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Artwork courtesy of Valjean & |
By Valjean
ARCHIVE: No
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Artwork courtesy of Valjean & |
*****
There was only electric in the main rooms on the first floor of the castle: the great room, adjoining library, dining hall, and the kitchen. Dozens of other rooms, nooks, and crannies beckoned for exploration. However, that was a task that would definitely have to wait for daylight since the guys weren’t in the mood to go crawling around “like freakin' characters from ‘Wuthering Heights’” as Dean put it.
True to the old woman’s word, they did find food in the kitchen refrigerator plus a tray of homemade chocolate chip cookies wrapped in plastic on the counter. “What are we gonna do when the owners of this place find out our credit card is a fraud?” Sam asked as he sat at the massive wooden table munching on a cookie.
“We’ll be long gone before then,” Dean tossed off lightly as he spread mayonnaise on a slice of bread prior to stacking it with lunch meat. He’d also started the coffee maker. “And they’ll be so thankful that we’ve gotten ride of the ghosties they’ll be wantin’ to pay us instead. You know, we really should look into that,” he added, “chargin’ a fee sometimes. Of course not when someone’s life is at stake,” he quickly amended, “but you know ... just for your ordinary run-of-the-mill poltergeists and such. We could ‘incorporate’ ... think of a catchy name ...” Dean grinned, the entrepreneur in him awakened.
“Right,” Sam said skeptically, well used to dismissing Dean’s flaunt-the-law schemes. He raised his eyes to the vast overhead ceiling of the kitchen, studying the ancient oak beams as he tipped his chair back thoughtfully. “You know, this place has an oubliette, just like the original -- a dungeon. It’s supposedly located off the chapel. In the original castle dozens of people were put to death there. And that priest was killed in the chapel, too -- stabbed to death by his own brother.” He eyed Dean. “If a ghost really does haunt this place, that would be where to start looking.”
“Well, I don’t know about you, Sammy, but I’m too tired to play with Casper tonight,” Dean said as he stretched and yawned, then reached over to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Plus, I’ve still got that damn headache. Stomach’s a little off too.” He put a hand on his belly and belched softly. “I hope I didn't catch somethin' from that river water we drank out in Arizona. What say we get a good night’s sleep and tackle the bad guys in the morning? Even caffeine,” he held up the cup, “won’t keep me awake tonight. Although I could do with some Pepto Bismal.”
“Fine with me,” Sam said, removing a candle from its place on a shelf. “Master bedroom’s on the fourth floor the housekeeper said.” Taking a big bite of sandwich and grabbing his coffee, Dean followed his younger brother.
The candle cast eerie shadows around them as they mounted the large staircase and made their way down a long hallway to a door at the end of the fourth floor’s east wing. Entering the room, Dean sniffed the musty air and swallowed hard. “That last guy threw himself out this window, didn’t he?” he said quietly, moving to pull aside a heavy blue velvet curtain so he could look out at the dark grounds below. They couldn’t even see the lights of San Francisco from here -- or neighbors for that matter -- so complete was the blackness of the surrounding woods. For all he knew, Dean thought, they could have been in the depths of Ireland where the original Leap Castle still stood in all its anti-glory. They were, indeed, quite alone.
The bed was huge (menage a trois anyone? Dean’s mind supplied) and neither brother complained about sharing. After all, they were used to doubling up in sleazy little motel rooms while on hunting trips. There really was truth to the old adage “divide and conquer” and the Winchester boys weren’t about to be “divided.” Besides, Dean thought to himself as he turned on his side on the dusty smelling maroon silk coverlet and cradled his cheek on folded hands. There was something truly comforting about the feel of Sammy’s warmth next to him while he slept, knowing his baby brother was safe and close where he could not only be protected, but would watch over his own back as well.
There was a clock ticking on the mantel, its hands lit by faint light from the fire the boys had started to try and dispel the chill from the room. Dean heard it strike one ... one-thirty ... two ... and still he couldn’t sleep, his keen hearing attuned to pick up the first sign of trouble. However, unlike Max, this X5 hadn’t been programmed by Manticore for extensive night field work. He never heard the chimes strike three ...
Simon.
Dean stirred in his sleep, shifting his weight on the mattress and making Sam mutter.
Simon.
Hazel-green eyes snapped open.
Simon. Come to me.
Propping himself up on his elbows, Dean scanned the dark room, the pupils of his cat-eyes expanding as he took in every shadowy corner. However, there was nothing to be seen, although there was a foul odor like something had died. His nostrils twitched and he gave a little cough, the miasma thick enough to make saliva fill his mouth and his already aching stomach slightly heave.
Simon. You have to come to me.
It wasn’t his imagination ... or a dream. He started to elbow Sam, but then stopped. If he did ... if Sammy heard it too ... there would be questions he knew he didn’t want to answer. Besides, the smell was fading. Maybe it was gone.
Settling back down against the pillow, Dean forced himself to relax. However, he didn’t let himself sleep again and was still wide awake when the first rays of dawn filtered through the thick curtains.
*****
“Who’s Simon?” Sam asked from across the kitchen table as he sat eating toast and scrambled eggs.
“Fuck!” Dean spat as the knife he was using to slice a bagel slipped and cut his finger. Blood ran in a furious little stream onto the white marble counter.
Sam was at his side in an instant. “There’s probably a first aid kit around here,” he said, turning and opening a cupboard.
“Juse get the one in the car,” Dean said, wrapping a linen napkin around the wound. Two minutes later Sam was back with the kit, and five minutes after that a neat butterfly bandage had been applied to the inch-long cut in the side of his brother’s index finger.
“Thank you Florence Nightingale,” Dean quipped as he went back to making his breakfast. However, when he started to clean up the blood from off the counter he noticed it had been smeared ... and then he looked more closely and felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. As if written by a fingertip, the word “Simon” was clearly visible outlined in crimson. “Why did you ask who Simon was?” Dean said, his voice tight as he quickly wiped the damning name away with a towel.
“Go look in the main hallway,” Sam said as he chewed on a piece of toast with jelly. “Just inside the front door. I noticed it when I went out to the car earlier this morning to get my extra pair of jeans.”
His appetite completely gone -- in fact feeling nauseous -- Dean put down knife he’d been holding and walked out to the front hall. There -- written in what appeared to be blood in large script letters like a signature across the floral wallpaper -- was the name “Simon.”
“That wasn’t there last night when we came in,” Sam said quietly from behind him.
“No, it was not.” Dean’s mouth felt dry. He swallowed hard and suppressed a shudder, remembering he hadn’t taken his tryptophan that morning yet, which he told himself was why his head was pounding so hard it felt as if it was about to fall off his shoulders.
“Who’s Simon?” Sam repeated, his voice curious, but not accusing -- the question rhetorical. But then why would it be accusing? Dean thought. It’s not as if he could possibly know about ... her. However, maybe Sammy has a right to hear about his brother’s sordid past ... the evil I’ve done ...
Another storm was brewing outside, even though it was still early morning. Either that, or the castle was under a perpetual veil of grey clouds. Thunder rumbled as the windows rattled and darkened. The wind was picking up too.
Simon.
The two brothers whirled at the sound of the name, their wide eyes going to the staircase as the air around them filled with the stench of rotting flesh. Then they both saw it ... or rather her. Standing on the landing, silhouetted against the faint light of the dying morning, was a young girl ... a teenager dressed in a white flowing nightgown accented by pink ribbons, her dark hair falling around pale shoulders, a silver locket on a chain adorning that swanlike neck. She held out her hand. Simon, you have to come with me now. It’s time for you to pay for your sins.
There was no doubt who she was talking to Dean realized. She ... Rachel ... was looking right at him, the emotion in those sad, beautiful brown eyes one of accusation.
“Dean?” Sam said, a hand instinctively going to his brother’s arm. “What’s she talking about. Why is she calling you Simon?”
“I’m not coming with you,” Dean said, shaking his head and ignoring Sam. “You can’t make me.” He closed his hand around the amulet hanging around his neck.
Yes, Rachel replied quietly. I can.
“Uh-oh,” Dean just had time to mutter as she pointed a finger at him and a jolt of electricity worse than any TASER stabbed the X5 in the heart. Feeling as if he’d just been shot, Dean cried out and fell to his knees. One hand grabbing the door frame, trying to not go all the way down, the X5 fought the agony fiercely because he knew that if he gave in she wasn’t just going to take his life, she was going to take his soul. “No!” he shouted hoarsely, looking at Rachel through tear-filled eyes. “I can’t go yet! I won’t! It’s not my time!”
Why he said the last, Dean didn’t know. But it was a feeling deep inside of him ... that he had to stay in this world for awhile longer, even though this apparition apparently wanted to take his ass out of it.
Rachel narrowed her eyes and the pain intensified. It felt as if his heart was going to explode in his chest. Dean cried out again and had to close his eyes ... look away. Gripping the magical amulet tightly, he prayed -- but not to God. Dad! Help me!
“Dean!” Sam screamed, both hands around his brother now. “Hold on! Don’t let her have you!”
From somewhere Dean felt a trickle of strength returning to his body, nourishing his dying heart. Maybe it was Dad, or maybe it was the love of his brother, but there was a definite flow of positive energy pushing the darkness back. He gasped, sucking in a lungful of oxygen, buying precious seconds as he fought for life.
It won’t do any good! the apparition screamed. Sooner or later you will come with me! Because, if you don’t, you know what will happen!
“What will happen?” Sam cried out as he held his stricken brother tightly in his arms, refusing to let him go.
He’ll destroy everyone he loves, the girl said, laughing hysterically. Just like he destroyed me! That’s what Simon does. He destroys. It’s what he was created for, and what he’ll die for. It’s why he belongs in Hell!
There was a sudden brilliant flash as a lightening bolt struck one of the castle’s towers, followed by a thunder clap loud enough to wake the dead. Both boys winced and closed their eyes. When they opened them the girl on the staircase was gone and--
--Dean could breathe again. It was over -- for now. Something (or someone?) had intervened.
*****
“You gonna tell me what that was all about?” Sam asked quietly as the two of them sat in the front seat of the Chevy Impala -- the only place they felt safe at the moment.
Dean smiled wryly. It still hurt when he breathed, but at least his heartbeat had returned to normal -- no permanent damage done, although his headache was worse than ever. “What that was about, little brother, was our ghostie playin’ hardball.”
“What do you mean?”
“We knew when we came here we weren’t dealin’ with a run-of-the-mill haunting, right?”
“No,” Sam agreed. “We suspected it would be an Elemental, just like in the original castle in Ireland. Old school ... an ancient evil ghost that’s based on one of the natural elements -- in this case fire. It’s thing is to command other spirits trapped within the same realm -- sort of a spiritual shepherd. It can assume many forms ...”
“Right,” Dean said, running fingers through short-cropped dark blond hair and leaning back tiredly against the headrest, wondering if there really could be a knife behind his eyeballs. “And it strikes at the weak points of its victims,” he said, picking up where Sam had left off. “In this case emotional ones. It’s probably why all those people killed themselves here. It knows all their dark dirty secrets and pounds on them until the person cracks and can’t take it any more.”
“Which is what that girl on the landing was tryin’ to do with you, right?” Sam said. “Spill it, Dean. Who is she? Who’s Simon? And why does this thing want you in Hell so badly?”
“Do you really hafta ask?” Dean said, throwing a rueful look Sam’s way. “I’m Manticore, remember. I was created to kill, and I did my share of it when I was a good little soldier-boy.”
“Yeah, but that was during war, right?” Sam said. “It’s not like you ever killed innocent people.”
His brother’s blue-green eyes were begging Dean to agree ... to put his mind at ease ... but the X5 knew that now was not the time to lie, even though the truth might make Sam hate him.
“Dean,” Sam said softly. “Tell me you’ve never killed anyone in cold blood.”
“I can’t,” Dean said tightly. “’Cause I have -- murdered innocent people I mean. Including that girl you just saw in there. Her name’s Rachel by the way.”
“You killed her!” Sam practically yelped. “In God’s name, why? I mean, even if you were ordered to, you couldn’t have--”
“Oh, but I could have,” Dean said harshly. “And I did. And it wasn’t just Rachel. There were a couple of other innocents who died during that assignment, including a kid named ‘Simon’ who’s identity I stole in order to work undercover.”
“So she is talking to you,” Sam breathed. “Calling you by the only name she knows. But what kind of military assignment required a young girl like that to be killed? How could you--”
“I could because that’s what I am, Sammy!” Dean snapped. “Like she and a most of the rest of you Ordinaries say, I was created to kill. No matter how much I deny it, it’s part of me, just like I’m part animal.”
“Tell me what happened,” Sam said more gently, recognizing that his brother was still in agony even though the physical torture had stopped. “Tell me and we’ll fix it.”
The wry smile was back as Dean shook his head sadly. “There’s no fixin’ the fact I murdered her,” he said. “Oh, I tried not to ... but she’s dead anyway and it’s still my fault.”
“What do you mean you tried not to?” Sam asked, pouncing on those words.
Dean was chewing on his lower lip. “It was my first solo mission out of Manticore,” he finally said, his eyes going to the house where he saw a young woman in white watching them from the master bedroom window. I’m waiting Simon, her voice echoed maddeningly inside his head. Come with me. The apparition held out her hand.
“And ...”
“I botched it. At first it was just a surveillance mission, keepin’ watch on Rachel’s father, Robert Berrisford. He was a Manticore subcontractor we suspected of tryin’ to undermine our genetic testing program.”
“Meaning what?” Sam asked.
“Meaning Berrisford had a thing against usin’ little kids as lab rats,” Dean said, smiling grimly. “He was gonna turn us in to the government ... get our funds yanked. I dunno. They never told me all the details, and I’d been trained not to ask questions. Anyway, I posed as Rachel’s piano teacher -- a dude named Simon Lehane -- to get access to the house and family, and when I got hard evidence of Berrisford’s betrayal I was ordered to take him out, along with her -- send a message to the other civilians who worked for Manticore.”
“So, you killed him?” Sam ventured.
“Tried to,” Dean said huskily. The Rachel standing in that window looked so young and innocent and beautiful ... just the way he remembered her ... the girl he’d fallen in love with ... the girl he’d destroyed ... “I planted a bomb under his car, but at the last minute I couldn’t go through with it. I tried to warn Rachel to get out while she could with her father, but all I did was scare her. She ran to the car instead. Then ... boom.” He glanced over at Sam. “I didn’t do it -- push the button. Manticore suspected they might have problems with me ‘cause I’d argued against killing Rachel -- their so-called ‘collateral damage.’ They sent goons to watch me ... make sure I carried out my orders. They’re the ones who set off the bomb. But I’m the one who planted it, so it’s still my fault. Afterwards ... it’s a wonder I wasn’t convicted of treason and relegated to body parts. Instead, I was tortured until I was three-fourths dead and put through one of their reindoctrination programs.” He smirked. “That was the one summer I didn’t come home from ‘military school.’ Remember?”
“I remember,” Sam said, his voice filled with sympathy. You were only eighteen. I was thirteen. Dad said you had an internship of some kind. I really missed you that year.”
“And Rachel was only seventeen,” Dean said bitterly. “She didn’t die right away either. She lingered in a coma for two years. When I got away from Manticore I ended up back at her house -- call it Fate if you will. I saw her before she died ... begged for her forgiveness even though she never once opened her eyes ... told her how much I loved her. But I guess she wasn’t in a forgiving mood.” His eyes went to the window again.
“And now the Elemental is commanding her spirit,” Sam said. “And directing her against you.”
“Remember our Lady in White back in Jericho?” Dean said. “How her kids took her to Hell where she belonged?”
“It’s not the same,” Sam said quickly. “You’re not--”
“Yeah,” Dean replied. “It is the same, Sammy. I deserve whatever I get.”
“You didn’t kill her,” Sam insisted, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself of that as much as Dean. “Manticore did.”
“That’s what I’ve tried to tell myself all these years,” Dean said, pressing his lips into a grim line. “How I’ve been able to live with myself. But apparently that’s not a good enough excuse anymore. I killed Rachel. And I killed Simon Lehane. Hell, it’s a wonder his ghost isn’t after my ass too.”
“How did he die ... Simon?”
“Garroted,” Dean said, his voice chillingly matter-of-fact. “He never saw me ... never saw it comin’. But it was my job at the time ... a job I was once very, very good at.”
“And if you hadn’t done it they’d have killed you,” Sam said, landing on that as a reason to not call his beloved older brother a murderer. “You were scared for your life.”
“No,” Dean said. “I wasn’t scared. I was proud ... proud of what I was -- a goddamned supersoldier. I killed out of arrogance, Sammy. Because I was supposed to be one of the best assassins in the world. But you know what’s worst of all? Deep down inside I always knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway because it was the easiest way to go -- to obey their orders. I should’ve fought ‘em, Sammy. I should’ve tried harder and then Rachel wouldn’t have died.”
There was a very long moment of intense silence in the car. After all, Sam thought. What more is there to say? “So,” the younger brother finally asked quietly. “What are we gonna do?”
Dean shrugged.
“I’m thinkin’ we abandon this job and move on,” Sam said. “You’re in too much danger. This isn’t just an anonymous hunt. It’s personal.”
“Dad wouldn’t give up,” Dean said evenly.
“I don’t care what Dad would or wouldn’t do,” Sam said bitterly. “What I care about is you. That thing in there almost killed you this morning and you know it. Transgenic strength or not, you’re no match for that kind of attack.”
Dean couldn’t argue with his brother’s logic. “Okay,” he said. “We go, and mark this one up as a loss.”
“I’ll get our stuff,” Sam said. “You wait here.” He squeezed his brother’s forearm where it was resting on the steering wheel. “Don’t leave without me.”
“I’ll try not to,” Dean said -- an answer Sam thought was kind of odd as he made his way back to the castle.
*****
I should never have left him alone! That was the first thought that hit Sam as he came out of the house five minutes later to find his brother standing calmly beside the black Chevy with a .45 caliber pistol pressed against his own temple. Dropping the two duffel bags on the stone steps, he held out his hands. “Dean. What are you doing?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice calm.
“What I hafta do,” his brother said, sounding alarmingly emotional. “She’s right. Rachel’s right. I’ll destroy everyone I love. You ... Max ... Mom ... Dad ... my son ... The only way to protect all of you is to go where I belong.”
“And where do you belong?” Sam asked, slowly walking toward his apparently insane brother.
“In Hell,” the X5 said, his voice full of unshed tears. “Just like she said. This way, I’ll be the only one payin’ for my sins. The rest of you will be safe.”
“That’s bullshit,” Sam said. “Dean, she’s gotten inside your head. This isn’t you talking. Don’t listen to her. Don’t let her take you.”
Dean closed his eyes, his finger tightening on the trigger.
“No!” Sam screamed. “Dean, I swear if you do this I’ll never forgive you and neither will Dad! You’ll never see Mom in Heaven, and your son will forever resent the fact his father was selfish enough to kill himself just because he was afraid to go on living with the memory of what might or might not be sins. Only God has the right to judge you, Dean! Not her! Not that thing in the castle either! It’s tricking you. It’s not your time! You know it’s not! We’ve still got work to do!”
Breathing harshly through his nose, Dean shook his head, tears escaping from closed lids. He sniffed and swallowed thickly. Standing tall, he then raised chin, squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, gritted his teeth and--
Sam never knew where he got the strength to do what he did. After all, his brother was supposed to be three times stronger than a mere human like himself. However, there was no way in Hell he was going to just stand there while the guy he loved more than anyone else in the world blew his brains all over the driveway of this damned haunted castle. But then again -- maybe Dean really wanted someone to stop him. Lunging forward, he grabbed hold of the gun and wrenched it out of his brother’s hand, disarming him. Sam then stumbled back a step and stood shaking ... watching ... wondering if Dean was going to go all X5 on his ass.
Staring at his empty hand as if he didn’t quite know what to make of it, the young transgenic blinked, seemingly coming out of a trance. Then he took a deep shuddering breath and turned now lucid eyes on his brother. “Thanks,” he said softly. “She had me there for a minute.”
“You’re welcome,” Sam replied for lack of knowing what else to say. But then suddenly, of its own accord, the gun was once again pointing at the X5. “What the--” Sam said, trying to force his arm down. However, it was as if someone else was in control of his limb. Then he remembered ... brother had killed brother in that castle, and there were more spirits than just Rachel’s involved here. Was history going to repeat itself? “No!” he growled, using his other hand to try and force the gun away. But he felt this nearly uncontrollable compulsion to pull the trigger ... to kill Dean. Damn it, one way or another it seemed the bitch was going to get his brother.
“Sam ... I’m sorry. I don’t know why ...” Dean’s face paled as he looked beyond Sam and the pointing gun to the house where a figure in white with long dark hair and accusing eyes was standing on the front doorstep. And then -- like a message from God -- another lightening bolt struck, this time hitting a tree near the corner of the castle causing massive sparks to erupt followed by a dynamite blast of thunder. The distraction was enough to momentarily break the spell, as well as nearly deafen them.
In control of his body once more, Sam turned around, saw Rachel on the steps, and felt as if someone had just walked over his grave -- or perhaps his brother’s. “Get in the car,” he commanded, tossing the .45 into the underbrush and giving Dean a shove. “We’re gettin’ out of here.”
“But--” Dean was still staring at Rachel, or rather the form of her that the Elemental had assumed.
“Now!” Sam screamed. “We get out now!”
Dean got into the car, choosing life over death -- at least for today. However, even the roar of the Chevy’s souped-up engine and its tires crunching gravel couldn’t quite cover the cry of anguish echoing through the castle as they drove away -- its inhabitants deprived of their prey ... their revenge ...
“You all right, bro?” Sam asked as he steered the car onto the main road a few minutes later.
“Sure,” Dean said quietly from the shotgun seat. Then, off Sam’s skeptical look, he smiled tiredly, rubbed his aching temples, and lied, “I’m always all right.”
THE END
