Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Wayward Son ❯ Chapter Six ( Chapter 6 )

Disclaimer: I don't own or make a profit from Supernatural

A/N: Thank you so much for the supportive reviews, and a big hand to Starliteyes for agreeing to edit for me. She's done a wonderful job!

 

Wayward Son

Chapter Six

 

“So.” It was the start of a sentence, but her words trailed off like she can't quite decide what to say. In the hole beneath her, Dean tensed but didn't hesitate to dig the shovel down into the earth and throw it over his shoulder with sure strokes. He knew exactly where this conversation was leading.

“God, kill me now,” he muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nuthin'.”

There was more silence, only punctuated by the thump of dirt hitting the ground.

“That girl---” Again the sentence trailed off, and he knew that she couldn't imagine the words much less say them.

“Was a ghost,” he finished for her.

“Ghosts don't exist,” Delilah was quick to reply, but she didn't sound very convinced.

Dean sighed deeply, and wonders why he can't meet a not-so-nice girl who was already indoctrinated into the supernatural world and who didn't have dead daddy issues. Someone who wore those sexy leather pants that ride low in the back like all those badass chicks on T.V.

“You're absolutely right. Ghosts don't exist. It was merely a figment of your imagination.” He thrust the shovel into the ground, popping his arm up on the handle so he could gesture to the area around them. “By the way, we're not really digging a grave. This is our summer house and you insisted on a pool.”

“You're a dick.”

“Heh,” he laughed under his breath, finding her deadpan tone more amusing than her words. “You aren't the first one to suggest that, sister. It's one of my finer qualities.” He took a moment to rotate his sore wrist before grabbing up the shovel to begin digging again.

“The way you talk, your finer quality is going to rot off from overuse.”

 

The steady thump skidded to a stop, and Dean looked up at her horrified. The sun was behind her, and he could see the halo of her reddish gold hair surrounding her angelic face. He was instantly reminded that sometimes evil comes in very pretty packages.

She smirked down at him. “There are diseases that do that you know.”

“Christo,” he snapped at her and she raised a questioning brow. When she didn't flinch, Dean went back to digging muttering unintelligently under his breath. She thought she heard the words `evil' and `women', but she wasn't sure.

“Let's just say for a minute that I believe you about ghosts.” Dean sighed audibly, but didn't interrupt her. “Why are we digging up her body?”

“We have to salt and burn her bones to get rid of her.”

“Why?”

“It's like death for ghosts.”

“Why?”

This time, Dean's sigh was punctuated by an eye roll that she could practically hear.

“I don't know. Ask Sam. He'll wax something philosophical that I'm sure you'll understand

“Dean.”

He ignored her, digging furiously.

“Uh, Dean.” Her voice dropped an octave, alerting him that something was drastically wrong. He jerked his head up, noticing that Delilah's back was to him, and that she had lifted the shotgun protectively in front of her.

“Shoot it,” he ordered while scrambling out of the shallow grave.

Delilah stared aghast at the little girl who was advancing on her. She seemed to skip forward through time, appearing in one place then a heartbeat closer without actually moving. Her white skin was blue around the edges and now Delilah could see the signs of advanced hypothermia, a horrible way to die. To be murdered by her own father that way was awful---no wonder she was angry.

She lifted the nose of the shotgun, but she couldn't bring herself to pull the trigger. Even though her mind was screaming that the ghost wasn't real, her eyes couldn't deny that she looked very much like a lost little girl. A little girl that needed help, not a round of rock salt to the chest. The girl skipped closer and Delilah stepped back, feeling the gravel give beneath her heel. The world upended, and she saw a flash of blue sky as she fell backwards.

Dean lurched forward, trying to catch Delilah before she fell backwards into the shallow grave, but he wasn't fast enough. Thankfully, she was smart enough to drop the shotgun, barrel pointed away from her body, before she hit the ground. He wanted to stop everything to check if she was all right, but the ghost was advancing too quickly, her long nails outstretched, her face twisted in rage.

He dove for the shotgun, rolling onto his back and firing as the girl closed in on him. The blast hit her square in the chest, and she shrieked in outrage as she dispersed into a whiff of midnight smoke. He dropped the gun, rolling to his side so he could peer down into the hole where Delilah had fallen.

She hit the ground hard, her neck at an awkward angle that would leave her sore later, but she was certain that it was unbroken. Beneath her she felt a crunch and something sharp poked her in the hip. It took her a moment to realize that she hadn't landed on dirt, but instead was crumpled in a heap on the little girl's skeleton.

Her first instinct was to scream. Her second was to leap out of the grave as quickly as she could, but she contained herself. She was no stranger to death. As a doctor she had handled more than her fair share of cadavers. She had even done a brief stint in the morgue and had seen bodies in all different stages of decomposition. However, that didn't prepare her for falling into a freshly dug grave onto the corpse of a murdered girl.

She swallowed down her bile, and she very carefully gathered her limbs so she could crawl out. A wide, callused hand was shoved beneath her nose, and without looking she knew it was Dean's. She took it without question, allowing him to drag her up and out of the shallow grave.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, still not trusting herself to speak without spitting up the thin bile that was churning in her esophagus.

The concern on Dean's face melted off, and his brows drew together in irritation. She had the impression of a drill sergeant that was preparing to dress down one of his men. She supposed she wasn't that far off the mark.

“Why didn't you shoot her?”

Delilah shrugged, looking away. “I don't know.”

“You don't know?” Dean's voice was harsh and demanding. He had asked a question and he expected an answer. When she didn't reply, he advanced on her, gripping her chin so she was forced to look up at him.

“You don't know? Indecision will get you killed.”

She forced herself to look him in the eye, allowing her disdain to show through.

“Are you kidding me?” she sputtered, jerking her chin away. “I mean, seriously. This is crazy. We are out in the middle of nowhere hunting a ghost, and you are barking at me like some sort of military commander.”

“This is a command.” Dean could hear the echo of his father in his words. He wondered when that had started happening. When he started sounding like his dad. That sent a chill down his spine, and he forced himself to physically back off.

“No. This is crazy.”

“I don't have time to argue with you right now, Delilah. She'll be back any minute.” He thrust the shotgun at her. “Take this so I can salt and burn the body.”

Her face was mutinous, but when he shoved the gun at her a second time she took it from him grudgingly. He shot her one last glare, before he turned his attention back to the grave. He could see where the dirt was lumpy, and he knew that the body was just beneath the surface. He dug a bit more, finally disinterring the little girl who had been stuffed in an old canvas feed bag.

He felt his stomach clench at the disrespect she had been shown at the time of her burial. It was obvious that she was cared for even less in death than she was in life. He felt sorrow at what a tragedy her short life must have been.

If he ever had kids he would make damn sure that they were safe and protected. That nothing supernatural or human would ever touch them. And more importantly, he would be there for them. Always. But, he reminded himself, that would never happen. He would never bring a child into this world. Not when he knew what waited in the dark. Besides, who would willingly have babies with him?

He scattered the salt over the girl's body, then sprayed it with kerosene. He heard the shotgun wrack, and he jerked his head up just in time to see Delilah draw down on the little girl, her mouth pressed into a determined line. He knew that this time she would pull the trigger, but for some reason he wanted to spare her from that reality. Even though she was a ghost, she had still been a little girl, and he knew why Delilah had hesitated. She was a doctor, she saved lives. She didn't intentionally end them.

He struck a match, before Delilah could fire; dropping it into the grave, while still staring at the little girl. The girl's soulless black eyes met his, and as the flame engulfed her he could see her eyes turn robin-egg blue as they must have been in life and relief sparked through them.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, sorry for all that she had been forced to suffer. Sorry for not finding her sooner, and releasing her.

Delilah watched in horror as the little girl burst into flame in front of her, before disappearing into nothingness. Dusk had started to descend, and as the last of the flames died down, she could see the first smattering of stars in the horizon. Her eyes locked onto a lonely star and silently she wished for the little girl to finally find peace in the hereafter.

Wordlessly they covered the grave, Delilah helping by pushing mounds of dirt over the side with her bare hands. They returned to the car, filthy and exhausted, but bonded by a deep sense of fulfillment. She climbed into the passenger seat, noting that Sam had drifted off to sleep, more than likely worn out by his wound. Dean returned the guns to the trunk before sliding behind the wheel.

“Do you have any wipes?” She was moving before she finished asking, popping open his glove box. Instead of wipes or even napkins, a slew of badges and I.D.s cascaded onto the floor.

Dean glanced in askance at her, wondering why she would think that he would actually carry something as girlie as handy wipes in his car. He babied the Impala down the dirt driveway, making his way cautiously to the blacktop that was some miles away.

Delilah bent over to scoop up the badges, glancing at the photos and names as she went.

“Ted Nugent? I thought your name was Dean?”

“It is.”

She glanced down at the I.D she held, her brow creased in confusion. “This has your photo on it.”

He didn't reply, and she glanced at another I.D. “Dean Connors. Is that your last name?”

“No, it's Winchester.”

“Like the riffle?”

“Yeah.”

She stared at his profile, musing over what she knew about him. So far she had seen him carry a .45 and a sawed off shotgun. She knew that he had a pretty impressive bowie knife, though she had never seen him take it out of its sheath. It was apparent that he ran quite a few scams, all with different names. Winchester was a pretty cool name, especially in his line of work, whatever that was, but either way it was very intimidating. And she didn't believe for an instant that it was true.

“Right.”

Dean shot a glance at her, his brow cocked, but chose not to comment. If she didn't want to believe him, that was her business.

They made it back to the hotel without incident, and while Dean helped Sam out of the car, Delilah excused herself for the bathroom. Dean heard her splashing around, but he didn't pay her much mind as he settled Sam onto the bed. Sam wasn't in a talking mood, and only grunted when Dean asked him if he needed anything.

Delilah exited the bathroom, her face and hands clean, but her clothes were still grimy with grave dirt.

“I need clothes.”

“Over there.” Dean nodded to his pack, while he counted the cash in his wallet. He figured he had enough to get them dinner tonight, and then breakfast in the morning, but then he would either have to hustle some pool or use his reserve credit card. He figured he still had about five hundred on it, and the next billing cycle wasn't for another fifteen days. He would have that long before they put a freeze on the account.

“No, I mean I need my own clothes. I saw a Wal-Mart on the way back to the hotel.”

Her pause echoed in the room ominously. Dean glanced up, shooting her his patented, and? look. She huffed at him, rolling her eyes.

“I must have left my purse at home,” she spat sarcastically. When he still didn't answer, her warm whiskey eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms across her chest.

“Look, it's not my fault that you decided that you couldn't live without my company. The least you can do is buy me some clothes.”

“Sam couldn't live without you.”

At the mention of his name, Sam's eyes cracked a bit, but when he saw that Dean and Delilah were squaring off again, he closed them, feigning sleep.

She wasn't going to be dissuaded by his tactic and she cocked her fists on her hips, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor.

“What? You want to get them now?”

“Yes, now. You are running out of clothes for me to wear, and I want something that actually fits.”

Dean shifted his weight. The thought of taking her into a public place like Wal-Mart made him exceptionally nervous. So far she had kept her word, and hadn't even once tried to run away. And he did sort of owe her after leaving her cuffed to the steering wheel, trapped and defenseless against the ghost. Neither of them bothered to mention that Sam was well out of the woods, and her presence technically was no longer needed. Dean didn't want her to go, and Delilah didn't really have any place she wanted to be.

Dean felt like throwing his hands in the air, but he kept his manly stance.

“Fine.”

“Fine,” she echoed walking towards the door.

“What do you want to eat while we are out Sam?” Dean wasn't fooled for a second. He knew that his brother was playing possum.

“The biggest cheeseburger you can find with a load of fries on the side. Don't forget the ketchup,” he ordered, his voice not the least bit sleepy. He was starved. He hadn't eaten a solid meal in days, and his body was working overtime to heal itself. He needed food like he needed air to breathe.

“I don't think so, Sammy Winchester.” Delilah caroled from the by door, and Dean shot her a disgusted look on his brother's behalf. “We'll bring you back some yogurt, and an egg salad sandwich. How does that sound?”

“He's not a vegetarian, you know,” Dean snapped.

Delilah lifted a brow, and stared him down. “He's recovering from surgery. He can't eat anything heavy or greasy. He needs the protein from the eggs, and the live cultures in the yogurt will do him good.”

Dean took a deep breath, ready to argue his brother's case when Sam chimed in.

“Egg salad and yogurt sounds great.”

Dean turned back to him, rolling his eyes. “Wussy,” he muttered in response to his brother's retreat from the battle line he had drawn on his behalf.

“Whatever, dude. Just hurry up. I'm starved.”

Dean followed Delilah out the door, giving his brother one last glance before leaving.

 

Sam waited until the Impala's familiar rumble drifted off into the distance before he pushed himself up to sit against the headboard. With all the excitement of Delilah being attacked, and burning the body, Dean had forgotten why they had been at the farm house in the first place, but Sam hadn't.

Sam was actually thankful that Delilah was around. If she hadn't been, Dean would have been a lot more suspicious of what was going on. As it was, the doctor had him turned inside out, and he was so distracted that he didn't realize that his little brother was up to something.

Normally, that wouldn't be the case. Dean loved to chase women, but he never let that get between him and his number one responsibility of watching out for Sam. But the fact that Delilah was there to take care of Sam's health was throwing him off guard. They never had a woman right in their space before, up close and personal. It was bound to get Dean turned around, and it worked to Sam's advantage.

He fished the aged parchment out of his pocket, and carefully smoothed it out on the table next to him. The seams where it was folded tore a little, but not so much that they rendered it unreadable. The dark brown ink flaked, and Sam was certain that the ritual had been penned in blood. Whether it was human or not was unknown.

He studied it for a long time, his mouth drawn into a firm line. It didn't take him long to memorize it. It was incredibly simple, but the most heinous of spells usually were. B-rated movies and bad campfire stories had turned ritual sacrifice into some horrendous ordeal that took five days to complete and a bevy of chanting, cowl-draped monks, but the fact of the matter was that they weren't that complicated at all. Spilled blood was exactly that. Say the words, draw the symbols, and evil could be manifested.

Grimly Sam stood up from the bed, unsteadily making his way across the room towards the bathroom. He stopped at his bag to dig out his lighter, before entering the small, but brightly painted bathroom, closing the door behind him. He dropped a towel onto the floor, using his foot to push it up against the gap beneath the door. He turned towards the bathtub, standing over it and stared at the parchment in his hand.

He would do almost anything to save his brother. He would fight demons, lie to angels, and hell, he would even spit on his father's ashes if it meant saving Dean. What he could not do was sacrifice another life for Dean's.

Sam felt something clench deep inside him, twisting his guts up. His father had told Dean that if he couldn't save him that he was going to have to kill him. Sam took that to mean that it was possible for him to go darkside. Dean didn't believe it, not for an instant. Even when Meg had possessed him, and so convincingly played homicidal, did Dean stop believing in Sam. Not once did he stop protecting him. He couldn't fathom a world where Sam was evil, and since that world could not exist then the possibility of evil Sam could not exist either.

What Dean didn't realize, was that Sam knew that him going darkside was a very real possibility. That's why he was so frantic to save as many people as possible. Why he needed to change his destiny. It was why he had begged Dean to kill him, if he ever turned. Because Sam knew that he had the capability to commit evil.

When Sam looked at the paper in his hand, he didn't see a moral impossibility. He saw a sin that he would very willingly commit in order to save his brother. Because what Dean didn't know was that Sam would do anything---anything to see his brother safe. Even if it mean burning the world to ash to do so.

The only reason that Sam didn't entertain the possibility of using the ritual was because he knew that it would kill Dean. Not physically, but spiritually. If he ever found out that another life had once again been sacrificed to save his, he would be devastated.

Even then, Sam would still consider it. Because his brother would be alive, and he would be safe, and his soul wouldn't be rotting in hell.

But the unthinkable part of the deal was that Dean would never forgive Sam for committing such a heinous crime. Dean would look at him with disgust, turn his back on him, leave him alone more completely than if he had died. Sam could not risk that. Sam could not live with that.

With a flick of his thumb he popped the top of his lighter and lit it. Flames danced across his stoically set face as the parchment caught fire, the aged paper burning rapidly. He dropped it, watching as it fluttered to the bottom of the tub, turning to ash in seconds. He ran the shower to wash it down the drain, erasing the evidence of its existence.

As it drained away, he tried not to think about the symbols he had memorized, the words that echoed in his head. Though the paper was gone, the ritual remained, locked away in the Winchester vault of Sam's mind, joining the whispers that taunted him daily. Adding its voice to the never-ending, merciless chant of, Dean's going to die.