tabaqui | 'The Song of the Treadmill' Part nine, and sundry stuff...

'The Song of the Treadmill' Part nine, and sundry stuff...

Wednesday, December 5th, 2007 12:22 pm

*peers at last post* I guess my flist isn't one for PC games. :)
Also - a note about various...stuff, going on in the SPN fandom. I think

dodger_winslow had a very good post about it here. I also agree with something someone said in this comment in

ellipsisblack's lj.

I think respect - just general, for all living things respect - is a good idea, and something to actively try to have. I'm *not* pointing fingers and saying 'made of fail' at any particular thing, just...the general tone of a lot of fandom, lately.
'Nuff said, i think.
*and p.s. - i think it's perfectly cool if

clex_monkie89 laughs at me*
*smooshes her*

On to the fic! I'm posting before letting

darkhavens see it, so there may be a bobble or two. DH, please feel free to take me to task in comments! Or anybody else, for that matter. :) Snow, of course, has cheerleaded, like a very cute and kinky cheerleader.
*picks her up and twirls her around and around*
Previous parts here.

An hour later Dean was outside, digging through the trunk of the car for some weapon or other. There wasn't any false bottom, and the weapons were packed in carefully, separated by foam dividers. More organized than Sam was used to, and more varied. The dreamcatcher wasn't there, either. While Dean sorted knives and poked through boxes of ammo, Sam opened the back door and started folding blankets. There wasn't actually any trash, just a jumble of stuff that Dean probably used a lot, things he wouldn't want on top of his guns. Sam kicked clumps of mud off a couple of short-handled shovels, coiled rope and poured the contents of three half-empty cans of kerosene into one. By the time he was finished, Dean was leaning against the side of the car, watching him with a little smirk on his face.

"Having fun, June?"

"It's fucking habit," Sam muttered, smoothing the stack of blankets and straightening up – shutting the door. He rubbed his gloved hand over the deep score marks that ran down the car's side. "What happened?"

"Stick Indian," Dean said, and Sam made an inquiring face. "Skanicum. It's a kind of Bigfoot, they steal women sometimes. Had to hunt it down up around Puget Sound." Dean leaned down and rubbed over the marks himself, little frown on his face. "I know a gypsy tinker over in Kansas, guess I should get him to tap that dent out...sand those scratches down and put some primer on there 'til I can repaint in the spring. Wouldn't want her to start rusting." His exploring touch turned to a caress and he had a little smile on his face that made Sam want to laugh.

"Guess I'll just...give you two a moment alone, then?"

"Shut up," Dean muttered, but he was grinning. He straightened up and rubbed his hands together. "Fuckin' cold. Time for some of Bobby's famous Recipe."

"What's that?" Sam turned with Dean, trudging back toward the house, squinting a little from the glare of sunlight on the packed snow crystals.

"This crazy stuff he makes called Scrumpy. Made from apples."

"Huh." Sam contemplated Bobby making alcoholic apple cider. It was oddly fitting. "Where's he get –" Sam was interrupted by a sudden chorus of barks from the dog pack. They came running around the corner of the house, full-throat, but their tails were wagging and Dean was squinting toward the gate, nothing in his posture saying 'danger'.

"Looks like Lisa's back."

"Who's Lisa?"

"Her and her kids live here with Bobby. Help him out. They did a run up to Rapid City for some supplies." They turned away from the house and walked toward the gate instead, watching the dogs mill and jump and bark. A silver truck – battered off-road Ranger – was pulling up to the gate. The headlights flashed – once, twice, three times, and Dean spun the combination lock on the chain and undid it, swinging the gate open, cursing good-naturedly at the dogs skittering around his feet. The truck bumped over the mostly-buried I-beams that kept the trap of iron complete, growling in low gear through the patches of drifted snow.

Sam saw three faces watching him through the glare of sun on glass and then the truck was rumbling past, the bed covered with a camper shell, boxes and oddments pressed up against the windows. Dean locked the gate up again and they followed the truck's tracks back to the house. Bobby had come out onto the porch, smiling through his beard, and a moment later the passenger door opened and two kids spilled out into the snow.

Well, not kids, exactly, Sam thought, watching them run up onto the porch and hug Bobby – stoop to pet the dogs, chattering excitedly. The boy was probably about twelve, the girl maybe fourteen, both dressed in jeans and Gore-Tex coats – scarves trailing and gloves poking out of their pockets, expensive hiking boots on their feet. *Rotting on the shelves,* Sam thought. Everyone left could dress in the most expensive gear out there, if they wanted. It seemed these kids wanted.

The driver's door opened a moment later and a woman stepped down out of the cab, dressed about the same. The only difference was the worn-looking sheep skin lined coat, and her age.

"Hey, Bobby!"

"How was it?" Bobby asked, tipping his head to look down at something the boy was showing him.

"Not bad. Rapid City's about done. We ended up going down to Hot Springs, found some high-end stuff in this little 'boutique'." Lisa said the word with a laugh in her voice, and Bobby grinned at her. "Hey, Dean."

"Lisa – good to see you." Dean had his hands shoved in his pockets and he nodded at the woman, body a little stiff. She gave him the same back, friendliness dialed down about five notches. Sam wondered what was between them, to make them so uneasy with each other.

"Who's this?" Lisa slammed the truck door closed and took a couple steps toward Sam, her dark gaze sweeping over him. She was probably in her mid-forties, little lines at the corners of her eyes – around her mouth. Bulky in the big coat, surprisingly tall.

"I'm Sam –"

"He's my brother," Dean said abruptly, and Sam felt a bubble of delight bloom in his belly, warm and curling. Dean bumped him with his shoulder and Sam pushed back, ducking his head to hide his grin.

Lisa raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "He is?"

"Yup."

"Huh." Lisa stared at Sam for long moment and then she shrugged, dismissing him. "Good thing you're here, Dean. We found a demon in Hot Springs. Got it in the back. It's still in possession."

"Shit." Dean's face shut down, all emotion gone, and he walked to the back of the truck, opening up the shell and letting the tail-gate down. An olive drab Army duffel rolled forward onto the gate, squirming.

"Dean, what the fuck –?"

"It's still in somebody," Dean said. He looked down at the duffel, loathing on his face. It was grimy with dirt, and when he manhandled it off the tail-gate and to the ground, Sam could see a stiff, black stain along the bottom. Blood.

"Christ, Lisa."

Lisa walked to the back of the truck, pulling her gloves off and stuffing them into her pocket. Her hands were scuffed across the knuckles, red and sore-looking. "Had to shoot the knees out – damn thing wouldn't quit kicking."

"But – it's inside a person..." Sam felt sick, thinking about it.

"Yeah. But the body's dead. Neck's broke, looks like it took a good fall. Once we get that demon outta there, that body's so much cooling meat." She pushed once with her toe, expressionless, and Sam turned away. Walked away fast, heading for the barn – the wall – somewhere. Anywhere but near that squirming, silent, blood-stained bundle.

Dean found him in the barn a couple of hours later. He was polishing harness, fingers sticky with saddle-soap, his head empty of everything but the circular rub of the rag – the good smell of clean leather and hay. One of the barn cats was curled up on the hay bale with him, a warm, black and white puddle against his thigh.

"Hey," Dean said, leaning his shoulder up against the stall door opposite. The mule inside canted an ear toward him and then away, disinterested.

"Hey. Sorry about... I should have stayed, helped you guys unload everything."

"Nah. Those kids needed to work some energy off after sittin' in the truck for so long. So...you okay?"

Sam wiped soap off a cheek-strap, slowly. "Not... There is a person in there, Dean." *I know, God, I know...what if they're still in there? What if they're screaming right now but you can't hear them, what if, what if, I -*

"I know. But Lisa said they're dead."

"What if she's wrong? They're in that...fucking bag –" Sam twisted the leather in his hands, hearing it creak. Wishing he could shred it. "I mean, she shot them, what if –"

"If Lisa said they're dead, Sam, they're dead." Sam twisted the harness harder, the buckle digging into the heel of his hand. Silver twisting into flesh, like the knife at Jo's face, like the one that had flashed dull silver in the grainy feed of a security camera. It didn't hurt. "Sam. Sam? What the fuck –?" Dean crouched down, his hands on Sam's – prying at his fingers and jerking the harness away. Turning Sam's palms up, hissing softly at the red lines – the triangular gouge from the buckle's corner. The flesh around it was already darkening to a bruise, the wound itself welling slow carmine.

Sam looked up at Dean, guilty – sickness in the pit of his belly. "I was...there was this demon. She – it... It was in this girl. Meg. And we – exorcised it and Meg...died. And then the demon came back later. For revenge, you know..." Sam tried to rub the blood off his palm but Dean's fingers clamped down around his, stilling him.

"Sam –"

"It got in me. It was in me and I did...things..." Sam looked up and away, not meeting Dean's eyes – feeling his gaze nonetheless. Feeling the warmth from where Dean's knees were pushing into his shins. "I never told...Dean how much I remembered. It let me see stuff. It...talked to me, sometimes." He looked down, finally – met Dean's gaze. "What if the person is really still...in there? How do you know they're gone?"

"I – have to trust they are." Dean looked worried – a little pissed. His hands were still locked around Sam's, grinding his knuckles together. Sam didn't mind. "I've exorcised a lot of demons. The person's pretty much always gone when it's over. A couple times they were still there, but..." Dean sighed and looked down – eased his grip up a little, rubbing his thumbs over the calluses Sam had across the top of his palms, just under the bend of his fingers.

"They died pretty much right away. This one guy was...he'd gone insane. He killed himself a couple days later."

"Fuck."

"Yeah." Abruptly Dean let go – stood up. Took the two steps necessary so that he could examine the bundle of newly-cleaned harness hanging up on a harness hook. "Listen. The demon's in the still house. If you wanna see for yourself, you can. Make sure the person's gone."

Sam closed his eyes for a long moment. Remembered the thick, hot wash of blood on his belly – the sharp crack of his fist hitting Dean's jaw. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I just...can't..."

"I know, Sam," Dean said softly, chiming the buckles of the harness together. "It's okay."

The still house held Bobby's still and bushels of newspaper wrapped apples and crates of earthenware crocks with cork stoppers. They looked like the jugs in an old Li'l Abner cartoon, the kind with X's across them. These were a blank, greeny-brown and the whole rough-boarded building smelled so strongly of fermented apple it made Sam's nose sting. The duffel was lying on a stack of warped palettes, motionless now.

"It can't cross any of the wards Bobby has on the house," Dean said. The duffel twitched at his voice. "And it can't get out of the junk car trap he made, so...safe enough out here." It was warm in the still house, fermentation and a small, perpetual fire under the huge copper still. The lantern Sam held made the shadows twist up the walls; tide of darkness that ebbed and flowed with the pound of his heart.

"So are you...do you exorcise it here? What do you do with it?" The duffel twitched more violently, and Sam took a step back.

"Nah. We take it over to Sioux Falls. Got a place there...you'll see. Kind of a giant...roach motel for demons, since we can't send the bastards back to Hell anymore."

"Huh." Sam stared at the duffel until Dean moved past him, taking a key out of his pocket. Like all Army duffels, it had a ring of steel eyelets around the top. The sides were folded in, and the eyelets were slid, one after the other, down onto a long, thin U of metal. Then a padlock was fed through the U. Dean unlocked the padlock and folded the duffel down so the body inside was revealed to about mid-chest. It was a man, mid-thirties or so, thinning blond hair and weather-rough skin. There was a thick twist of cloth jammed between cracked and bloody lips and the moment the demon's gaze fell on Dean, it started making noise. Guttural, choked sounds that made Sam cringe a little. He could see chains – worn dull and rusted in spots – wound around the chest and upper arms. And, through a rent in the shoulder of the shirt, a binding lock, red and seeping.

"Here – look." Dean hauled the body upright a few inches and pushed the head over – and over. Far too far for any normal human. The splintered remains of smashed vertebra pressed lumpy and horrible against the bruised skin of the body's neck and Sam felt his gorge rising.

"Jesus – fuck."

"They're dead, Sam."

The bloodshot blue eyes went wide – went black, and Sam just wanted to get the fuck out of there. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. Let's –"

"Get the fuck out of here. Right there with ya." The demon thrashed, screaming behind the gag and Dean yanked the stained canvas back up over its head – struggled to get the eyelets threaded and the padlock in. He finally managed it, cursing softly and they left the still house in silence, lantern swinging in Sam's hand. The sun was sliding down into the west, long mare's tails glimmering high in the sky. "Probably have snow again by tomorrow," Dean said, face tilted up toward the pale blue. "At least we'll be driving ahead of it."

"When are we gonna leave?"

"In the morning." Dean sighed, kicking snow off his feet before climbing the porch stairs. "You need to get some more clothes out of storage – find something to pack it in. Can't keep running all over Hell's half acre without a spare pair'a socks."

"Sir, yes sir," Sam murmured, and Dean only grinned.

ETA: A little visual aid in case i was confusing... Duffel

Part ten.

Tags:

spn,
treadmill

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