Part 17: ...She might as well be dead.
Holding eye contact with the chick, he finally puts the safety back on after a few very long, very tense moments. Lowers it before holding it out to her, giving her his most charming grin. “Wanna come and get it?”
“Nice try,” she smiles. “I see you’re quite the comedian. But no, if you put them on the floor and kick them over, that’ll do. It’s all so nicely clean and polished, isn’t it? So smooth. Almost like--,” a pause, “--blood.” He’s quick to put the gun down, itching to kick himself in the teeth rather than give the gun to her for his idiocy, and doing so anyway. “There, that wasn’t so hard was it? Now you, Sammy.”
A second later Sam’s gun, too, hits the sofa with a dull thump, slipping beneath it. Emily chuckles, not even attempting to look concerned. “Clever little devils, aren’t you. Not. I don’t care about the guns. I told you I don’t like them nor do I need them. So childish to think it would worry me, really. But then again, walking right into my trap like this...” She shakes her head, brows drawn together in a disapproving frown. “Truly amateurish.”
“What? Don’t tell me you planned that all along. To take a kid hostage and then what? Blackmail us into leaving?”
“Oh no, Sammy. I wouldn’t dream of having such an opportunity present itself since I noticed you were following my trail. Thing is, nothing better could have happened, played into my cards. Right, Dean?” Her eyes glow with gleeful delight again, maybe craziness, too. Not sure about the latter, but he wants to wipe that smile off her face. “Yeah. You know it’s risky to get too close, and still you couldn’t resist. How could you? I mean, look at them. Human desires, is it not? I noticed, and I questioned: how can you use this to your advantage? How can their faults be of use to you? Guess what came to me? It made my job so much easier.”
Standing there, the woman looks like she has no concern in the world, not like she’s holding someone at gunpoint–-even if said gun is a simple knife. Or not so simple. Dean got hands-on knowledge on what damage the thing can do, if used right, and that, well. Thank you very much for bringing it up, brain. “Still now, sweety, don’t move. You don’t want me to cut you again, do you?” Justin flinches, and to hell with it that she’s a woman. Dean wants to punch the calmness right out of her. “In a way, yes, I guess I have you to thank for this after all.” She tsks at Justin when he flinches again, moves the knife against his throat. “Now, now, what did the lady with the knife just say?”
“Leave him the fuck alone, you cunt!” Uh-oh.
Dean catches Brian’s arm just in time with him taking a step forward toward the duo across the room and past the salt and Dean himself. Uh-uh, not a good idea. The salt is only one reason of many in a long string of pearls of reasons and ways to fuck up and why. Fisting the thick fabric of the other man’s jacket, he keeps hanging on, ignoring the heated glare burning into the side of his head.
“Such language. But I expected as much from you, Brian.” She tilts her head to the right, a smile like a caress on her lips. “Brian. A very nice name. Had a teacher once by the same name, but that is not important right now, is it? Hmm. I’ll get to you in a moment. Please wait until then. Let’s get to the point of this chat first, shall we? I am sure you’re anxious to get it over with just as I am.” A glance at the blond. “Perhaps more.”
Sam’s the one to utter the question of all questions, answers obvious or not: “All right, we’ll play. What do you want?” You don’t need to be college boy over there--or a college boy--to figure it out.
“You know, you look like an overgrown cheerleader when you do that, Sam,” she points out Sam’s stand, hands on his hips, probably a disapproving look on his face--Dean can guess, he’s been on the receiving end of it once or twice--chuckling to herself. “Or a cute puppy that desperately wants to look threatening. I can't decide. But yes! What I want is to get out of here. Told you that already. Pay closer attention.”
“Door’s to your left. Don’t let it hit you on the ass on the way out,” Brian smart mouths, and Dean can’t fight off the smirk tugging on his lips.
Emily frowns. “Now, Brian. I told you to wait, did I not? I wasn’t done. But I do feel generous today, so yes, believe me, I would just walk out if I could. Due to those Ghostbusters right next to you, the choice is no longer my own. I don’t want to do this. Could have been gone for hours now. They just won’t leave me alone.”
I wonder why that is? Dean thinks crossly, glowering.
Dean feels Brian shrug. “Bullshit. That innocent act? Is fucking hard to pull off once someone knows you’re a murderer.”
“You’d know all about hard, right?”
Cutting in quickly, Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t want the chat take a turn down that road--not if he can help it. He’s learned to pick his battles and listen to that churning feeling in his gut when it makes itself known. Like now. It’s not a good idea to ignore it right here, oh no. “So you really did come here to blackmail us, doing what? Cast the ghosties on the kid so we wouldn’t try to follow you wherever you want to run after you get out of Pittsburgh searching for a way to break the curse instead?”
“Yes, Dean, that was the original plan. It would have been a little tricky, risky even, except you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. I give you credit for figuring that out. Guess what? In a way, it still is. I just found is a more... appealing target, the right one. More fitting to my usual MO, you know. Less risky for me. Have to keep my reputation in mind, after all. Not that little Justin isn’t suitable. No, no.” She smiles fondly at him, stroking the barrel of the gun down the kid’s cheek. Almost tender, a perverse imitation of a mother soothing her distressed child. The show gives him the creeps. “Poor kid. What happened to him and all that, isnt it? People can be so cruel. Yet, it’s not what I usually go for, either.”
“That’s right.” And God, does that sound like the very epitome of wrong to say. He wants to throw up. Either that or strangle that bitch. “So what? You decided to go with Plan A v1.1?”
“Hmm, that’s a good way to describe it, yes. I simply need the kid here to get to my actual target.”
Dean straightens, but it’s Sam’s voice in his ears when he says, “What?”
“You’re clever, Sammy. I’m sure you will figure it out.”
“This isn’t Jeopardy, and you ain’t no Alex Trebek. Just an annoying, murderous bitch.”
She tsks at him, shaking her head in disapproval. “Dean, Dean, Dean,” she fusses, wiggling the knife in time with the words and all too close to Justin’s face. “Not so impatient, honey. By the way, it’s witch. Not bitch. You’d do better remembering that.”
“I don’t see the difference just yet.”
“I think sweet little Justin does, being Brian’s bitch and all. If you’d only ask nicely, I’m sure he’d explain it to--”
“You’re killing people, Emily,” his brother starts to say, talking right over her and Brian. “Whatever they did or didn’t do, you’re in the wrong here. We can’t let you do this anymore.”
“My father broke my ribs forty-seven times.” Her voice is calm when she says it, collected, obviously ignoring Sam. Her voice is quiet, yet the statement roars like a tornado passing right through your house. “Granted, they just kept re-breaking over and over. We moved around a lot. People didn’t get suspicious, not that quickly.” Deep in thought, she frowns. “Oh, he hit my mother, too. Until he finally hit her once too often, once too hard. He screamed at her to get up, to stop pretending. Yet she didn’t, no matter how loud he yelled. I hated her for that.”
Dean doesn’t look away when she meets his gaze. He’s a proud of that. Geez, it’s not like he wants to feel sorry for her, it’s just that he kinda can't help that he does. That’s the trouble with having a heart, you know. What she went through, no one should ever experience the things she did. No one should, and in that way she’s a victim, too. A victim like all the others. Doesn’t make her any less guilty for the murders she committed, merely a tad more tragic is all. Killing people out of revenge, out of hate and anger, because some got away and she didn’t. It’s no different than the ghosts and spirits they hunt.
She is still breathing, but in truth she might as well be dead.
Maybe she is.
“No one helped me. If someone noticed, they didn’t lift a finger. Not once. I felt so... useless, so dirty. You don’t understand how that feels. How helpless, how worthless that makes you feel. You can't.” Emily turns her dark, shadowed eyes on Brian. And for the first time, he sees something else but joy and happiness and the sporadic flash of crazy in there. It’s pain. A deep, sharp, sympathetic pain--the one he sees in his father’s eyes every time their mother came up.
The sudden cold inside Dean is like a punch to the gut. A horrible, foreshadowing cold, growing with every second and enveloping him like the flood of icy water of a mountain lake. That horrible dread spreads like acid, curls around his heart like an iron fist, and squeezes. Squeezes till it’s almost unbearable to breathe. The reaction…
- “The fuck can anyone do that to their kids? I don’t... how?”
- “It’s not Gus. – It’s not you. Let it go.”
- “I know. – Fuck, I know. But...”
…What Justin, what they said... It didn’t click then. How could it? It does now. The reaction to when he wrestled Brian to the floor that morning after the man’s fucked up wakeup call... it all fits. Like a perfectly-shaped piece of puzzle missing all along, finally found again in some other paper box to fit right in.
Crap.
“But you? You do. You know how that feels. To be helpless, don’t you?” Brian stays silent at Dean’s side, but he can still feel the muscle in him tense. “Oh yes, I can see it in your eyes. You don’t have to say anything. That poor hurt, little boy grew up to present a harsh front. He’s still there, isn't he? You still know how that feels.”
“You’re fucking crazy.”
“Hmm. Maybe. But see, if I am, they made me that way. Just like your daddy did you. Isn't that right, Brian? Your daddy made you go out wanting to make something out of yourself, to get away. That hell. The beatings? Cruel words thrown at an oh-so-young child? Working so hard that you don’t turn out like him? Like them? To get out and be what they were not just to discover that there is no way around it. We are our parents’ children after all, are we not?”
“Bullshit,” Brian spits out between clenched teeth. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Emily frowns, confused. “No? But isn't that what you are so afraid of? What you ask yourself every time you are with your son? Your beautiful, sweet little boy?” She can’t know that. She can’t possibly know about that kid. It’s... impossible. But then again, maybe not as impossible as Dean wants to think. Can’t be that hard to get information on one Brian Kinney on Liberty Avenue. He basically got a run-down on him and his life that one night at Babylon. “I wonder what you looked like that age. Did you look like him when your old man hit you black and blue for no reason at all that you could think of? Told you how you shouldn’t even be there until you finally managed to drag yourself out of the house and away? Just away?”
Dean tightens his hold on Brian’s sleeve mostly out of reflex and a little out of anger, fingers digging into cloth and skin. He’s sure there will be bruises tomorrow. And there will be a tomorrow for the bruises to show, too, for them all. “Brian, come on. Don’t be shy. Share with the class,” she coaxes, carelessly waving and gesturing with her hand–-the one that holds the gun–-toward the three of them. “How did that feel? Wouldn’t you have done anything to not feel that way anymore? To forget? To feel powerful, not helpless? That’s just what I do, you see. Controlling the spirit of my father? I can finally help, finally do something, make a difference, punish those like him. I’m not so useless anymore. Wouldn’t you do the same for your son?”
“You’re killing people. Do you get that at all?” Dean growls.
She doesn’t listen to him, maybe doesn’t hear him, only having eyes for the man at his side. Her focus is solely on Brian, and that makes Dean more than a little uneasy. It gives them the freedom of slipping under her radar, though. Maybe. Keeping her talking, well, he could go without hearing all this, but as long as she doesn’t do something, they have time to come up with a plan.
“You understand, don’t you Brian? How many times did good old daddy break your ribs, your arms? Nobody came to help you, did they? Certainly not the God people are so fond of. At least he didn’t come to rescue me. Tell me! Did he come to you? I doubt it. But I do. I do come to them, help those children, get them away from the bastards hurting them. I free them.” What about those that got away from their tormentor? he wants to ask. How will you to justify those killings? How do you excuse them?
A small whimper claws itself out of Justin’s throat. Dean longs to cut out the chick’s tongue when she laughs. “Oh, little boy doesn’t like seeing his boyfriend so worked up? I suppose I wouldn’t either if I loved him as much as you do. Good that I don’t, huh?” She tells them, pleased. Fucking bitch. “But I admit, pretty boy, I admire you for putting up with it. Can’t be easy.”
“What do you want us to do, you fucking bitch?”
“Please stop calling me that, Dean.”
“I call what I see, so tell me what the fuck you want.”
Her face transforms into a dangerous grin, eyes gleaming. “Like I said. I want to get out. Get rid of you. I have a... well, yes, proposal you may well call it.”
Dean cocks an eyebrow. “We don’t bargain with crazy murderers.”
“That’s right. You Winchesters usually don’t. But you do protect people, right? I bet you wouldn’t want something to happen to Brian, would you? Or... oh yes, the pretty little blond over here, would you?” she whispers taunting, petting Justin’s hair like a cat, twirling long locks around the sharp tip of the knife. Dean winces. Not all of the hair will live to see another day, that’s certain. “Right Brian? You remember him bleeding all over the floor, don’t you? My God, it is a miracle he’s still alive, I give you that.”
Dean keeps his eyes trained on the bitch, but Brian goes rigid like a brick wall under his touch. Muscles freezing up like water. “Once again you were so helpless, watching him get hit with that... bat? It’s cruel isn't it?” She pauses, shuddering and looking at them--Brian--with pity in her eyes. “I could go after him, you know. Could send Them after him. Show him a bit of his own medicine, all the time wondering if it was your fault. If you hadn’t shown up... You would like that, wouldn’t you? To finally get revenge?”
“...no...” He doesn’t hear the word. Dean really doesn’t, but he can read it on Justin’s lips. The kid’s trembling, out of fear or rage Dean isn’t one hundred percent sure. Maybe a little of both. Looking down, Brian’s hands are clenched into fists so tight that his knuckles are white as bone.
“Or maybe I should grant precious little Justin the chance to experience what his lover’s gone through, what I’ve gone through, so he can finally understand. And I’ll make you watch, Brian, all of you, every single second, make you watch every little drop of blood dribbling out of that pretty mouth of his. You won’t ever forget.” She runs the tip of the knife beneath Justin’s lower lip, and Dean’s own knuckles share the ugly pale color. What’s it they say? Oh yeah. If looks could kill. “Which is, sadly, not long for me, to watch. Oh, I wonder if I break his ribs, will Justin scream for me like you did for your daddy?”
“You are sick,” comes his brother’s calm voice from behind. He sounds so calm, a calmness Dean doesn’t feel. Not right now with anger simmering right under the surface, and certainly not the last few weeks. “You need help Emily. Hell, you needed it years ago. You just never got it.”
“Little do-gooder Samuel Winchester... always trying to do the right thing.” Emily sighs. “I’m not sick, Sammy, not anymore. I feel good.”
“Yeah, ‘cause killing people is such a freaking rational and healthy free-time activity, right?” Dean mocks. Probably not the right thing to say, but what the hell. It’s either being a smartass or doing something very, very stupid. And Sam would most likely kick his ass for the latter later.
She doesn’t bother to take the bait. “Never felt better. But I’m afraid my patience is running out with you shortly.”
In growing irritation, Dean watches as her hand moves from the blond hair to a pale neck, threading delicate fingers through the long strands there. Bowing her head, she presses crimson painted lips to Justin’s ear, whispering words Dean can’t make out. He doesn’t have to. The kid’s body language is saying it all for her: wide eyes filled with alarm, shock. Nah, this isn't good. Obviously Brian picks up on it as well. ‘Course he does! Damn it.
“If you touch him--”
“You’ll what?” Emily’s voice is soft, soothing still, like she’s reading a fairy tale to a young child. “Hide behind those laughable salt lines? Oh please. Yes, they keep my sweethearts out, but would you still stand there if I...,” and there’s no way misreading the way she touches Justin’s face, trails the back of her hand along is cheeks, his lips, “steal a kiss?”
“Keep your filthy fucking hands off him, you--”
“Don’t.”
“Let the fuck go of me, Dean.”
“No. That’s what she wants--to rile you up enough and get under your skin.” Look who’s talking. Aw, hell.
“I don’t care.”
“Well, tough. I do. I’m not gonna--”
Emily’s laugh cuts him off. “Oh, Dean, honey, you’ll have no choice but to agree to my offer. Look around you. There’s no other way.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“No we won’t.”
Dean fakes ignorance. All they need is time, and they are going to come up with something. They will. They always do. Have to. He’s got Brian as an excuse, so he stumbles and pushes them a little closer to Sam and the bedroom. Dean knows their guns and shit are in there right behind the glass panels, and Sam is standing right there. He just has to lunge for them. All they need is a second or two. A distraction. Get her attention away from Justin. Away from them. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
“Dean.”
Sam? Sam knows it, too. Knows him, how he works, how this works. It’s what they do well, what serves the purpose. And distraction. So yeah, he may be putting himself up for another run-in with those ghosts or a gun or whatever, but it will be totally worth it if they get out of this freakin’ mess for it. Because she’s right. They walked into her trap, not knowing what was going on, unprepared, and they left their shit here. Something that should never have happened. “Okay, okay, let’s just say we agree to it, what exactly does it mean? We promise to leave you alone, and you’ll just walk away? I seriously doubt that.”
“Oh no, you are quite right. It’s not that easy, but almost,” she murmurs, coming to stand with her hands on Justin’s shoulders behind him. She looks proud. It makes Dean want to gag.
“My ghosties, as you like to call them, are out for blood, Dean--Brian’s blood. Literally. I think you guessed this. I can write down the counter spell, something that will release him as soon as I’m far, far away. Say, being generous today, a week. Five days from now. Once the paper is burned into dust, he’s free. As are you. For that time, you and your brother should remain here. They’ll need you here.” Dean frowns. “Oh, do not worry. The details, they will come to you. Don’t expect me to be one of the bad guys in Hollywood movies. They spill the beans way too soon, get themselves killed or captured because of it.”
She lets out a bark of laughter. “It’s so stupid, so cliché... pathetic, really. I’m not stupid.” In other words, they’re gonna wait and see. It would be fine and dandy, for they can deal with four nights of hunting. That’s not a problem, but there’s another side to this coin. She’s getting away, which is not an option. Not with what she’s doing. And even if she will keep her word, with whatever she will throw their way, they won’t find her again in time. Looking at how long it took to hunt her down this time, no. No freaking way.
More people would die. A lot more.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the real kicker. They can’t let her walk away and keep killing. That’s not how they work.
And he sure as hell isn’t going to tell their dad the next time they see him that, yes, they had her right there, but oh no, sir, she got away because they were dim-witted idiots and working like amateurs. He doesn’t want to be the one to explain that to one John Winchester. And just when he’s about to tell her that it’s all about leverage after all, about doing the right thing, the door to the loft starts to open. Slow and steady and inch by inch in a crawl. Oh Christ, don’t let anyone walk in on this, he silently pleads, and right there, Lady Luck seems to be listening.
The movement of the door is completely silent. Not a single sound--none of metal grating on metal, a handle being moved. No footsteps. Not like it should be. There is nothing--just the untainted, tense silence. The terse quiet of something that should not be quiet. Dean’s brows draw together. No one on this side of the world–-alive, human–-should be able to open a door like this. Open anything like this--a window, a door. It doesn’t matter. Indifferent, the door keeps moving. Moves until it’s open as far as it goes, a gaping hole in an otherwise solid wall.
There’s no one standing on the other side. No flickering lights, no nothing. It’s... empty.
The hell?
Whatever this is, it gets Emily a step or two away from Justin, watching with the same interest as the rest of them. The same puzzlement. Can't be her planning then, huh? Before he can make up his mind, his heart leaps into his throat. Wind. No, no, no, no... not good.
The soft breeze floats through the loft, twirling and curling and fanning out around them like a gentle embrace, a caress. Comforting somehow. The lump in his throat doesn’t loosen, not just yet, as his brain tells him. Wind and salt don’t mix. They do freakin’ not. He knows that from experience, and he’s got the scars to back him up, too. Against everything he knows, ever single fiber of his being, goes what he sees happening next: the air moves around the salt without disturbing it, not moving a single white grain, keeping the circle intact and untouched. Even when the pull gets stronger, less like a gentle breeze and more like real wind.
No one moves.
The yellow folder on the counter is swept up from the counter with a hollow howl, photos and reports and newspaper clipping soaring in a whirlwind of air, eventually tumbling to the floor; every little piece of paper of information spreads out like they are pieces of a giant puzzle, covering the floor like a gruesome rug. Dean looks away. Emily isn’t watching the floor, observant eyes scanning her surroundings, a deep frown marking her face, searching for a source, probably. Wherever her eyes wander, she never loses sight of either of them or Justin--not completely.
With no idea of what this is and no idea what to do, there’s a sudden sort of awareness pulling on his mind. Somewhere, deeply hidden in the farthest, darkest corner of his mind, he’s aware of everything and everyone around him. Can feel the pressure of air from where Sam is moving closer to the bedroom, the ripple Brian’s constricting throat causes in the air when he swallows. It rivals the feeling of going to sleep in a waterbed. When one moves, the other can feel it in the way the water shifts below, changing, re-shaping; not mattering if there’s a gap of five inches between them, or five feet.
The air feels like this now. Charged with energy prickling skin, making him hyperaware of everything. Every subtle shift, every ripple, every breath, just everything.
How that is possible is everyone’s guess.
The moment he stops resisting, stops second guessing himself and his instinct, the second he closes his eyes for a moment and stops concentrating, the whispers start. A low voice murmuring words he doesn’t hear, has no idea how to. He doesn’t understand how he doesn’t feel threatened by it, either, and whether if it’s because of experience or idiocy or simple deception. Looking at Emily, he’s completely convinced it’s not her doing. If it’s his own conviction, or something--someone--else’s, he’s not sure of. There is no fear in her eyes, but the uneasiness is definitely showing through.
And it’s real enough to him.
There’s no way she is that good of an actor. It’s too subtle.
Dean tries to catch Justin’s eyes in the turmoil going on around them. They need to end this quickly, the pressure of air tells him, pressing on his head, or all of this will end badly.
Brian feels like a solid mass of anger and worry and pain beside him. Like desperation.
Sam feels like calm, like quiet, like... knowing. Like a plan.
From across the room comes a wave of confusion and fear and shock. Dean has no problems matching them to the right person. It’s all there, all so clear on his skin, in his mind. What he needs is distraction, and to get between her and Justin. He can feel the pull, feel the push. There’s a knife in his boot, and he’s not above using it.
“No.”
Emily’s voice feels like nails on a chalkboard. Not only hearing, but feeling it right down to the bone. It sounds like it’s ripped from deep inside her, and it feels that way, too. The voice of a child, a terrified child, caught in the dark all alone. It makes his hair stand on end.
“No. Please no. No! Stop!” She covers her ears with her hands, never letting go of the gun or the knife, but if it’s the same for her than it is for him, she’ll hear it anyway. Hear the words in her mind. She flinches, cutting her cheek. It leaves a thin line of red, a soft trickle of blood on pale skin. It goes unnoticed. Dean, however, feels every single red drop hit the floor. The pain, it doesn’t come from this. It comes from a place far deeper down than a superficial cut.
The voice in his head gets louder with every bead of blood, every flinch, every word of protest. Her pleading. The voice is chanting in surround sound now, producing sounds in a language he doesn’t know, never heard spoken before. It’s not Latin, not even close, but it’s old. Definitely old. How he knows this, he has no idea. It’s just--like so much else is at these moment--a feeling. The voice is female, soft but firm, a soothing cadence of trickling words and sounds that has him on high alert. Like a tiger the one moment before it pounces onto its prey.
He moves like a puppet on a string, then. Slowly, ever so slowly edging toward the bedroom, feels the air move with him, feels Brian and Sam move with him.
It’s just a matter of time now, he knows.
This is some kind of magic, a spell, something. Has to be. Doesn’t matter that he’s unable to understand the chanting. Chanting is chanting. Usually, it would be more than enough to raise his hackles, but there’s no trace of the nervous flutter of foreboding in his gut. No dread in his blood. This is the one shot you will get, his brain grants. If you want to act, it’s now or never. And never is not an option. Not here, not now. Not ever. “Don’t move,” he whispers, gripping Brian’s arm tighter. In the background he hears--feels--Emily cursing and whimpering. “I mean it, don’t do anything stupid. And for fuck’s sake, don’t step out of the circle.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Dean pulls at him sharply. The air doesn’t move, doesn’t betray them. “Nah, you really can't. Not here. This is my playground. For once in your fucking life, do what you are told--”
“No, you old wench, stop it.” Her voice sounds hoarse now, even worse than before. “You are not going to make me lose control like this. I am not that girl anymore.”
A strong voice answers her after a moment. In English. “I don’t have to. I don’t even want to.”
It’s Sam’s voice that comes next. “Dean.”
“I know.”
It’s here.
-- TBC
