| Miles to Go (c) 2006 Eponin ________________ 4,899 words
“You know, when you had the vision about that preacher’s run of bad luck, I thought it’d just turn out to be a poltergeist,” Dean grumbled, stumbling through undergrowth that threatened to trip him up.
He fingered the bone white stone they’d taken from that Methodist preacher. The preacher had been so freaked at his run of bad luck that he’d practically thrown the stone at them, begging them to get rid of it.
Now they were traipsing through miles of redwood forest, keeping from the tourist trails and trailside viewing areas, even though night had long since fallen and it was doubtful they’d run across anyone this far out. Muir Woods was old – ancient – and, away from the manmade trails and tourist traps, the scent of its age hung heavy in the air, redolent with must and old growth.
“A poltergeist might have brought the church roof down,” Sam agreed, “but it couldn’t have sent an email to the entire congregation about the preacher’s affair with his secretary.”
Dean laughed. “His wife was steamed.” The picture of the furious woman chasing the minister around the church would be funny for awhile.
Sam grinned back at him.
“You sure this is the right way?”
Sam sighed. “Yes, Dean, I’m sure.”
“Because you know, every damned tree looks just like the next; we could be going in circles.”
Sam started walking backwards, just so he could express his displeasure in his brother, using the glare he’d practiced when he was sixteen. Just like he had seven years ago, Dean laughed then pointed out an exposed tree root after Sam had tripped over it.
“Shut up,” Sam growled, arms wind-milling until he regained his balance.
They walked another half hour in silence before Dean spoke again. “I still think we should just salt and burn the thing. You’re just guessing it’s this kaper thing; I still think it’s cursed.”
“It’s a stone, Dean. It doesn’t burn.”
“Fine. Find some purification ritual, something where you can chant your hoodoo over it and be done with it. No more of this traipsing through the woods after Peter Cottontail shit.”
Sam snickered at the thought of Dean reading Peter Cottontail, then shut up when Dean said: “Dude. It’s the only thing you’d listen to when you were four.”
“And it’s called a kapre. According to the folklore, they originate from the Philippines.”
“And they have a magical white stone that grants wishes.” Dean snorted. “Sounds more like a Disney movie.”
“Except for the part where they trash their victim’s lives if they think they’re undeserving.” Sam laughed, taking in Dean’s petulant expression and waved an arm at the redwoods towering over them. “Look, they live in big trees. Preacher man said he picked up the stone here. If returning it doesn’t fix things, you can burn and chant to your heart’s content.”
“I’d rather shoot it,” Dean grumbled under his breath.
“You can’t kill an earth spirit,” Sam answered him anyway.
They stumbled into a clearing, flashlights bouncing off trees arrayed around it in a perfectly circular pattern. Fireflies lit the clearing, flitting through the branches and up to the sky.
“This is it,” Sam whispered. “This is where the preacher said to go.”
Sam moved to stand back to back with Dean, who drew his gun at the sound of rustling branches, looking around for the threat.
“Dean?” he asked when nothing presented itself.
“There’s no wind.”
His brother was right. The branches moved, but the rest of the world lay silent around them.
“Dude, find where we need to put that thing and do it, already.”
Sam stepped away, cradling the stone in the palm of his hand. He walked the edges of the clearing, alternately shooting glances at the independently moving treetops every few seconds and peering at the trees ringing the clearing for anything resembling his dream. He hated being psychic, hated that whenever he had a vision or a dream Dean was forced to rely on his tenuous memory, hoping and praying that Sam had got it right and wasn’t leading them into a trap, or into something they weren’t prepared to handle.
The runes caught his attention first. He only realized they were writings, symbols instead of the letters he was familiar with, when he approached the tree they were carved into.
The tree was ancient, bigger around than Sam’s arms could stretch, and tall enough that its highest branches were lost to the night sky. Someone had carved an opening in the trunk at chest height, and the symbols surrounded the hole, circling from it in an ever widening spiral.
Sam carefully placed the stone inside. It rolled off his palm as though eager to go home, and Sam shivered and wiped his palm on his jeans.
As he stepped back a low, rumbling laugh echoed from the treetops. Everything went dark.
++++++++++
Sam had no idea where they were or how they’d gotten here, but wherever here was, it was awfully flat and looked nothing like the forest he remembered being in. The sun made heat rise off the road that stretched out before and behind them. His brother lay flat on his back, halfway across the gravel parking lot of an abandoned roadside gas station.
“Ow. What happened?” Dean sat up and rubbed the back of his head. “Did it get the jump on us?”
Sam stood on shaky legs and moved to check Dean’s head. “No idea. I…” he frowned. “I can’t remember.” He combed through Dean’s hair, fingers coming away bloody then looked around. “You got knocked good. We should find someplace to clean up.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, genius, there’s nothing here.” He jerked a thumb at the roof of the old service station that had collapsed in on itself. “I don’t think the water’s on.” “Yeah, so we’ll have to walk. You up to it?” Dean stood, refusing Sam’s offer of a helping hand. “I’m fine.” ++++++++++ They’d walked two miles on a deserted road before they saw the highway sign.
Sam had to grab onto Dean’s jacket to keep his brother from turning around and walking back the way they’d come. “Dean, no. We need to find someplace to stop for the night.” Dean glared at him, shoulders hunched, but he started walking again. ++++++++++ Sam found them a cheap motel next to a convenience store and checked them in. He left Dean showering blood out of his hair while he ran next door to buy first aid supplies, grateful for the extra twenty he’d stashed in his wallet. Dean’s cash had gone to pay for the room; this was all they’d have to eat off of until they could figure out why their cards didn’t work; or until Dean felt well enough to slip off to a bar and hustle some pool. Sam made a bet with himself that Dean would be off at a bar by nightfall, headache or no. “Is it me or is there an abundance of mullet-heads and big hair in this town?” Dean asked as he emerged from the bathroom, steam billowing out the open door. Sam blinked at him. “I didn’t notice.” “I kept thinking I was seeing Ash everywhere.” Dean shuddered before changing the subject. “Much as I hate to do it, we should go see Missouri. She might be able to tell what did this to us.” “Yeah, I know. I want to look in on Jenny and the kids while we’re here, though.” Sam dug into the paper sack for antibiotic ointment and peroxide. He pushed Dean down on the bed, stole his brother’s towel, and started cleaning. “Sammy…” Dean trailed off, hissing when the peroxide hit the open wound. “There’s no reason not to, Dean. We don’t even have to go in.” Sam spread the ointment over the cut, fingers moving gently. “I don’t think its deep enough to need the gauze.” “Good.” Dean shook off Sam’s hands and pulled clean clothes out of his duffle before looking back over his shoulder. “Fine. We’ll check on Jenny. But no talking, just look and get out.” Sam heard the soft, “I hate this city.” Dean muttered just before he slipped back into the bathroom, and held his peace. ++++++++++ Their old house looked different, more worn. It was odd. Dean knew the upper floor had been gutted and rebuilt after the fire, but the house should’ve looked newer, even if it wasn’t. And the red door Jenny’d chosen after Dean had bashed down her old one in the rush to get to Sam was gone; in its place stood a sturdy wooden door, something strong and thick. A tire swing hung from the tree in front and Dean wondered if Jenny had resurrected their old one from the garage or the basement, or wherever the realtors had hidden it while the house was up for sale. The rev of a familiar engine had him glancing over at Sam, who met his gaze with raised eyebrows and hunched shoulders. “Great,” Dean muttered, “So not only does a mysterious something dump us halfway across the country, but it steals my car? That’s so wrong.” Sam’s laugh at his outraged tone turned into a frown as they watched as the Impala pulled up in the drive to their old house. Watching their much younger father, their mother get out of the car, that rooted them both to the spot. Neither of them moved or stopped staring until long after their parents had entered the house. Sam sucked in a gulping breath next to him. “We need to find a newspaper, Dean.” “Yeah.” ++++++++++ They fished the day’s newspaper out of the trash at the motel front desk.
Dean stared at the date, mind blank, body numb. “We have to go back tonight, Dean.” “How do you plan on stopping it, Sammy?” Dean looked up. “We didn’t exactly have a lot of luck in Salvation, Sammy, and the Colt’s gone.” “Well, we can’t do nothing.” Sam tried to wear a hole in the motel carpet. “Why else would we have been brought back here?” “You think I don’t want this, don’t want to be able to fix things?” Dean spun, eyes wild. “I used to dream it, Sammy. Right after the fire, I’d dream of being able to warn them, save the day. Then I’d wake up.” He flung the paper across the room, scattering the pages. “I’m going out.” “Wait! Dean, I didn’t mean…” Dean held up a hand. “I know, Sammy. I’ll be back in an hour. ++++++++++ Sam wasn’t really surprised when Dean came back to the motel with a car. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, sliding into the passenger seat, passing Dean a cup of the sludge that passed for coffee at the convenience store next to the motel. “It’s a little twisted, but I think us being back here is a thank you from the kapre.” Dean jerked in his seat a bit and turned his head to stare. “It grants wishes, right?” Sam rushed on. “And we returned the stone to it. You said it yourself; it was your dream to be able to save Mom. You don’t think I haven’t wished things had been different?” At the house, watching the windows go dark, Sam realized the flaw in their plan. He peered down the street. The streetlamps were few and far between, lighting just enough space to leave pockets of shadow in between. “We need to get inside, Dean. With the lights off, we’ll never know when the demon gets here.” Dean nodded and it crossed Sam’s mind that Dean was following his lead on this one. It shouldn’t have surprised him; Dean had been off since Dad had died, and this was bound to bring back memories his brother usually kept buried. Still, it felt odd to be the one in charge, especially when Dean refused to argue with him. The slipped through shadow up to the house, both of them involuntarily looking up at the window they knew was Sam’s nursery. “Back door,” Dean whispered. Sam shot him a look. They were nearly up to the front door already. “Dad said he fell asleep in the living room.” “And the back door leads into the kitchen.” Sam nodded. He let Dean lead the way, then slid forward to pick the lock. Quietly, because the father they knew woke at the least sound. They waited for a half hour in the kitchen, frozen in place, listening to the sound of some war movie on the tv, before Dean shook Sam’s shoulder and pointed to the nightlight on the wall. It flickered, slow and steady. Exchanging silent words, they moved out of the kitchen and stepped carefully down the hall towards the stairs. The innocent glow of Mary’s white gown at the foot of the stairs startled Sam. Even in the dark he could see the look of horror cross her face when she realized Dad was here, sleeping downstairs. She turned to run back upstairs and Dean shouted, “wait,” lunging forward to grab her around the wrist. She screamed. Sam pushed past her, feet pounding on the stairs. He tuned out the sound of his father shouting, hoped John didn’t keep a gun next to him while he slept even now, or his brother was in trouble. He ignored it all, flung the door to the nursery open and found himself pinned to the wall just inside. ++++++++++ Dean swore and let go of his mother’s wrist. The woman fought like a hellcat, all fast feet and nails. He dodged a strike and found himself behind her, on the stairs. “Mary!” Dad flung himself out of the living room, stopping just inside the hall at the scene playing out. Mary backed towards him. “There’s someone upstairs with Sammy.” Her voice shook. John snarled, stepping forward. Dean yanked his gun from the waistband of his jeans, pointing it down, because he couldn’t bring himself to point it at them. “Just stay here!” But he knew that look on his father’s face. “Ahh, shit.” He spun, taking the stairs two at a time. His brother was alone upstairs with that thing. His younger self stepped out into the hall in front of him, the memory of doing this flashing through his mind at the same time. Dean spun the boy, pointing him towards the stairs. “Go find your dad!” Then he was past and into the nursery. He saw the eyes first, the putrid yellow gaze, as the demon turned to face him. He brought the gun up and fired without hesitation. It didn’t bleed, but Dean had surprised it, and Sammy staggered away from the wall, released from the force that had held him there. The demon glanced around, and at the crib. Sam lunged around it and snatched the baby seconds before the whole room erupted into flame and the demon dissolved into smoke. Dean grabbed Sam by the collar and pulled him past the threshold before the flames could claim the doorway. John was halfway up the stairs when they ran back down. Sam shoved baby Sammy into John’s hands, pushing everyone down and out of the house ahead of them. They stood silently on the lawn, a repeat of Salvation, watching the house burn and the figure that had reappeared inside. ++++++++++ They showed up on Missouri’s doorstep reeking of smoke and brimstone. Sam knocked, the younger versions of himself and Dean, and their parents, hovering behind him. Dean moved slower, back behind all of them, only halfway up the walk, when Missouri pulled the door open. “It’s the middle of the night,” she started, then froze in the doorway. “Oh my. You all had better come inside.” Sam only hoped Missouri could help them, could tell them what to do, because the only answer he’d been able to give his father as to why he was dragging them all to see a psychic was that she was the only person he knew in Lawrence. Which was a lie, considering he knew the entire family behind him, but he was lost, caught off guard by what they’d been able to do, who they’d been able to save. Mom. How would this change things? And what was to happen to him and Dean now? They couldn’t stay in 1983, fully grown and not able to tell anyone who they were. But God. If they’d really managed to change things, maybe everything could be different now. Maybe they could be normal, a family, be what he’d never gotten a chance to have. ++++++++++ “So now what?” Dean sat on the front step, back propped against the railing, feet stretched out in front of him. Sam leaned over the railing behind him, staring out in to the darkness. “We need to tell Missouri,” he said. “Everything?” “Yeah, everything.” Sam moved to sit next to him. “She already knows who we are. She knows about the paranormal. We tell her what we know, what happened to us.” “Let her decide what to tell them?” Dean’s head jerked in the direction of the interior of the house, where their parents slept. God. Parents. Plural. Even the thought of it made hope well up so strong it practically choked off speech. “Yeah. She’ll know what they need to watch out for.” They sat in silence for a moment, then Sam spoke again. “What do you think’ll happen when we go back?” Dean shrugged. “Who knows? We might forget everything, have two sets of memories – I have no idea.” “Unless this is an alternate reality type of thing,” Sam said, looking sharply up at Dean. “You know, we jumped into this one, but when we go back it’ll be back to the reality we grew up with?” “Dude. Don’t even think that.” “Yeah, sorry, its just…” Sam rubbed his palms across his eyes. “Hard to believe? I get that, Sammy, but we can’t go second guessing ourselves now. If we go back to before, with just us? Well, at least we know these kids will get to keep their parents.” Sam leaned back against the railing, mirroring Dean. “Yeah.” Dean stood and stretched, then reached a hand out. “Come on. Lets get some sleep. We can talk to Missouri in the morning.” Sam took his brother’s hand and pulled himself to his feet. “Hey Dean?” “Hmm?” Dean moved towards the screen door. “No short sheeting the bed. Missouri’ll dig out her wooden spoon just for you.” Dean flipped him off, laughing. ++++++++++ Sam woke to the too familiar feeling of ropes binding his wrists and ankles, and the less familiar sensation of being hung from a hook on the wall by his bound wrists. It wasn’t a good sensation, and considering he’d gone to sleep the previous night in a warm, comfortable bed, with Dean sleeping by his side, it was alarming. He cracked open his eyes and looked around the dining room of their old house. There was a table in the center of the room, ringed with four chairs, a hutch against one wall, and a pair off hanging baskets full of plants resting on the floor. He had been hung from a rope hooked through a ring in the ceiling, probably what had been used to hang the planters. The bay window behind him was draped in heavy blue curtains. Dean hung next to him, head still bowed to his chest, unconscious, hanging from another ring. “Dean,” he hissed. When Dean didn’t move, Sam grabbed onto the rope he was hanging from, braced one foot on the window sill behind him and rocked his body from side to side until he could bump his brother with his bound feet. Dean’s head snapped up, eyes roving until his gaze settled on Sam, then on the ropes holding them up. “What the fuck?” Sam laughed. “No clue. I woke up just before you. You got a knife?” “In my boot.” Sam waggled his fingers, as though asking for it. “I’m not a contortionist, Sammy!” “No, jerk,” Sam laughed. “Get your foot up here. I’ll get the knife.” Dean grunted and twisted, hands reaching up to grasp the rope. He boosted himself up higher, using the window sill, wincing at the bite of the rope on his palms, then planted his hands around the rope so he wouldn’t slip. He swung his hips, as though he were on a swing, and at the height of the swing, planted his feet in the cradle of Sam’s bound hands. Sam twisted his wrists and slid the small shiv from Dean’s left boot. He sawed through the thick rope, heedless of the small trickles of blood slipping down his wrists from the rope burn. “Why is it we’re always the ones getting tied up?” Sam asked. “Because the evil things like the way we look?” Sam just rolled his eyes and moved to saw through the rope holding Dean. Dean shook out his arms and walked around the room, pausing to look at something on the wall near the door. “Mom did this.” Sam peered over his shoulder. On the wall was drawn a height chart, spanning inches and years for both of them. Sam blinked. “Do you think we did it; saved Mom, fixed everything?” “Well, they were alive long enough to do this up until we each turned twelve, so I give us points for that.” Dean snorted. “On the other hand, we did wake up in our own home all trussed up like pigs, so I’m not thinking we’ve done that good a job.” The door to the hall swung open at Sam’s touch; not locked. They slipped out of the room, Sam aware of the weight of silence in the house. Something waited for them here. They peered in doors, but the living room and kitchen were gaping holes, dark and empty. Upstairs Dean gripped his boot knife tighter, holding it at the ready. Sam had settled for a large kitchen knife, blade dulled at the edges, but enough to hurt. ++++++++++ Dean led the way down the hall, making his way unerringly towards Sam’s nursery. “Do you really think the demon’s here?” Sam asked, voice low. “Yeah. What else would play us like this, Sammy? It fits don’t you think? He waits until we think everything’s fine and then takes it all away?” Sam didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Dean pushed open the door and froze, because inside everything was different. And nothing was. The father Dean knew could have - would have - reached the gun laying just out of touch on the floor, would have torn out the knife piercing his hand himself rather than let himself be pinned, taken down, while there was still breath in him. Sam was screaming, pinned to the bed, eyes riveted to Mary pinned on the ceiling above him. Dean had to look behind him to make sure Sam hadn’t vanished just to reappear in front of him. But Sam was still at his back, staring over his shoulder wide-eyed at the scene splayed out before them. Sam pushed in front of him and shoved the demon, telekinetically pushing it back, slamming the form it wore up against the far wall. Dean saw him wince. This always hurt Sam; he needed to practice more often, his body wasn’t used to it. The demon shoved back, knocking Sam off his feet. “I’m still stronger than you, boy. And that one?” It jerked an insubstantial thumb at Sam’s other self. “Can’t even access his power. I have to thank you. You changed everything; made it so much easier to finish what I started twenty-two years ago.” Dean launched the knife at the demon, compensating automatically as though it were balanced for throwing when it wasn’t. The demon snatched it out of the air, wrapping smoky fingers around the handle. It grinned, turning reptile eyes on Dean, then reached out and up with the knife, slashing open Mary. Again. The demon positioned the other Sam on the bed until he lay eye to eye with Mary, until her blood fell on him the same way it had when he was a baby. Dean lost track of the order of things after that, the world dissolving into a haze of blood and screams and Sam, his Sam, staring at him, eyes wide open and empty. “You always were in the way,” the demon whispered to him right before it used his own knife to slash his throat. Dean was almost grateful when the world flared white around him before finally fading to black. ++++++++++ Dean bolted upright, gasping and clutching his throat. Those weren’t tears in his eyes, he determined, looking wildly around for his brother. Sam had rolled onto his side and looked at him now through watery eyes. Even from this distance Dean could see his hands shake. “What the fuck was that?” Sam shook his head, slowly pushed upright. He looked around. “We’re back in Muir Woods.” “What?” Dean hadn’t even taken in his surroundings. Sloppy. “Did we dream it?” Sam asked. Dean rubbed his neck as though he could feel the weight of blood running hot down his throat. “God I hope so.” The thought that they’d done all that, saved Mom, to have it come to the end it had; it was a pain he wasn’t willing to shoulder. He levered himself to his feet and stumbled over to Sam, holding out a hand to help his brother up. Sam rose slowly, as though every joint in his body ached. They probably did. God knew Dean felt battered; a slew of phantom aches and bruises coloring every inch of his skin. The silence made itself felt first, once Dean was able to take the focus off Sam and himself, and listen to the forest around them. It echoed; Dean heard branches rustling, pattering of leaves or acorns or something hitting the forest carpet, but everything sounded miles away. The area around the clearing lay silent; waiting. “Whatever it is, its still here, Sam.” Dean looked around for his gun; spotted the gleam of it laying halfway across the clearing. He crossed to pick it up and cocked the hammer when he heard a deep chortle high in the trees right above him. He backed away, towards Sam, who spun to face him. “Dean!” He followed Sam’s gaze, caught the brief twinkle of eyes and a bearded face high up in the trunk of one of the Redwoods. It grinned at him then melted into the tree. The natural sounds of the woods started as soon as it vanished. ++++++++++ They drove across the Rockies in one long drive, each taking a turn at the wheel while the other slept. Sam piled books between them on the seats and researched the kapre whenever Dean drove. “Here.” Dean glanced over. Sam’s long fingers marked the place in one of his books. “They grant wishes, but only to those who don’t seek them.” “So it reversed that when the minister stole the stone; made life hell for him?” “Yeah.” Dean let lie the fact that it explained a lot about their little trip to the past, too. It stung, that his wish, their wish, turned out to be nothing like what they’d wanted. What they’d envisioned, that life they could have had, would never have been anything more than smoke and ash. ++++++++++ Missouri met them at her door; knew they were coming, if not the reason for the visit; and for once said nothing. She bundled them inside, fed them hot cocoa and tucked them into bed. They were there; making sure Sam’s grasp on his gifts was absolute. Neither of them was willing to let it go anymore, to chance that jury-rigging and self-teaching would be enough. One afternoon while Missouri kept Sam busy with practicing his telekinesis on her dinner dishes, Dean slipped away into the Impala. He drove to the cemetery, eyes drifting to where they’d laid Angela to rest, to what had been a circle of deadened earth. It was lush, now; grass grown thick and full. He bypassed it, moving directly to Mom’s grave. He sank to his knees and set down the flowers he’d brought. “I get it now,” he murmured, brushing his fingers through the grass over the spot where they’d buried Dad’s tags two years ago. Mom had died saving Sammy, had sacrificed herself saving Sammy. He had to believe she wouldn’t want to change that. Mom alive meant a father who had no clue about demons, who was sorely out of practice from his days as a marine corporal. And Sam, who here and now had finally started to get a handle on his abilities – even the telekinesis – was useless; couldn’t even move a pin. He sat for a while contemplating that life that hadn’t been, that could never become a reality. He wondered briefly how that other Dean would react, coming home to find his family dead – slaughtered, before pushing it all out of his mind. That wasn’t him. He stood, finally, and placed one hand on the headstone. “Thanks, Mom.” He headed back to the Impala and Sam, and never looked back. ________________ |