Supernatural: One Year Gone (33 page)

With that Dean sliced Tim’s throat and the blood spurt from his neck over Dean’s hands. It dripped onto the dirt floor, seeping into the dust. Belial gave a great roar. He moved toward Dean, and as he passed through the ring of fire, he transformed. Suddenly standing in front of Dean was the figure of John Winchester.

But the figure’s voice wasn’t his father’s; it belonged to something dark and unearthly.

“Dean, why have you forsaken your father? Why not create Hell on Earth, and then your family can be together again?” it said.

Dean turned his head away and repeated the last sentence of the incantation.

“Non opus in hoc mundo. Revertere unde veneris. Accipe sacrificium et recedemus.”

Belial bent down and shot his hand out, grabbing Dean’s chin. He pulled him toward the fire.

“I haven’t forgotten you, Dean. We’re still waiting for you to come back.”

With that he let go of Dean and stepped back into the fire and disappeared. The brimstone died down into embers, the earth closed back up and the ground re-coagulated into solid earth.

Constance screamed in anger. She wielded her knife and sliced off the closest young witch’s head in one motion.

“You won’t get away with this!” Constance yelled to Dean. She flipped open the book in her hands. “What is this? This isn’t my book. What is this Winchester journal?” She threw the book onto the ground. Dean smiled. He hadn’t taught Ben much, but he had picked up some neat slight of hand.

Dean felt someone grab his hair and jerk his head back.

“You made her mad,” Prudence said. “And you’ve really disappointed me, Dean. Why are you always screwing things up for me?” With a powerful swing she threw Dean across the cavern. He hit the rock walls and slid onto the ground.

I’m getting really tired of being thrown around like this,
Dean thought.

Prudence stepped over the dying fire and marched toward him. Dean shook the cobwebs from his head. He was still holding the
Necronomicon.
He flipped to another page and started reading.

“God of darkness, God of light bring forth the witness this one night. Those that have died at the hands of the undone. Bring them forth for them to shun those that have trespassed against the good and innocent. Bring them forth for the world to once again gain equilibrium.”

Prudence stopped in her tracks.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I just did,” Dean said. “I think some people have a score to settle.”

Dean pulled a canister of salt out of his jacket and poured a ring around him. Prudence raced forward, but he closed the circle before she could reach him. Dean smiled and pointed behind her. Prudence swung around.

The witches stood still as the spirits of the long-dead residents of Salem Village appeared. Bridget Bishop, the first to be hanged, approached Prudence.

“I remember you. You sent me to hang. I was innocent, yet you used your cunning and wit and let me hang.”

“You slit my throat,” a young voice said. Prudence spun again and came face to face with Abigail Faulkner. “I trusted you. I did everything you said, and how was I repaid? I became your first sacrifice.”

Prudence shrugged. “Come now, Abby. I was only doing what I was told. It was Constance who picked you to sacrifice.”

Abigail shook her head.

“No, it was you.” Abigail shot her hand through Prudence’s chest. Prudence tried to struggle, but her strength had already been drained by the resurrections. “I could have lived a long and happy life. I should have. Well, now we’ll make sure you’re shown the same justice as you showed the innocent people of Salem.”

Abigail thrust her hand deeper and Prudence’s skin began to lose its healthy pallor. Her eyes grayed over, her skin cracked and flaked. Abigail continued to hold Prudence until her body fell into a thousand dusty pieces at her feet.

Abigail looked at the walnut-sized shriveled heart in her hand, and she let it drop to the ground. She then looked at Dean and the ring of salt around his feet.

“I don’t remember you,” she said.

“I’m just here to observe. It’s your fight now,” Dean replied.

Abigail nodded, turned and sped toward Constance. The tall, fearsome witch was hissing and spitting as she fought off a dozen angry Salem ghosts all at once.

“Get off me you fleabags. You were worthless bags of skin in life and now you’re worthless specks of dust. Get off me!” she screamed.

Bridget Bishop jumped onto Constance’s back. She reached over and thrust her hand into her chest. Constance thrashed and fought, but the angry spirit held on. Other ghosts piled on top of her, until Dean couldn’t even see the witch beneath layers of ghostly flesh.

Finally, one last scream of agony and anger echoed through the cavern as Constance suddenly aged to her three-hundred-and-fifty years, and crumpled into dirt.

The cavern was suddenly eerily quiet. With their leader gone, the few witches that remained evaporated.

The gang members surveyed the scene and then gathered their weapons and limped back toward the tunnel. Dean looked around the echoing space that was littered with bodies. Some of the resurrected witches had merely turned to piles of dusty clothes. Dean shook his head.

Abigail approached him once again.

“Are you a Campbell?” she asked.

Dean nodded. “Yes, I am.”

Abigail smiled. “Thank you. Thank Thomas and Caleb for me too.”

Dean nodded, he didn’t want to correct the poor ghost and tell her they were long gone.

Their work done, Abigail and the other ghosts of Salem disappeared into thin air.

Dean stepped out of the salt circle. He searched the ground for John’s journal and finding it, tucked it safely back into his jacket. Tim’s body lay prostrate at Dean’s feet. Dean took his Zippo and tore a little piece of cloth from his shirt. He opened the back door of the Escalade, set the burning piece of fabric in the trunk next to the explosives and shut the door.

He then crouched down and swung Tim’s body onto his shoulder and started jogging up the tunnel. He knew he didn’t have long to get out.

Thirty seconds later, the percussive explosions started. Dean ran full force with the kid’s six-foot frame bumping against his. He headed through both sets of doors, swinging them closed behind him and then ran out of the parking structure.

Dean hauled ass up the parking ramp just as the BMW douche from before was pulling in. Dean stood in front of the car.

“Don’t go in there man,” he yelled.

“What are you saying to me?” BMW said. “Is that a dead body?” The guy indicated the figure thrown over Dean’s shoulder.

“I warned you,” Dean said, moving away and walking onto the grass.

With that a massive explosion ripped through the parking structure. The BMW blew backwards and Dean was thrown to the ground, Tim’s body crumpled beneath him. He stood up as the rest of the gang appeared and surrounded the body. They ceremonially placed a sheet over it.

“He was a good kid. A hero,” Dean managed to say.

The kids nodded.

“Dean!” Ben shouted, running toward him. Lisa followed and they both hugged Dean. “You made it,” Ben said. “I knew you would. The old guy did too.”

“What old guy?” Dean asked.

“Your friend. The bald old guy,” Ben said hugging him.

Dean looked at Lisa who shrugged.

“That was some nice hand work, Ben,” Dean said, referring to the switch Ben pulled on the
Necronomicon
and the journal.

“Thanks,” Ben said. “But next vacation I think I’m going to stay home.”

“Me too,” Lisa said with a sad smile.

“I think I owe you both a real one,” Dean said.

“Yeah, we’re going to have to talk about that,” Lisa said.

They started to walk away, then Dean halted.

“I gotta make one stop first.” He left Ben and Lisa and jogged over across the lawn to the Tim’s grandmother’s house. He rang the doorbell.

A moment later Tim’s Gram answered the door. She took one look at Dean and seemed to know immediately what had happened.

“I’m so sorry,” Dean said. “He was a good kid. There’s some money on his bed.”

The old lady shook her head.

“I don’t need no money. I need my grandson alive.”

“He sacrificed himself for me and my family. He was a real brave kid,” Dean said.

She nodded, then shut the door on Dean. He walked soberly back to Lisa and Ben and they started to walk down the road. Dean wished once again that he had bought the Impala.

Two Weeks Later

Dean opened his eyes and stared up at the eggshell-colored ceiling. Early morning light filtered through the blinds. The other side of the bed was empty. Lisa must have gotten out of bed without him waking up. Downstairs Lisa had left a note. She was filling in for a yoga class and it was Ben’s first day of school. A slight flutter of guilt filled Dean as he had wanted to be up to say goodbye to Ben, and wish him luck.

Dean poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee and sat down on the couch. The house was silent, no kids played outside. He was utterly alone. He had tried to put the events two weeks ago behind him. But no matter how much Dean tried to forget it, he always came back to the realization that he had failed Sam once again. He wasn’t able to resurrect him and the thought of living the rest of his life without him still torn his insides out.

Dean picked up his phone, he ached for someone, anyone, to call. But who would that be? Bobby would be glad to hear from him, but it wouldn’t be the same. Dean needed his brother back. He sighed. And yet he had made a promise to him. Dean decided to keep it. He pushed himself off the couch, went outside and into the garage. A few seconds later he had the mower out, and was pushing it across the lawn.

If this was the life Sam wanted him to lead, then he was going to do it. For Sam.

“Well I can’t say it was a job well done, but you did manage to keep Lucy in his cage, so I guess kudos to you.” Crowley stepped out of the shadows of Samuel’s office.

Samuel stared up at him, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Dean almost got killed,” Samuel said. “The kid, too.”

“Ah but he didn’t, old boy. You did your job and now we have to get back to work don’t we? Must keep our eyes on the prize. Your darling Mary.”

Samuel jumped out of his seat with such force that the chair knocked over and his whiskey glass spun like a top on the table. He was chin to chin with Crowley.

“Don’t ever say her name again,” Samuel warned.

“Well since I don’t take to reading the Bible each night, I won’t have much trouble with that. Sit down and get your smelly meat mouth out of my face before I get upset,” Crowley said with an edge.

Samuel backed off.

“Now I think you have some monsters to catch.” Crowley flashed a crooked smile.

“I’m telling you this now,” Samuel said, “as soon as Mary is returned to me, you better watch your Limey ass. Because I’m going to hunt it down and send it back to Hell.”

“I’ll look forward to that,” Crowley spat. “Very much.”

And with that the demon disappeared. Samuel picked up his chair and sat back down. There was a knock on the door. Samuel grumbled some sort of acquiesce and Sam entered. He closed the door behind him.

“Thought you might like to know, there’s a nest of vamps in Oklahoma City. You want to come?” Sam asked.

Samuel shook his head.

“You can take care of it without me. You know the drill.”

Sam nodded. He paused a moment.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Samuel replied, not looking up.

Sam nodded. “Be back by noon tomorrow.”

Outside, Sam gave a quick nod to Gwen and Mark, and they headed toward the truck. Sam breathed in the crisp morning air, it felt what he imagined was “good.” He got in the van.

As they pulled away from the compound, Sam’s mind stayed on the sad look on Samuel’s face. A flicker of sympathy passed over his face, like a quick zap of static from a socket on a dry day. Then as quickly as it came, it was gone.

Fall 1705

Caleb and I rode into Philadelphia under the cover of darkness. Though only late September, the weather was unusually cold. Fog pushed in from the river and rolled down Market Street making the cobblestones wet and slick. We had been called to town by one Mrs. Webster Moreland. Her letter, hand-delivered to our inn by a servant boy, had asked that we come immediately.