Fic - Cross Creek - 5/6

[zoemathemata]

He pushes to his feet and takes off running, getting up the stairs three at a time and rounding the corner into the long hallway on a skid of wet shoes. He’s a little breathless by the time he gets to his room, grabs a gun from the table and rushes back down the hallway to room 43. When the handle doesn’t so much as budge under his fingers, he shoots the lock out with three shots and then immediately throws his body against door.

He’s still pounding at the door, jamming his shoulder into it and leaving a splotchy wet spot on the wood when Farrah catches up with him.

“You can’t break in,” she gasps, bent over, clutching at her soaked jean-clad knees, trying to catch her breath.

“You just fucking watch me,” he grumbles, rearing back for another go at it.

“It’s not -” she chokes out before setting into a coughing fit. “It’s not just a door. And you can’t just go in there. Even if you burned the door down, it’s not the door that’s the entrance. Do you understand?”

He pushes his gun into the waistband of his jeans and grabs her by the shoulders again, like he did downstairs. He walks her backward roughly until she slams up against the wall. Her hands come up and push against him.

“I’ll tell you what I understand. You tell me my brother’s in there and I’m going to break that door down and go get him.”

“You can’t. It’s not about the door. And even if you got it down, you can’t go in there. You need a way out. Don’t you get it? I went in there when I was six and I had no way out.”

“Your dad got you out,” Dean counters, jerking her roughly.

“Because he had Ollie on the outside! And he prepared himself to go in.”

“Then fucking get prepared because you’re going in there and you’re getting my brother back.”

He can see the second the panic truly sets in and she starts to twist and writhe in his grasp. “I can’t! I can’t!” She keeps repeating the same words over and over, her breath starting to hitch and catch, full blown panic attack taking over her system.

“Tell me what’s in there,” Dean demands. “You tell me.” He shakes her a little.

“It’s nothing,” she chokes out.

“The hell it is, you tell me what you saw.”

“No! You don’t understand. There’s nothing there.” She jerks violently and manages to clock him under the jaw with her elbow and he stumbles backward into the hallway more from surprise than the blow, tripping over the carpet and landing hard on his ass. She slides down the wall, coming to a stop in a crouching position on the floor.

Oliver finds them like that seconds later, his laborious trip up the stairs leaving him breathless and grim. Farrah curls in on herself, hiccuping and breathing in short gasps as Oliver manages to awkwardly slide down next to her.

“There’s nothing there,” she says again quietly, numbly. “There’s no sound. You can’t hear yourself breathe or hear your own heartbeat. If you could then maybe you could tell time, tell how much time is passing. But you can’t. And there’s no light. But it’s not dark, it’s just… even dark would be something. And you can’t see your own hands, or your feet. You aren’t standing on anything because if you were, you could run, you could move and then maybe you could count your footsteps and tell yourself that you’re going somewhere, you’re doing something. But you’re just… there. And it isn’t cold and it isn’t hot and you aren’t breathing so there’s no smell, there’s no air. You can’t even panic because it’s like your body’s not there.” Her hands are creeping up her face, covering her eyes and then her ears, then traveling down to run over her legs, like she can’t keep them still. “You just exist but there’s nothing to prove it, nothing to validate it. I think… I think it’s like a punishment? A place to put the dead or the living to punish them. To teach them to behave. Teach me to behave.” She shudders and rubs at the bloody patch on her shoulder.

“Then what gave you that?” Dean asks with a jerk of his head, his mind refusing to process her words for the moment.

She fingers the wound lightly. “That’s where it grabbed me and pushed me in. And when my father came to take me, it grabbed me there again to try to take me back.” She looks up at Oliver. “Ollie, I don’t wanna go. I don’t wanna go back in.” She falls forward into her brother’s arms and he rubs her back and makes quiet shushing noises.

“I know, Fay. But I also know you can’t leave him in there. Not when you know what it’s like. Can you?”

Dean’s getting ready to push to his feet and start fighting with her when she slowly shakes her head at Oliver. Dean feels the claws that are gripping his chest relax fractionally at Farrah’s quiet acquiescence.

“You know I’ll keep you safe. I’ll be your way out. You know I will.” Oliver pulls her close and it must be hell on his bad leg to be folded on the floor in their awkward position, but he gives no indication. “I’ll be your way back.” He smoothes her wet ponytail. “And after, we’ll leave here and never come back. I mean it, Fay. Let’s leave and never even look back.”

She clutches him tighter and Dean sees something in her eyes before her lids fall over them. He feels suddenly sorry for Oliver and he doesn’t know why.

***

Farrah watches Oliver stir the pot on the stove, carefully stirring thirty times clockwise and then thirty times counter-clockwise. When he finally puts the spoon down she speaks.

“You never told me Dad gave you his book.”

Her tone is slightly accusatory, but not so much so that it causes an immediate confrontation. Oliver sighs heavily and sits down hard in the last empty chair at the table where Dean and Farrah are already seated.

“I foolishly hoped I’d never have to use it. But I think… I think I always knew I would.”

She nods solemnly. Oliver had told them about the book on the way downstairs from room 43 to the kitchen. If Farrah was going to get Sam out successfully, she would have to drink the same concoction her father had, and Oliver declared it had to sit over night. They had stopped by the Winchester’s room to pick up the journal, sitting on the small desk where Sam had left it. Dean had changed out of his water logged clothes and met the twins back in the kitchen, where Farrah had changed as well, and Oliver was already at the stove. Oliver barely had to look at the recipe as he worked although he did glance at it to ensure he was correct. He’d carefully combined the ingredients listed; various spices, a few gemstones that he had hidden in his room, and random other ingredients until finally he had clipped some of his hair and tossed it in as well.

As potions went, it wasn’t nearly as grotesque as one would imagine and instead filled the kitchen with a warm spicy spell of hot cinnamon, nutmeg, pepper and curry. Oliver brings out a sharpie marker and as he uncaps it, he looks expectantly at Farrah. She pulls both the sleeves up on the cream fisherman’s sweater and puts her arms out, underside up on the table. Oliver’s tongue pokes out of the side of his mouth as he carefully copies the symbols from the book onto Farrah’s forearms.

“Do you know what it says?” asks Dean roughly as he watches.

Oliver shakes his head, never looking away. “No, but I think that together they are like wards.”

“They’re declarations,” Farrah says abruptly. “Declarations of intent that the wearer means to enter and retrieve something and should be, shall be, left alone, left to pass unhindered and without toll.”

Both men stare at her wordlessly and she tugs the sleeves of her sweater down to cover them up.

“How do you know that?” asks Oliver.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I just… I just know it.”

Oliver’s eyes dart over to Dean. “Could you, uh…” Oliver points to the doorway. “Can you wait outside?”

“Why?”

“He has to do my back and chest too,” says Farrah flatly.

Dean nods quickly and heads to the dining room where, despite the fact that it’s before noon, he pours himself a drink to kill some time. He’s back in the kitchen five minutes later while Farrah cleans up. Oliver watches her move around the kitchen, not bothering to hide his gaze and after two minutes she glares at him.

“Jesus, Ollie, stop staring.” She tosses the sponge she used to clean the counters in the sink and sags into one of the chairs.

“I can’t help it,” he protests. “I’m worried.”

“I know you are, fuck, you’re pushing it all at me,” she complains, pressing her fingertips to her temples. They eyeball each other for a few seconds more and then look away at the same time.

“So this is it?” Dean asks. “We just wait now?”

“Yes,” they both snap at the same time.

“There’s got to be something else we can do, some other ritual that needs to be prepped or…” Dean starts, his voice trailing off. There seriously has to be something else to do because this? Waiting around? Doing nothing while Sam is trapped somewhere? It scrapes at his insides with a dull edge, like a spoon carving out a pumpkin, leaving him wet, hollow and raw.

“I’m afraid this is it,” says Oliver. “Until sunrise tomorrow.”

Another painfully heavy silence falls over the kitchen and it’s so pressing that when Farrah’s chair squeaks against the linoleum as she pushes it back, Oliver flinches slightly.

“I gotta get up and do something. I can’t just sit here,” she announces. “I’ll be around.”

Oliver’s eyes follow her and Dean knows that look. He knows it’s been on his face when Sam’s left and Dean’s wanted to stop him. But Oliver doesn’t say anything and Farrah leaves without turning back. Dean taps his thumb on the countertop rhythmically a few times before realizing what he’s doing and stopping abruptly.

“She’ll get him back.”

“You sound pretty sure of that,” says Dean absently.

“I am. I know my sister. I know she’s terrified of going back in that room, but she’ll do it and she’ll be successful. Farrah doesn’t do things halfway.”

Dean flicks his eyes over to Oliver. “I’m not leaving here without my brother. I don’t care how long it takes or what I have to do.”

“I know.”

“Thought you said you couldn’t read me.”

Oliver pushes painfully to his feet, getting his crutches underneath him. “I don’t have to be psychic to see that.”

***

The day is brutishly long and uneventful. Wherever Farrah has gone, it feels like she’s taken most of the ghosts with her and the hotel feels empty and vacant in a way it hasn’t since they arrived. Dean wanders aimlessly, finding himself outside room 43 a number of times throughout the day where he lingers in the hallway staring at the door. He tries the lock again, tries opening it again but there’s no real heart behind his actions. He tries to imagine a space, a void like the one Farrah described. A place with no sound, no sight, no texture or feeling and he finds it difficult. He wonders what exactly it is about the nothingness that is so terrifying. He wonders if the stretch of infinity presented to finite creatures with finite existences is just too much for the brain to process. The yawn of endlessness presented to beings that define everything in their lives with a start and a finish, or a before and an after, is so incomprehensible that it is horrible. He thinks a lot about Sam, contemplating if an experience like that is more or less horrific to his intricate brain than to someone with a lesser intellect. Farrah at six was traumatized, her father as well. Dean can’t help but wonder what Sam will be like when he gets out.

If he gets out.

Oliver is sure, steadfastly sure, that his sister can pull Sam back and it must be the blind faith that siblings have in one another that drives his conviction. Dean has no doubt what Sam is capable of, but currently, Sam’s rescue depends on someone else, and it is a rotten stone that sinks into Dean’s stomach and rests sickly. He truthfully doesn’t care who saves Sam as long as it is done, but he can’t help but wish for something to do.

He goes back to his room, intent on reviewing Francis’ journal, the second one that ghostly Charlie had given Sam. He nearly turns the room inside out looking for it but it’s gone and the anger that bubbles up is swift and hot. He’s storming down the stairs and punching at Oliver and Farrah’s small apartment door before he knows it.

He pounds three times and then turns the handle, finding it open. Oliver is in the midst of pushing himself out of his chair, bookkeeping materials spread out in front of him.

“What is it?” he asks.

Dean jerks his head around looking for the journal and it’s pretty clear that Oliver doesn’t have it.

“Where’s your sister?”

“I think she might be outside, actually but she’s blocking me pretty hard right now so I’m not sure. We can go look for her if you want.”

The thought of Oliver hobbling outside with his crutches on the snowy ground makes Dean shake his head. He huffs, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“What is it?” asks Oliver.

“Nothing. Just… absolutely nothing.”

Oliver nods and sinks carefully back into his chair. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Being left waiting.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, tucking his chin lower, grinding his jaw. Out of the corner of his lashes, he sees Oliver gesture to the sofa.

“Sit.”

***

Wherever Farrah is, she doesn’t join them for dinner and Dean has an angry flash of panic that she’s somehow left and won’t go through with it.

Whatever it is. He’s not exactly sure what’s going to happen tomorrow. He only has sketchy details from Oliver’s tale of what happened when they were children, and while Dean knows how trauma can sear a memory into your mind, even if you are very young, (Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don’t look back! Now, Dean, go!) he also knows that it doesn’t always tell the whole story (like a yellow eyed demon tearing his family apart).

At his questioning look, Oliver speaks. “I still don’t know exactly where she is, but she’s around. She’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

Dean wonders how obvious his face must be for Oliver to read it so easily.

Oliver retires to his apartment and Dean finds himself outside room 43 again, crouched down against the wall opposite the door. Head tipped back, eyes half lidded, he stares at the solid wood. This late in the year, sunrise isn’t for hours.

He stays outside the room in the hallway until his butt goes numb from sitting on the floor and his eyes feel grainy and gritty. He pushes himself to his feet and makes it back to his room with heavy footsteps, falling onto one of the beds with a sigh. He knows he won’t sleep, but he just can’t think of anything else to do.

He doesn’t sleep so much as doze and when he hears the light taps on his door at three in the morning, he’s wide awake before he opens it.

Farrah stands there in her puffy winter coat, boots on. She looks tired, dark half-moons cradling her eyes. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she shifts back and forth on her feet nervously.

“What? What is it?” Dean asks. “It’s not sunrise yet,” he states, although he knows it’s redundant.

“No, I know. It’s not that. It’s… I need you to come with me.”

“What for?”

He doesn’t mean to sound pissy, he really doesn’t. But it’s three in the morning and he’s tired from worrying, strung out and stretched thin.

“It’s just… I have an idea about tomorrow. Well, it’s more than an idea. And I just… Can you just come with me? Outside. So bring your coat.”

He takes a moment to eyeball her and she shifts on her feet again and bites the inside of her lips.

“Yeah, okay,” he finally answers and she nods her head in quick relief as he turns to stuff his feet into his boots and drag a jacket up and over his arms.

“And can you bring a gun?”

That makes him pause again in confusion. Guns won’t work on any of the spirits and although he hasn’t actually tried to shoot a Sumerian God of the underworld before, he’s pretty sure it will be a bust. He doesn’t say anything as he slides his Colt into the waistband of his jeans. She waits until he closes the door behind him and then she leads him silently down the hall, to the staircase and then softly down the carpeted stairs.

“Where we going?”

“Um, can you wait until we get outside the hotel? Ollie’s sleeping and the ghosts are listening.”

He shrugs, not really caring, but the gesture goes unnoticed by Farrah who is several steps in front of him. They leave through the front door, Farrah taking time to close it quietly before she heads down the path with a quick, nervous gait. She uncrosses her arms and picks up a high intensity flashlight that was next to the front door and flicks it on, directing it forward along the path.

“So, we’re outside. Where are we going?”

“Do you remember I told you there was an Indian burial ground close by?” she turns her head slightly and waits for him to nod before she continues. “We’re going there. It can’t go there. I’m not sure why but I think because it’s sacred ground.”

He jogs two steps to fall in beside her. “Despite the fact going to sacred burial grounds at three in the morning is not all that unusual for me, why are we doing this?”

She flicks her eyes over to him quickly and he can just barely make out her features in the light bouncing off the snow from the flashlight. Her breath exits her mouth in grey puffs, jerking with her steps.

“I found my father’s journal. The one that Charlie gave Sam.”

“So you’re the one who filched it from the room?”

“It’s not like it was yours anyway,” she protests a little snootily. “And I might have seen some notes Sam took.”

“‘Might have’ as in ‘did’?”

“Yeah,” she says, her tone slightly grim. “I didn’t intend to snoop but when I saw my dad’s handwriting… and then Sam’s notes…” she sounds slightly bashful.

He waves a hand in dismissal. It’s not like the book had anything in it that Sam hadn’t already read. “So what did you make of it?”

“Well, it sounds like I’m all lined up to be goddess of the underworld,” she says dryly.

Dean doesn’t say anything and they continue on in silence for a few more steps. She sighs.

“That was the part where you were supposed to tell me I was totally fucking crazy and demand to return to the hotel immediately. No dice, huh?”

Dean cocks his head to one side. “It’s pretty fucked up shit, but…”

“I suppose you deal with stuff like this all the time.”

“Well, not exactly like this, but it doesn’t totally fry my weird-o-meter either.”

She stops on the path for a moment and Dean realizes they’ve left behind the stone path some time ago and are following a dirt path which is still mostly covered by snow. Although there’s already at least one set of tracks, there and back. “Really?”

“Really.”

She looks at the same time impressed and slightly horrified. “Wow.” They start up again, resuming their walk in silence.

After several more minutes of walking down the slightly curving and twisting path, they reach an old fence which has a rickety set of stairs going up one side and down the other. Farrah gamely ambles up and then turns around a little to shine the light on the steps for Dean, which he finds somewhat amusing, given his propensity to be running around in the dark with Sam.

She takes a few more steps forward and then stops in front of an irregular shaped hole that’s about three feet deep. She places the flashlight on the ground, the beam pointing upward.

“The ground’s pretty solid and I’m not the best digger so that’s about as far as I got. Took me most of the afternoon and evening and fuck I’m tired. It took a lot longer than I thought it would. It doesn’t look anything like when people do it on tv. They always get such perfect corners.”

He stares down at the dug out and his eyes drift over to Farrah warily.

“Uh, what is it?” Dean asks, but he has a bad feeling he knows what it is. It’s not like he hasn’t seen a hundred of them in his lifetime.

“I think you know what it is.”

“What exactly are we talking about here, Farrah?”

“You know, I remember last night,” she says abruptly. “With you in the dining room, and I remember it was there and I made it leave. I’ve been making it leave for a long time now and it keeps coming back. And when it comes back, it comes back stronger. And I push harder and it comes back harder. He comes back harder. Kur, I guess he’s called. And I don’t know if Ollie told you, but it’s… easier to push at him when I’m not in my body. It’s easier when I’m like them. The dead. With no body. And last night, I had this dream… and there were these seven gates and I was in charge of them. And your brother was there and he wanted to pass, said he was invited and I don’t know where it came from but I knew, I knew that it didn’t matter if he was invited or not, I say who goes through the gates. And no one gets through unless I let them.” She finally meets Dean’s eyes. “I didn’t let him. Sam. I told him I wouldn’t let him in.”

Dean lets out the breath he’d been holding since she mentioned she dreamed of Sam.

“And this morning, when I woke up, I could feel him, it, pushing at the hotel. Trying to find his way in and I thought ‘well fuck, this is it, isn’t it?’ But I never thought he’d punch his way in and take your brother. But he did. And now that he knows he can do that… now that he knows he can kick his way in and snatch people… the hotel will never be safe again. He’ll take the ghosts and then in the spring, he’ll start on the living. Even if we close up, I think he’s strong enough to pull in the dead from elsewhere. Maybe the living too.

“But I think…. I feel like it took a lot of energy for him to do that this morning. Like he burned up a little too much. And I think this is my chance to stop him. For good. Get your brother back and then… I don’t know what the right word is. Stop him, kill him. And I have to be one of them to do it.”

Out here in the mountains, without the light pollution from the city, the night sky is awash with stars and it’s so beautiful, so perfect, Dean would swear it was fake.

“Why are we out here, Farrah?” asks Dean lowly.

She turns to face him, “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

“Yep.”

“I asked you out here because I think - no, I know, I need to be one of the dead to face him. And I asked you to bring your gun so I could use it to shoot myself. And I need you to bury me when it’s over. It can’t be Ollie, it just can’t. He can’t get out here and even if he could, if he knew what I was thinking about doing he’d… he’d go crazy and he wouldn’t let me, but I know, I know it has to be this way. And I know it’s only three feet deep but that’s as far as I could dig, I’m strong, I’m just not used to…” She breaks off and has to swallow a few times to get her rambling under control. “It was just really hard.” She stuffs her hands inside her coat pockets.

Dean’s never been much for words and he finds himself at a complete loss for them now. This is Sam’s domain, Sam’s area of expertise. Dean’s good enough at it in a pinch, but Sam actually feels it all. Dean usually hangs back at this point and lets Sam step in and put a comforting hand on a shoulder, tilt his head just so, make people think they can trust him, tell him anything.

Sam’s not here and while his absence has been scorchingly noticeable all day, Dean can feel the big empty hole of black next to him that screams ’Sam’s would go here’, sucking in the air from the night, creating a Sam-shaped void in the landscape.

In the second between his exhale and next inhale, Dean can see that Sam-shaped nullity stretch out in four dimensions, taking on length, shape, width and time. Endless time unfolding in front of him without Sam. Cross-sections of life appearing before him with side notes saying ’and here is where Sam should have been, here is where he would have been, this is what it feels like without Sam, this is what it is to hunt without Sam, this is how you eat breakfast without Sam, this is how you sleep without Sam, this is how you drive without Sam.’

“Are you going to try to stop me?”

Her voice is crystal clear in the night. Sharp-edged against his ears.

“You really think it will work?” He doesn’t know what he wants her to say. His internal monologue is a split chord. The high-pitched tones of if she’s not sure, I won’t let her do this, if she doesn’t know if it will work, I can’t let her do this. Versus the low, resonant vibration that is Samsamsamsamsammy.

She nods, quick and sure. “I do. I don’t know how to explain it. I just… I know this is the best way to get Sam back and then I can finish it.”

“What about that drink your brother concocted?” If he’s in, he’s all in, and there can be no fuck ups.

“I don’t think I’ll need it if I’m dead, but I drank it anyway.”

Last ditch effort. The old ‘College Try.’ “I’m not generally in the business of creating ghosts.”

She huffs dryly. “No, I guess not.” Her eyes turn wary. “But if I’m successful, you’ll leave the hotel alone, won’t you? I can keep the ghosts under control, I can keep them happy.”

She gets jumpy watching him.

“C’mon, it’ll be like my dying wish.” Her tone is sarcastic, but her eyes are wide and worried for his response.

He thinks about it carefully before speaking. “If you’re successful, we’ll leave.”

“Good,” she says.

“But,” he warns, eyes serious, “We’ll be keeping an ear to the ground and if we hear one thing about this place, just one tourist who gets hurt, we’ll be back and we’ll clear the place out.”

She nods solemnly. “I can live with that,” she answers and then frowns. “Or I guess die with that.” She sticks her hand out. “Deal?”

He regards her outstretched hand for a moment and then slides his palm into hers, her fingers cold and rough against his skin. “Deal.”

They shake on it, ridiculously pumping their hands once before they each pull back. She opens her mouth to say something, closes it, opens it again and then frowns.

“What?” he asks.

“Should I shoot myself in the head or the heart? I don’t really know a lot about it so I was kinda hoping…”

“Are you asking for advice on how to shoot yourself?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, I guess it depends on what you’re looking for.”

She nods like this is sage advice. Like Dean is a refrigerator sales man and is trying to help her figure out what the best unit for her would be. And truth be told, now that this night’s ending is out in the open, Dean finds they’ve both strangely relaxed into it.

“Well, I have this sense that it needs to be…” she gestures her hands around, “like an event, I guess. I don’t know how to explain it. I mean, I’m out here ‘cause I don’t want Ollie to have to deal with my body, but also, I get this feeling that I can’t just go quietly into the night. So I thought about pills or slitting my wrist, but I feel like… I feel like I need some ‘oomph’ behind it.”

“Well, if you shoot yourself in the heart, your might not die right away. I mean, your heart will likely be damaged, but it could take a while to bleed out. Headshot is usually a quicker kill.”

She nods like it’s fascinating and Dean has the impression she would take notes if she had a pen.

“And your gun is strong enough to kill me?”

“Fuck yeah, I kill all kinds of shit with it.”

“Okay,” she nods. “I don’t think I need to linger, so I probably don’t want to go with the heart. Plus, what if I miss? I just think the brain is my best shot.” She winces. “No pun intended.”

“I, uh… You know if you really don’t want to or you can’t… I can uh…”

“No!” she says quickly. “Jesus, it’s bad enough I’ve dragged you out here and have to borrow your gun and then have you bury me. Fuck, no. I can do it.”

“It’s just, I’ve shot a lot of things.” He shrugs. “I’m good at it.”

“No, seriously. I hardly know you.”

That strikes them both as ludicrously funny and they each let out an uneasy chuckle.

He takes his colt 1911 out of his waistband and holds it out. “Do you know how to shoot a gun?” he asks gently.

“I’ve shot one before. We have one at the hotel for safety. I’ve never had to use it, but I know how to shoot it.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“All the ghosts I’ve ever seen are wearing the clothes they died in. Is that what you’ve seen too?”

“Yeah.”

She nods and then takes her coat off, shivering at the cool air. Even in the dark, he can make out the symbols that Oliver drew on her arms earlier. “It’s bulky and when I wear it for too long, it pulls at one of my arms,” she explains.

He stares at her. “Is that what your wearing?”

“What?” she asks looking down at her outfit. She’s wearing a grey t-shirt that has faded black lettering on it proclaiming ‘Bark in the Park Dogwalking - We’ll make you bow-wow!’ and yoga pants. “This is one of my favorite t-shirts and these pants are comfortable.”

“Uh, no, it’s fine. It’s just… usually most ghosts appear in more… menacing or sedate clothing.”

“Well, I won’t be most ghosts.”

“No, I guess not.”

He hands her the gun with the safety on and he can tell by the way she takes it that she’s surprised by the weight. She holds it with both hands, clearly not used to holding a weapon and her fingers fumble slightly before she finds the safety and releases it.

Although she does remember to keep it pointed at the ground for which Dean is grateful. Her hands are shaking and he’s suddenly worried he’ll get shot in the leg by accident.

She carefully steps down into her makeshift grave, putting her below his usual line of sight and he has to tip his head down to see her. She licks her lips nervously and takes a deep breath.

“You’ve shot things before? In the head?”

“Yep. It’s generally the best way to kill something. Quick. Efficient.”

She bobs her head and lets out another shaky breath. She’s shivering in the cold without her coat. Her hands shake and the glare of the flashlight bounces off the nickel-plate of the colt. She glances quickly up at him.

“Um. Could you turn around?” She flaps one of her hands at him.

“Pardon me?”

“I just don’t think I can do this with you watching me.”

“Are you shy about shooting yourself in the face?”

She’s about to say ‘no’, when he sees it cross her face that the answer is yes.

“Yeah, I kinda think I am.”

He holds back a sigh of annoyance and though it goes against every instinct ever drilled in his body to turn his back on someone with a weapon, he slowly turns around, giving her his back.

“Thanks.”

It’s so quiet and low, he almost doesn’t hear it.

It’s silent again in the dark night. He looks up to the sky and takes in the view of the stars. It’s cold, but he’s not uncomfortable. While it’s not pleasant, he’ll take feeling cold over a fair number of things; pain, nausea, fear. Cold is just… cold.

When the shot does come, he’s surprised by how loud it is. He actually flinches a little which is not something he’s done at the sound of a gunshot in years. But there was something about waiting for it. About waiting for the sound in the dark, in the quiet, without being in the middle of fighting for his life that left him slightly open to be startled by it. When he turns around, he’s startled again to see Farrah right in front of him. She still looks mostly the same. Although slightly… thinner. Not in body but in substance. He can’t see through her, but she’s not all together solid either.

“You’ll have to go get your gun back,” she says and she points.

Her body has fallen over on its side at an awkward angle, legs bent funnily, one arm twisted underneath her and one hand still clutching the Colt. Thankfully, her brain is exit wound down, and he can only make out the small entry wound on her temple and the faintest burn from the heat of the muzzle.

“Did it hurt?” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

“Yes, but just for a moment and then… it didn’t.”

He hops down into the hole and starts prying her death grip from the Colt. He winces as he feels her pinky finger break.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

She’s nearly on top of him as she speaks, having crawled (ghosted?) into her grave with him and he jumps back slightly.

“Jesus! Personal space.”

She looks at him strangely. “Sorry, it doesn’t seem like I’m all that close.”

“Trust me, you are,” he says firmly.

She takes a step back. “It seems different on this side. I get now how they could crowd around me when I’m eating. It doesn’t feel… close.”

She pushes herself up on the earth and climbs out of the grave. He gets his gun free from her hand and follows suit.

“Shouldn’t you be… I don’t know. Like drifty or … just less alive-like?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know how else to be.” Her eye is caught by the shovel and she heads over to where it lays and picks it up.

“I didn’t know I would be able to pick stuff up. I wasn’t sure.” She turns back to him. “I can fill it in.”

“Naw,” he says, stepping over and taking the shovel easily from her. “You dug it, you shouldn’t have to fill it in too.”

The both look down at her body in the dirt hole.

“I kinda thought it would have made a bigger mess,” she says.

He snorts getting a shovel full of dirt. “It did, but you’re lying on it.”

“Oh.”

He tosses the first shovel full down. “Sorry if that was, uh… insensitive.”

She stares at him. “I just shot myself in the head so I could fight a Sumerian God. Do I seem like the sensitive type to you?”

“Guess not.”

***

The trip back to the hotel is shorter, although just as quiet as the trip out. Dean sets his own pace on the way back, following the trail of footsteps and Farrah keeps up, her legs and feet moving, but not making a sound on the snow. She follows Dean back, and it’s weird how quiet it is. He knows she’s behind him, but he has the strange urge to keep turning around to check on her. He wonders if she could just flit herself back to the hotel without having to make the trip, but she seems content enough to walk behind him so he doesn’t say anything.

When they get back, a fair number of lights are on and Oliver’s at the front door, waiting.

“Jesus fucking Christ where have you been?” he says as soon as they are close enough. He comes out on the steps, his crutches sliding in the cold.

“Ollie -” Farrah begins.

“It’s one thing to shut me out, Fay, but this? All of a sudden it’s like you were gone. It’s still like you’re gone. What the hell are you doing?” he frowns. “And where is your coat?”

“Ollie, I…” she fumbles for the words. She takes the last couple of steps up and stands in front of Oliver.

“What…” he breathes, moving closer to her, looking at her carefully. “What did you do?”

She doesn’t answer him, but stares back.

“No,” Oliver says suddenly, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t. You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.” His head moves back and forth.

She raises her hand and places it on his shoulder.

And then glides it through the flesh and bone, slipping out the other side.

Dean wants to leave. He wants to leave the two of them in this moment alone. He doesn’t want to watch as Oliver’s face crumples as the full impact of what Farrah’s done hits him. He doesn’t want to see them both start to cry, he doesn’t want to stand there and do nothing as Oliver’s crutches slide out from underneath him and he falls to the ground with a painful thud, his bad leg giving out beneath him.

It takes him completely by surprise when Oliver launches himself up from the floor and throws himself at Dean, cursing and shouting, grappling at him, trying to wrestle with him. He’s yelling nearly unintelligibly that Dean did this to his sister, that he outright killed her. Oliver’s upper body is shockingly strong; likely from supporting himself for years on the crutches and from rage and grief. Dean struggles not to hurt him, but still keep himself from getting slugged.

“Ollie, stop,” shouts Farrah and her voice causes the walls of the hotel to shake. “Stop!”

She reaches out and touches her brother’s neck with her ghostly fingers and Oliver jolts like he’s been electrocuted and stumbles back.

Dean regains his footing and watches as Ollie crumples to the floor again with Farrah crouched beside him.

“What did you do to him?” Dean asks.

She shakes her head. “Nothing. I just showed him what happened out there. So he wouldn’t blame you.”

Oliver looks up at Fay, betrayal and hurt in his eyes. “How could you? How could you?”

“Ollie…”

“No. Don’t you dare fucking tell me it was the only way because it wasn’t. You were going to go in that room and get Sam out and then we were just going to continue on like we had been.”

“You know that couldn’t have happened. It was getting stronger, Ollie, and I can stop it like this.”

“Or we could have left. We could have left this goddamn place and never looked back,” he hisses.

“I couldn’t do that. You know that. The ghosts need me.”

“The ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts. I don’t give a shit about them. I need you.”

“I… I had to do this. I had to, Ollie.” She reaches out for him and he scampers backward on the floor, out of her reach.

“Don’t… just don’t.” He pushes himself to his feet, eyes darting around for his crutches. He leans over to get one and Dean picks the other one off the floor and hands it to him. He snatches it roughly out of Dean’s hand.

“And you just let her. You didn’t even try to stop her.”

Dean doesn’t look away, remains silent under Oliver’s glare.

“Don’t put this on him, Ollie,” Farrah says quietly. “You saw what happened, you know it was all me.”

Oliver doesn’t turn away from Dean. “You’d do anything to get your brother back, wouldn’t you? Well, I feel about my sister the same way you feel about your brother. And I…” His throat closes over the words and he turns away from Dean, staring at the floor. He starts to shuffle away and Farrah goes to follow him.

“Don’t,” he says, not turning around. “I can’t even look at you right now.”

Dean catches the looks of shock and hurt that flash over Farrah’s face as she watches her brother walk away from her.

“I thought… I thought I could make him understand,” she says, her voice soft and low. “I thought that if he… If I could just… that he would…”

Her otherness is showing more strongly. When she cries, it’s not saline, but fat drops of silver that trail lustrous lines down her face and blinking out of existence as they leave her chin. He hates to say it, hates to be the one to have to say it, but he knows she needs a purpose now, and he needs his brother back.

“Farrah, it’s nearly sunrise.”

She looks over at him, her eyes shot through black with silver marble streaks again, like the other night and he remembers that, thankfully for Sammy’s sake, she’s probably not human anymore. The human part of her is buried in a cold, shallow grave of her own making, waiting for spring to start rotting.

In front of him is what was left behind.

“Yes,” she agrees. “Yes of course. Sunrise.”

She looks up the staircase, up to the brown writing on the wall that still proclaims Welcome, Sam Winchester. She considers it for a moment and then waves her hand in front of her slowly, like she’s practicing. Then with a squaring of her shoulders, she waves her hand again, and the lettering dries out, crackling as it does and starts to flake off the wall. With a puff of air from her lips, the remainder of the words blow away into dust.

It takes him a second to follow her when she starts up the stairs, stuck staring at the now pristine wall as he is. But follow her he does, up the long staircase, past the landing and then up the second set. She pauses as she walks, nodding her head every now and then and each time she does, one of the ghosts blinks into existence and falls in step behind her.

Dean can see them all now, as she pauses outside the door to room 43. There are over 50 of them, as she estimated. Young, old, big and small. Ancient and fresh. He can make out at least six different styles of clothing from 3 centuries. They crowd into the hallway, pressing in behind her, taking up the space around her. It’s as cold in the hallway now as it was outside, with all of them clustered together and Dean’s glad he’s still got his jacket on.

Farrah reaches up and runs her fingers lightly over the brass numbers three times, and the ‘snick’ as the lock pulls back is audible. She places her hand against the door and pauses, turning to Dean.

“I don’t know how long it will be. I will get Sam before I do… anything else.”

He’s at a loss for words and manages a curt nod.

“I’m sorry to ask, but I’ve one more favor.”

He stiffens. He’s completely unprepared and with Sam in the balance, he’s afraid. He’s afraid he would agree to anything, make any deal she asks.

“If he wants to leave, will you take Ollie down the mountain?”

He nearly sags in relief. “Yeah,” he manages finally. “Of course.”

“Thanks.”

The handle turns easily under her fingers, door creaking as it swings open. She takes a deep breath and he can hear her start to recite under breath.

”There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile, he found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile. He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse. And they all lived together in a little crooked house.”

Her steps are cautious and careful as she enters and as she looks up and around, Dean realizes she sees something very different from the plain, worn hotel room that he sees.

Standing just on the threshold of the door, when it slams shut, it nearly clips him in the nose. He blinks in surprise and stumbles back a few steps. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for as he stares at the door.

Something.

Anything.

When water starts pouring down the wood in thick, stringy rivulets he thinks that he should have clarified his desire. He wanted something meaningful to happen, something that would let him know what was going on. As the liquid runs down the door and seeps into the carpet beneath his feet, he hears shuffling behind him and he turns to find Oliver making his frantically down the hall.

“Where is she?”

Dean points to the door and Oliver sags. “I thought… I hoped she would wait. I wanted…”

Oliver’s words are cut off by a large groan from the wood of the door. It bows out slightly, impossibly, from its frame, splinters cracking. Water seeps through the cracks in the grain, spurting from the sides; foul smelling and brackish.

There’s a loud thump against the door, as though something slammed into it from the other side.

Nails scrape at the wood, scratching at the door.

“Did this happen before?” Dean ask roughly.

Oliver shakes his head. “No, when she was in before, it was just quiet. Until my dad came out, there was nothing.”

There’s another loud sound of something large and soft hitting the wood and flecks of water spray off, covering Oliver and Dean.

“Can you tell what’s going on in there? What’s she thinking?”

Again Oliver shakes his head. “I told you, when she’s in there, it’s like she’s gone. And now that she’s…” his voice breaks off suddenly. “I don’t get anything.”

The letters start appearing slowly on the door at first, then come faster, as if whoever is doing it is learning how it works.

S-A-M - B-A-S-E-M-E-N-T

Dean takes off running before the last part of the ‘T’ finishes.

***

“I told you there were ways of getting you back in here.”

“And I told you I’m not a little girl anymore.”

He smiles at her, sharp, disjointed pointy teeth, and it seems impossible that they would fit in his mouth like that. When he steps forward, she can hear a soft slithering sound as he moves, bits and pieces of himself trailing behind him.

She forces herself still and he crowds into her space.

“You’ll love it here. The dead will bow down to you and you’ll forget you ever lived at all.”

His breath is cold against face and she realizes all she feels is the cold. She should be afraid, she should be terrified, but she’s not.

“Maybe,” she answers. “But you won’t be here to see it.”

She lunges for him.

***

There’s more water now and, like some kind of sore or wound has burst open, it’s brown and sludgy, full of slime and hard bits that make his stomach churn. It’s spilled over the edge of the pool and is six inches deep, making it hard for Dean to walk without turning his gait into a strange kind of hop-skip. The sound of rushing water fills his ears, canceling out his voice as he calls out Sam’s name. The water is choppy and rough, currents pulling at his ankles as he moves.

He sees an arm.

He’s pushing through the water, sloshing and splashing around, churning up more grub from the bottom as he slip-slides his way over. The water is as cold and as frigid as before. He grabs Sam’s arm and pulls him closer and the tips of Sam’s fingers are blue.

He falls to his knees in the water, cradling Sam close, slapping him on the face lightly at first and then one good hard crack when he gets no response. Sam’s eyes flutter open and immediately lock onto Dean.

“Hey buddy, I’m here, I got you,” Dean says, a smile breaking across his face. Sam’s stiff fingers come up to clutch at Dean like he can’t believe Dean is there; a painful and hard grip that will leave fingermarks on Dean for days. Sam’s lips move wordlessly but no sound escapes.

“I know, you’re out,” Dean soothes, scared by the feral and frightened look in Sam’s eyes. Sam shuts them tightly for a moment and then opens them again to find Dean.

“Would it help if I pinched you?” Dean says fondly.

Dean thinks Sam might be about to say something, but a horrible keening noise cuts him off. It cuts into Dean’s middle ear like a knife, sending a spike of pain into his skull and without thinking he covers Sam’s ears, tucking his own head to the side.

The water in the deep end of the pool starts to swirl and eddy, pulling itself downward into a quick spiral, giving off a low sucking sound. Dean hauls Sam to shaky feet, bracing him up when Sam’s legs want to give out.

The whirlpool deepens impossibly; farther and further down than the pool is physically capable of and when Dean looks down the center of it, he can’t make out the bottom. The basement is filled with the harsh sucking sound, like a seal has been broken and the water is being vacuumed out.

The walls start to shake and for a moment, everything in the room tilts.

“Time to go.” Dean’s voice is harsh as he drags Sam with him toward the stairs. At the foot of them, he looks up and blinks twice as he watches them split sideways, into two staircases, as though he’s wearing a pair of glasses with two different lenses. He puts his feet out in front of him and is thankful when it connects with solid matter below. He pulls Sam along with him, dripping wet and sluggish.

A rumble builds from below and he turns back just in time to see the whirlpool turn itself inside out and upside down, spiraling up toward the ceiling with a burst of liquid and debris.

The keening sound from before returns, and Dean wonders if he’s listening to the sound of Farrah dying or if this is the death knell of a Sumerian god. Something dark and nebulous is swirling in the inverted spiral; thick, black and tangled. It stretches and pulses; Dean can’t take his eyes off it, convinced if he turns away, it will whip out from the column with a wet smack and grab at him and Sam. He inches back, not sure if moving faster will draw attention to them or not.

A tendril lashes out and licks at them and Dean pushes Sam backward. Just as quickly, something pale and white follows it.

A hand. A human hand, clutching at the slippery intruder and digging in mercilessly. Dean squints but all he can make out is the fingers and part of a wrist before it yanks back sharply, pulling the creature with it.

He pushes against Sam’s back and they stumble up the stairs, nearly falling into the main hallway and by the time they reach the grand staircase, Sam is moving under his own power.

The walls of the hotel are flickering in and out of solidity, like they are being pulled back and forth between two dimensions. Fluid leaks down in fat rivulets, pooling onto the hardwood floor, running down the carpeted staircase. Their feet make loud squishing sounds as the step down on the carpet, pulling themselves up by the railing. Light bulbs pop and shatter, raining down glass and sparks, a sharp shard cutting across Dean’s cheek pulling a hiss of surprise from him. On the first floor, planks of hardwood snap up, the moulding halfway up the wall curls off in a wave, pulsing down the hall, reaching the end and coming back again, like a slinky gone berserk.

Dean stops as he sees Oliver sitting calmly outside room 43, the small area around him untouched by destruction. Glass and debris rain down from above and it all stops before it reaches Oliver. He’s sitting cross-legged staring solemnly at the black streams of water running down the door. Oliver’s lips are moving slightly and it only takes Dean seconds to recognize he’s chanting Farrah’s rhyme.

He feels the tremble start softly, deep in the foundation of the hotel and it works its way up through the brick, stone, wood and plaster, until the entire building is shaking and shearing under the pressure. Screws pop loose from fixtures and the entire floor warps up in a strange undulating wave and Dean has serious misgivings about not getting the hell out of the building with Sam when he had the chance instead of coming upstairs.

And then it just stops.

There’s a loud groan; a shift and a slight drop as the building settles and Dean’s not sure if he’s relieved or seriously freaked out. A drop in pressure makes his ears pop painfully and sends a quick flash of vertigo over his body as his ear protests against it.

The handle on the door starts to turn and the three men stare at it in painful silence. Dean feels Sam’s fingers clutch at the back of his coat, ready to pull him and start running if necessary. Oliver stands shakily, crutches off to the side, out of reach.

The door swings open and she’s standing there, horrible and lovely. Silver streaks her dark hair, her eyes shot through black with marble streaks, skin pale with grey veins forking randomly over her cheeks, forehead, chin and nose.

Dean takes a step back, pushing Sam further behind him as she steps out of the room. Her ridiculous outfit from before, when she shot herself, is replaced by high-necked dark silver dress that trails to the floor, covering up every inch of her skin but her hands and her face. Her eyes trail over Sam and Dean blankly and then stop when they reach Oliver. Her lips form his name and she tilts her head like it’s a question, but she does not speak. Oliver nods.

“Yes, Fay. Ollie.”

She blinks three times and snaps back to her human appearance. Eyes dark grey, skin pale but clear, hair solid brown again, comical t-shirt and yoga pants. Her eyes flick back over to Sam and Dean, and Dean can’t help but hold a hand out to stop her from coming forward.

“Is it gone?” Dean asks roughly.

She blinks again as though she has to think about his question. “Yes.” She pauses and ruminates some more. “I’m in charge of the dead now.”



Continue to Part 6 [last part]