering wheel. Added to the desolate country road, the absence of the elder sibling’s usual raucous rock chords pouring from the Impala’s speakers only served to make the drive that more unnerving.

Sam considered commenting on the lack of AC/DC, even thought about teasing Dean about the nearly suffocating quiet, but when the thumb-drumming started, he held back. Dean choosing to forego any music was unsettling enough, but when he started with the steering-wheel percussion, Sam knew his brother was chewing through some deep thoughts. It was one of the few times that Dean was ever this quiet.

Deep thought and near death… Funny how concerning Dean, both are equally scary… Sam silently mused.

The younger hunter rubbed his temples and turned to look back out the window as the cornrows whisked by rapidly. It wasn’t that Sam wasn’t sympathetic to his brother, but Dean was an open book and after all, Sam had his own thoughts to occupy him.

He knew that his brother was tormenting himself over the two small children in the church. There was no mistaking the rigid, clenched jaw or fixed stare as Dean drove. But Sam also knew there was nothing he could say that would make his brother feel any better about leaving the kids behind. He’d listened to Dean’s rant for the first few minutes after storming out of the church, knowing that most of his brother’s anger was geared less towards his bias about religion and more because he felt like he’d done nothing to help the little boy.

Dean hated to lose, it was just that simple. And after growing up with him and now hunting with him again, Sam knew that nothing short of time, or smashing something, was going to soothe Dean’s broiling anger.

And so he turned his mind to what he could perhaps help: piecing together the strange bits of information they’d gleaned since arriving in this small Midwestern town.

First, there was the strange call from Bobby. While Sam hadn’t talked to him, Dean had said that Bobby had managed to say something about a demon. Of course, according to his brother, Bobby had also babbled something about angels and a destroyer too.

Then there was Henner. The old man seemed lucid enough and it was obvious that he fervently believed that the Apocalypse was manifesting in the little town. Granted, Henner was zealous in his belief and he was certainly old enough to be battling some form of age-induced dementia. But he, like Bobby, had mentioned the appearance of an angel, Henner going so far as to tell Sam about how the angel had saved him from the town bullies.

Sam had to admit that he was more than open to the possibility of angelic supernatural creatures, had a certain degree of faith in a higher power. But really, an angel named Don was more than even his open-mindedness could accept.

Still, there were other occurrences that seemed to validate the whole “end of the world” notion. Certainly crop failures and lightning storms happened frequently and were not necessarily the result of demonic forces. But the illnesses and deaths were another matter.

Henner told him that over a dozen people had either come down with the strange sores or had died suddenly much like the cook back at the diner. Of course, the old man had been quick to attribute the rashes and deaths to lack of faith and God “thinning the herd,” but Sam was less than accepting of that idea.

Experience had taught him better…

“Dean, you know, I was thinking…” he began.

“Wow, you thinking, what’re the chances of that?” his brother snarked back without even looking away from the road ahead of them, although he ceased the manic drumming of his fingers.

Sam chose to ignore his brother’s comment, not seeing the need to antagonize Dean by firing off his own derogative retort when he well knew that what he was about to say would more than likely set his brother off anyway. Taking a deep breath, the younger sibling scratched absently at the back of his hairline before speaking.

“Okay, so I know you’re not sold on even the remote possibility that what’s happening around here is the Apocalypse, but what if it isn’t far off the mark?”

There was a sudden rush of expelled air from Dean’s mouth and Sam braced himself for the barrage.

“Not sold?” Dean cried out. “Sam, please don’t tell me you’re buying this load of crap? After everything we’ve seen in our lives, do you honestly think that God and the Devil are gonna play out their end game here? Now?”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting…” Sam began.

“ ‘Cause really, I kinda had you figured for more of a realist when it came to things like that,” Dean continued.

“I am, but…”

“You can’t believe that there’s an angel running around Paw Paw…”

“No… well maybe, but listen…”

“I mean, when have we EVER seen a single sign of divine intervention in our entire lives?”

“I guess we haven’t… but…”

“… Demons, yes, every manner of evil thing out there, but really, angels? Whatever’s going on here is nothing more than the demon of the month club bro.”

Sam sucked in a sharp breath and exploded.

“Dean! Would you shut the hell up for one second and let me finish?”

The Impala became silent once again, and even in the relative darkness, Sam could see his brother glaring at him, mouth agape.

“I get it, Dean. You don’t think this could really be the beginning of the end. Okay. I’m not disagreeing. All I was going to say was what if this was some sort of test run? You know, like maybe what’s happening here is just a dry run for the greater plan.”

“Sam…”

“No, come on, Dean. Open your mind just a crack for a minute. You don’t want to believe in angels, fine. But you can’t deny that people dying of starvation when there’s food everywhere, people coming down with biblical sores and rashes, crops withering and dying when the conditions couldn’t be more optimal; all of that isn’t just chance and hysteria.”

Sam paused, listening to Dean sigh loudly.

“All’s I’m saying is that we need to consider that there might be forces at work here far greater than we normally deal with,” Sam suggested.

Dean laughed. “Yeah, Sammy. ’Cause we haven’t dealt with anything as powerful as this lately. I mean, we’ve been on a crusade with an immortal Viking princess, we’ve had a brotherhood of demons trying to reenact every heinous serial killer in modern history, oh and let’s not forget Lucifer. That was just a walk in the park.”

“That’s sorta my point, Dean. Look at all the demons we’ve dealt with lately. Like Bobby said, more and more of them are walking among us. Then that whole deal in Leicester. Lucifer as much as said that he was just biding his time.”

“Sam, I just don’t know…”

“You were ready to believe it in Leicester. As I recall, it was you that was convinced it was Armageddon back there. The river of blood, the plagues, the Beast,” Sam reminded.

“Yeah, and you were the one to remind me that it was God not Lucifer that brings about the End of Days, Sammy. Now which is it gonna be here? Demons or angels? God or Lucifer? I’m still slightly more inclined to believe in this being something demonic. At least until I see the white of fluffy angel feathers,” Dean nearly snarled back.

Sam chewed the inside of his cheek, frustrated with the unexplained and irritated that Dean wasn’t even giving any of this serious consideration. Then Sam played another card.

“You saw Lucifer, up close and personal. Is an angel any less likely?”

He heard his brother’s intake of air as he prepared to speak, but after a moment, Dean remained silent. Instead, the older sibling pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans and thumbed the device to life, the glow of the cellular illuminating the harsh look on Dean’s face.

Sam waited patiently, curious as to whom Dean might be calling considering the topic of conversation.

“Yeah… hello, this is Dean Henley. I was wondering if someone could give me an update on my um… uncle…”

So that was it? Sam thought to himself. Dean never could rationally discuss anything when his mind was fixed on something else; and Bobby’s current condition definitely ranks as “something else.”

“Oh? Okay… yes, I understand. Thank you,” Dean finished.

Sam waited a half-heartbeat before asking the obvious.

“How’s Bobby?”

“Not good…”

“What did they say?”

Dean turned his face away from Sam, but it was a wasted gesture. Sam knew by the tone of his brother’s voice and the quick glance away that Dean was taking the news hard.

“He’s dying, Sammy. Said they’re trying everything but he’s just not responding,” his brother whispered back.

The younger Winchester didn’t reply, instead he grabbed the armrest on the door as the Impala crested the rising driveway to the abandoned farm house. He waited to lift the handle and open the door, but Dean never killed the engine. Instead, his brother merely sat there, eyes focused out into the darkness, hands still tightly gripping the steering wheel.

“Sam…”

“Go, Dean,” Sam answered, knowing full well what Dean was about to say. “I’ll stay here and sort through the stuff Bobby was working on. Maybe there’s something here in his notes. Just give me a call and let me know how he’s doing.”

He watched Dean silently nod as he opened the passenger side door and climbed from the Chevy. Bending back down to peer inside the car, Sam chose not to comment on Dean’s backhanded swipe across his face.

“ Dean, um… be careful. Okay.”

“Yeah, you too. And Sam…”

“Yeah?”

“I…uh…”

“Not necessary, Dean. I understand…”

And Sam did understand. Even as he walked to the darkened, rundown structure, watching the Impala’s lights fade into the distance, Sam understood his brother.

Dean refused to lose. And if this really was the end of the world, then the thought that there was little either of them could do to stop it was just not something his brother would easily accept.

Mendota Community Hospital

Dean arrived back at the hospital just before midnight. His eyes were red and heavy as his body shouted for sleep. Glancing at his watch, he realized that he’d been up for nearly forty hours straight, having left from Memphis immediately after Bobby’s call yesterday.

Walking through the nearly deserted hallways, the hospital eerily reminded him of Roosevelt, or maybe even Harrisburg. Shuddering at the thought, he stopped outside the doorway to Bobby’s room, rolling his still-aching shoulder as he stood there lost in a myriad of thoughts.

“Visiting hours are over, sir…”

Dean spun around, briefly startled, but relaxing as he came face to face with a scrub-clad nurse. Under other circumstances, he would have flashed his trademark “lovable rogue” smile and attempted to charm the petite blonde into joining him for a nightcap once her shift was over. But as it was, he was tired, worried and the no-nonsense look she wore implied that she was going to enforce the rules.

“Please,” he began, brows raised as his green eyes flashed with just enough desperation. “That’s my uncle in there. We’re all the family he has.”

“Look, I understand, but it won’t do your uncle any good if you don’t let him get some rest,” she insisted.

Dean looked back over his shoulder and into the room. The slow steady beep of the monitor and the occasional chime of the IV pump echoed out into the quiet hallway. The dim light above the bed cast a pale glow across Bobby’s equally pasty features.

“Miss, we’re the only family he has. If he’s gonna…” Dean couldn’t force himself to utter the word for fear of validating the dire situation. “I just don’t want him to be alone. I swear, I won’t be a problem.”

He watched the nurse as she stared into his eyes, not certain if she was going to give in to his request or call for hospital security. When she looked at her watch and then down to the charts in her hand, Dean knew he was home free.

“Alright,” she sighed. “I have rounds to make. So long as I don’t hear a peep out of the room, you can stay.”

She smiled at him then, but Dean knew it was forced. He caught her off-handed glance into the room and the brief pinch of her eyebrows as her gaze fell on the unconscious hunter. The look on her face confirmed that even she knew it was only a matter of time for the older man in the bed.

It didn’t matter to Dean. He wasn’t giving up hope. He couldn’t afford to.

He entered the room as though he were entering a chapel; slowly, silently, reverently. On auto-pilot, he quietly pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and slid into the seat, his eyes never losing contact with the still form in the bed.

Bobby looked horrible. No, Dean thought. Horrible was an understatement.

The exposed skin on the older hunter’s arms, neck and face was beet red, interrupted by patches of flaky white where his flesh was drying and peeling away. Still, nothing was as bad the quarter-sized, weeping lesions that erupted randomly on Bobby’s body.

Undeterred by his physical condition, Dean reached out and finding a small patch of unmarred skin just above Bobby’s wrist, he gently touched his friend.

“What did you get yourself into, old man?” he asked, shaking his head.

In his mind, he could hear Bobby’s irritated huff at the “old man” comment. “Old man my ass,” Bobby would say. “I can still take out you young Winchester whelps.”

Dean smiled sadly; he would have given anything to hear Bobby’s voice now.

“I’d buy you a beer if you’d just open your eyes right now. I’d even get you one that was full strength, none of that holy-watered-down variety that you like pulling on people,” the young hunter added with a soft chuckle.

He leaned forward till his forearms rested on the stark white linens covering the gurney. It was so tempting to simply allow his head to follow the extremities, so inviting to just let his body succumb to the need for sleep. But he shook the cobwebs from his mind, forcing himself alert and determined to remain at the older man’s side for as long as needed.

“I bet you thought I never knew about your little trick did ya? I probably wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for all that beer you let me have when I was a kid.”

Dean sagged backward in the chair, memory washing over him as a glint of a smile creased his haggard face.

“See, I grew up thinking that beer always tasted that weak, course at the time I didn’t know you were watering mine down more than normal. I s’pose it was just your way of trying to make me feel like I fit in without Dad showing up and finding me drunk off my ass. But you can imagine my surprise the time I went to Craig Millikin’s kegger back when we were living in Nebraska.”

Dean snorted. “God, I was so drunk and sick as a dog the following day. I thought Dad was gonna skin me alive for that one. I can’t even say I remember much about that night or the next one other than thinking that Matt’s beer was sure a helluva lot different than yours.”

He paused for a moment, his smile broadening. “Ya know, I’ve never told anyone that you do that. Not Dad, not Sam. I wonder if they ever noticed? Sammy probably wouldn’t, not like the kid is exactly a connoisseur of alcohol, but I gotta think Dad would have caught on by now. Always makes me wonder what other little tricks you have up your sleeve.”

“I’ve learned so much from you, Bobby. I mean, Dad might have trained us, but you taught me a whole lot more. I know we woulda never known about Devil’s Traps if it hadn’t been for you. And God knows Sam still treats that Key of Solomon like it’s made of gold. The kid can scrawl out a trap faster than I can break out the spray paint.”

Dean halted again as Bobby’s body twitched violently, the alarms on the cardiac monitor briefly squealing with the movement. There was a breath-stealing pause before the older hunter stabilized and the machines resumed their metronomic pings.

It was only when his lungs were bursting for fresh air that the young man thought to release the breath he’d been holding and take in another. Pulling his hand down across his face, Dean paused as his fingers reached his mouth, resting them there as he swallowed hard against the borderline nausea that his already twisting stomach was offering up.

“Dammit, Bobby. Don’t pull that crap on me,” he demanded with an intense whisper.

He quickly turned away, his weary eyes and fatigued brain choosing that moment to flash the image of his father lying still as death in the hospital in Springfield. It took a moment before Dean could trust himself to look back on Bobby’s quiet form, a few extra seconds to be sure that one bearded face was not the other. In his heart, it didn’t really matter which face Dean saw lying there before him. He loved father and surrogate uncle equally.

“You can’t give in, Bobby. You gotta fight this. Come on now, what’s a little rash when you’ve survived being blown up?” he asked jokingly. “You got that nice new house and everything, courtesy of Winchester Building and Construction. Who’s gonna look after that library and all the weapons if you check out?”

Dean drew in a sharp breath as he reached back to clasp the man’s hand. “We’ve lost so many; Caleb, Pastor Jim. The ranks are looking pretty thin, not enough hunters out there to stand up against all the evil crap that keeps coming at us. Dude, you can’t bail on us too, can’t take the easy way out. You gotta fight this… fight to hang on !”

He stole a quick glance over his shoulder, paranoia nagging at him that someone might hear his heartfelt confession. When the room and the hall behind remained empty, Dean continued his one-way conversation.

“We’vs taken such a beating lately, Bobby and I’m so damn tired. Every day it’s one more hunt, one more injury, one more loss. And for what? What are we supposed to be, a couple of freakin’ superheroes, swooping in to save the day one demon at a time? We disappear again, trying to stay one step ahead of the law, never any thanks, never any appreciation for what we’ve done. All we get is pain and suffering, all we have to show for it is bruises and scars.”

He rubbed absently at his temples, lines of fatigue creasing his handsome face.

“And then there’s the never-ending laundry list of bad guys. It used to be so simple, find a spirit, find a creature and put it down. Even with all the demons we’ve fought, there were rules. We even put that yellow-eyed bastard down. But lately, we have a whole new crop of badass wannabes, all after a pound of our flesh. That Myers creep in Seattle, Bryon Castor, those two jackasses back in Culpepper, even Sid Morrow and his gang. The demons were bad enough, but having to watch our backs against humans, how the hell are we supposed to fight that?”

“And then there’s Mia…”

Dean lowered his eyes, the weight of the brunette’s betrayal still eating at his conscience, her brutal attack on Sam no less painfully raw than it had been months ago. His fault.

“I really screwed up on that one, Bobby. I know Dad tried to convince us that Mia was all his fault but I’m the one that let her into our lives. The things I said to Sam, the things I thought… I drove him away, I picked Mia over my brother.”

He swallowed hard, choking down the large lump in his throat. “I’m just so tired, Bobby. And part of me just thinks that if this really is the beginning of the end… if Lucifer really is out to burn humanity to a crisp, what the hell can we do to stop him? And why the hell should we even try?”

As if in reply, Bobby stirred again, a harsh raspy sound coming from his mouth even as his eyes fluttered. Dean sat up straight, his eyes wide and hopeful as his heart hammered within his chest.

“Bobby?” Dean called out as he hoped for the older man to waken.

But the brief rally turned into a depressing tease as the patient succumbed once again to the deathly quiet that perversely filled the room.

“Come on, Bobby, fight this, we need you, we’re operating blind here. We don’t know how to help you,” Dean bemoaned. “This town, what’s happening, none of it makes any sense. If you want me to fight, then you gotta fight too.”

“What did you mean about the horsemen? Did you really see an angel? Sammy thinks there really is one here, he believes that old kook, Henner. I say, show me an angel and I’ll show you a congregation that’s been hitting the communion wine on the side.”

Dean snickered, pleased with his little attempt at humor. But he quieted just as rapidly, the levity of the situation overshadowing any joke. He slumped back against the rough frame of the chair, a slight groan escaping his lips as his aching shoulder met the unyielding hard wood.

He sat there dolefully, and to an outside observer the young hunter would have appeared small and forlorn as he sat a vigil next to his long-time friend.

Hours ticked by and neither patient nor watcher moved, Dean’s eyes barely blinking as they remained focused on Bobby. The blonde nurse came in twice to take vitals or adjust the IV, each time offering a wan smile in Dean’s direction. He thought about asking her about Bobby, but each time she checked the older man, her face spoke more than any words.

Finally, as the first hints of sunlight began to peek through the partially drawn blinds, she came in one final time, her hand gently clasping Dean’s shoulder as she approached. The strong waft of coffee filled the room and at the moment it was more appealing than the most expensive perfume.

Dean rose up in the seat, taking the cup she offered and thanking her with a warm smile.

“I’m going off shift,” she explained. “The day staff will be in after report. They’ll probably kick you out while they clean him up and change the IV and such.”

He nodded and looked back at Bobby.

“Have you gotten any sleep?” she asked.

“Nah,” Dean replied. “I just wanted to be here with him.”

“Go home,” she ordered. “Get some rest. I promise I’ll make sure you’re called if there’s the slightest change, one way or another.”

He looked at the unconscious hunter once again and rose from the chair. “Thanks,” he mumbled as he paused by Bobby’s side, his fingers ghosting over the older man’s arm.

“He’s lucky, you know?”

Moving toward the door, he stopped when she called out to him. Turning, Dean faced her, confused by the comment.

“I see people in here all the time, some better, some worse. But few ever have any family or friends that care enough to just sit and keep them company. That’s pretty special.”

He smiled weakly back at her as he turned for the hallway.

“Have faith,” she added. “He’s made it further than any of the others. Maybe someone upstairs is watching out for him.”

Dean absorbed her words but offered no reply. He simply walked down the corridor and out into the promising sun of another day.

Wahlstrom farm

Sam awoke to a stray beam of sunlight that pierced the worn wood siding of the house and chose the exact trajectory by which to burn the cornea from his left eye and scorch the flesh on that side of his face. He swatted at the errant ray as though he were brushing away an irritating insect, but the offending light steadfastly remained.

With a groan, he rose from the spot on the dirty floor where he’d fallen asleep, his face creased from where he’d been laying against the edge of a book and the zipper of Bobby’s sleeping bag. He stretched, groaning again and cursing his own height and long limbs. Bodies like his just didn’t simply curl up on the floor of an abandoned house and wake up refreshed and ready to take on… Hell?

The thought made him chuckle slightly as he extricated himself from the encampment of books, scraps of paper and assortment of notes that carried the distinctive scrawl of Robert Steven Singer. He had to hand it to the older hunter, Bobby might be a bit unorganized with his research, but it was thorough. There had been plenty of references to angels, the Apocalypse, even passages highlighted from Revelation, but no specific notes on what Bobby was actually checking into.

Newspaper articles from over a month ago listed the increase of strange phenomena, bizarre lightning storms during perfectly cloudless days, whole fields of corn withering and dying overnight as though they’d been deprived of rain for the entire season, and dozens of reports on the local residents either committing uncharacteristically violent acts or simply falling ill due to unexplainable rashes and sores.

If Bobby was thinking that the end of the world was coming down on Paw Paw, then by all accounts, Sam wasn’t sure he could disagree.

Glancing at his watch, he wasn’t shocked to see that it was only six-thirty. In actuality, he was more surprised that he’d only been asleep for a little over two hours. It certainly felt like more to his sleep-craving body and mind.

He stooped down and turned off the small camping lantern that he’d been reading by during the night. The thin mantle glowed for a moment longer then returned to its ghostly white color even as the barest hint of smoke and burning kerosene lifted into the air and mixed with the unmistakable odors of the decaying house.

Casting a look around the deserted parlor, he noticed for the first time the large Devil’s Trap spray painted on the lofty ceiling. Like many houses of its day, this one had vaulted ceilings well over twelve feet from the floor. How in the world Bobby had managed to paint the sigil way up there became an instant curiosity to the young man.

“I don’t even know why I’m surprised,” Sam mused aloud, shaking his head as he contemplated the achievement.

A tease of a shadow outside the boarded window caught his eye and Sam spun to make out the movement.

“Dean?” he called out, assuming his brother had returned from the hospital. “You out there?”

When there was no response, Sam moved to the door and stepped out into the burgeoning morning light. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he called out once again.

“Dean? You back?” But stepping off the porch and peeking around the side, the Impala was still absent from the drive.

He dug into his pocket, retrieving his cellular and quickly dialing his brother.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean answered after the third ring.

“Hey, Dean. Where you at? Still with Bobby?”

“On my way back.”

“How’s Bobby doing?” Sam asked hesitantly. If Dean was returning, did that mean…?

“No change…” Dean breathed back, his unsuppressed yawn coming across the cellular. “Did you find out anything?”

“I’m not sure. There’s all kinds of notes about angels, demons, and get this… a whole chapter from Revelation about the Four Horsemen,” Sam answered.

“Meaning what?”

“Remember Bobby said something about ‘horsemen?’ Well I think he may have been referring to that chapter.”

The silence on the other end confirmed that his brother had no clue what Sam was talking about.

“Nevermind, when you get here I’ll explain,” Sam returned.

Dean mumbled something in reply and Sam regretted his snappiness, realizing that his brother had been going strong for nearly two days. He knew Dean could and had often managed to go several days with little to no sleep, subsisting off nothing more than catnaps and black coffee, but add in the emotional exertion of Bobby’s condition and Sam knew his brother was running on fumes.

He considered calling Dean back to offer an apology, but his own weariness demanded attention. Turning toward the tall well pump rising from the ground a short distance from the porch, Sam strode purposefully toward it, giving the handle a couple of rough tugs in order to prime it. He jumped backwards as water rushed from the spigot, splashing onto the dry soil.

Cupping his hands, Sam gulped down several handfuls of cold water before splashing more on his face and over his head. With his hair dangling in wet tendrils, he stretched his back, feeling the satisfying pop of cartilage in his spine.

Feeling slightly refreshed, he spotted Bobby’s Charger sitting to the side of the rundown barn. Sam moved toward the rusty Dodge hopeful that perhaps there might be other clues inside the vehicle. Walking alongside the long rows of tall corn, it felt strange to Sam to be dwarfed by the lofty vegetables. Even on his tiptoes, he couldn’t see above the stalks.

Reaching the car, he was about to grab the handle when another flash of movement, this time within the cornrows, startled him again. Spinning around, his hand went automatically for the 9mm tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

The beauty of the Glock was that it didn’t need cocked in preparation for firing; with his finger on the trigger, Sam moved toward the edge of the field, the pistol held out before him in a stance that would have made his brother proud. A section of stalks just beyond him stirred as though an unseen breeze had pushed them over.

“Except that the wind’s blowing the other way right now…” Sam reminded himself in a hushed voice.

He stepped slowly into the field, his shoulders brushing past the long green leaves that seemed to reach out and grab at his shirt. He moved carefully down the thin path between the rows, his senses all straining for any further sign of an intruder.

Another flash of movement made him spin toward his left.

“Who’s there?” he yelled, gun still at ready.

He didn’t really expect an answer; certainly the hair that was standing on end at the nape of his neck was the best indicator that this was no prank being played by some bored farmer’s kid. As Sam moved deeper into the field, he suddenly felt like Mel Gibson in Signs, almost waiting to see some transparently skinned alien pop out from behind the corn and attack him.

“Dean would be so proud of the movie reference…” he thought to himself, smiling inwardly. “At this point, I’d rather it be an alien rather than what could be out there.”

He walked on a little further, stopping as he realized how far into the field he’d travelled.

It was pastoral, serene even as the gentle movement of crops around him created a soft whisper. The cool breeze combined with the warmth of the early morning sun only added to the peacefulness of the moment and he had to shake himself from the seductive pull to focus on why he was there in the first place.

“Focus, Sam!” he warned himself.

Turning in a full circle, he looked for any more movement among the cornrows, but whatever, if anything, had been out there seemed gone now. Stretching to his full six-four height, he popped above the top of the stalks to scan even further, but again, other than the random bird, he was the only living thing in the field.

Sighing, Sam turned to head back to the old farmhouse and wait for Dean, his exit from the field slower and more relaxed. The roof line of the building was nearly in sight when his ears picked up the sound of a low hum coming from behind him.

The sound was initially very soft, almost like the noise from a distant airplane, but when he twisted to look into the sky, Sam saw that the bright glow of the sun had suddenly vanished behind a jet black cloud. Peering across the remainder of the sky, it remained as clear as before with the exception of the lone obscuring cloud.

Mesmerized, Sam stood watching, waiting for the sun to peek back out from behind the opaque cover. As he stood there, the low-level hum grew in intensity, becoming louder and more incessant. It seemed to emanate from the dark cloud itself, which also appeared to be moving steadily toward him.

A hint of panic touched the young hunter as the looming blackness steered toward his position in the field. The sound increased in volume until he was forced to drop the Glock and jam the heels of his hands against his ears to block out the racket.

As the sun began to inch from behind the dark mass, Sam recognized the strange cloud for what it was.

Locusts!

The massive swarm descended on the field in a flurry of insect legs and wings amid the raucous chirruping. They dove at the crops like mini-kamikazes, hunger-driven to devour the corn until nothing remained.

Sam broke into a full run even as the first of the swarm slammed into him like small missiles. His hands swatted at the locusts as he tried to keep them away from his eyes, his single thought to make it back to the relative safety of the farmhouse.

But as they dove at him, miniscule jaws taking tiny bites out of Sam’s exposed flesh, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. Nearly covered in the yellow-green bodies, it became harder and harder to stay on his feet. His vision obscured by the cloying mass of insects, he stumbled blindly through the field.

As the swarm fell from the sky like a torrential rain, Sam succumbed and dropped face-down to the ground. Throwing his arms protectively over his head, he tried to keep the tenacious insects from finding their way into his nose and mouth.

As the tall stalks disappeared under the swarm, the insects covered Sam in a living, ravenous blanket until he was buried beneath their mass. He remained there, silent and unmoving, while the noise of the locusts rose to a deafening crescendo and the field surrendered to the devastating horde.

Continue...

Comment/Review the episode here

E-Mail the Author!

The Winchester Chronicles