Supernatural: One Year Gone

by Rebecca Dessertine

  “I know how to do laundry, Lisa.” Dean leaned against the washing machine as Lisa separated out the whites and coloreds.

  “No. You don’t. Everything you wear is that same olive grey because you don’t separate your whites and coloreds.”

  Dean looked down at his olive-gray T-shirt. She had a point. “I like this color,” he said. “I look good in it.”

  “It’s fatigue green. Let’s go get you something in blue or even red.”

  “I’m not wearing red. It’s a shade of pink.”

  “It’s not,” Lisa said, smiling as she leaned over to grab the laundry detergent, her face a few inches from Dean’s.

  Dean looked into her dark eyes and grabbed her arm. A pull inside of him wanted to do more, to hold her. But he just couldn’t.

  “I don’t want to mess up your life,” he said.

  “You’re not. And I won’t let you. Now let me go. I have to put in the fabric softener ball.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  Lisa grabbed the powder-blue ball, snapped off the cover and poured fabric softener into the hole.

  “What does that do?” Dean asked, genuinely perplexed.

  “Fabric softener, to make your clothes softer.” Lisa smirked.

  “I didn’t know that was really a thing. Making clothes softer.”

  “Oh young Jedi, I have so much to teach you.” Lisa slammed the washer shut, spun the dial and gave Dean a kiss on the cheek.

  It was the first moment of levity that Dean had felt for weeks. But even as Dean’s life normalized, thoughts about Sam haunted him.

  “Never thought I would see you reading a self-help book.”

  Dean opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep on the couch in the living room. On his chest a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul was flipped open. That night Lisa had said, “Why don’t you read this?” She pulled it from a shelf and handed it to Dean. “It helped me when my grandmother died.” Dean accepted the book reluctantly, but after reading a couple of pages he sort of got into it.

  Sam leaned over and pulled the book from Dean’s chest.

  “‘101 stories to open the heart and rekindle the spirit’? Really Dean? That’s lame, even for you.”

  Dean peered at his brother through sleepy eyes. Sam stood before him in bloody clothes, with his face looking like a wild animal had ravaged it. Sam’s lip had been torn—more like bitten off—his teeth peeked through beneath. His left ear had shriveled and darkened and on his left arm a swath of skin peeled from shoulder to wrist. His body had been scorched from top to bottom, layers of raw skin stuck to his clothes in slick black patches.

  On some level, Dean knew he was imagining his brother standing before him. His dreams had been tormenting him like hounds. This evening was no exception.

  “Sam.”

  “Long time no see, bro. Of course, as you can see, I’m having some trouble. They burned my eyes with pokers. I can only really get a good look at you if I go like this.” Sam turned his head slightly to the side. His eyes were scarred into cataracts. Dean winced. Sam swung around, checking out the room. “Nice place. Comfy. Lot nicer than where I am. ’Course it’s a little different for me down there being pulled apart fiber by fiber by a thousand rabid demons. No worries, though. I’m glad you’re comfortable up here.”

  “It’s not like that, Sam. I tried. What else am I supposed to do? Cass is gone. How am I going to get to you?”

  “No. I get it, Dean. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay. I’m fine being barebacked by Lucifer every second for the next couple of hundred millennia.”

  “I would do anything to get you out.”

  “You sure about that? It looks to me like you are just doing what you always wanted.” Sam growled, but the force of the movement proved too much. He shook his head and spit a molar out into his hand. “Never did get my wisdom teeth out. They’re taking care of that right now.”

  Dean was now up off the couch, face to face with the specter of his brother.

  “Sam, you told me to come here to Lisa’s. Remember? Barbecues, football games.”

  Sam winced.

  “What’s wrong?” Dean asked.

  “Oh nothing, just a pesky demon who keeps playing the Operation game with my liver. I lost my funny bone first, wouldn’t you know. Maybe that would have helped me get through this with a sense of humor.”

  “Sam, tell me what I can do. There has to be someone down there that knows how to break you out.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Have a good life, Dean.”

  With that, Sam vanished.

  Dean woke up in a cold sweat. His hands had clenched the book so tightly, the paperback was waded into a ball. The room was empty.

  Dean swung his heels to the floor and hung his head. He felt as if someone had reached inside and pulled out his intestines through his eyes. The excruciating pain, the guilt, was beyond anything he had ever experienced.

  He heard footsteps and looked up to see Lisa appear at the bottom of the stairs.

  “You okay? I heard you scream,” she said anxiously.

  “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.” Sweat dripped down his forehead.

  Lisa walked across the room and sat down next to Dean on the couch.

  “It’s not your fault,” she insisted gently.

  “Lisa, please. I’m fine.”

  “We talked about you seeing someone before.”

  “I’m not seeing a psychiatrist. I’m fine. Really.”

  Lisa nodded and then left him alone.

  Lisa had been trying to get him to see a therapist since he showed up. It was part of the normal mourning process, she told Dean. Not that the Winchester family had ever had a normal mourning process. It seemed to Dean as if they had died and come back so many times. Dean wondered how long it would be until he finally did crack. Until his soul finally fractured under all the pain he had seen, caused, and felt.

  TWO

  “It’s normal to feel guilty when a family member passes, especially under extraordinary circumstances. Your brother died how, exactly?” Dr. Hodes took off her glasses and peered at Dean, slouched on the patterned couch opposite her.

  “Um. Mining accident. We were both miners and he fell into a pit.”

  “Terribly sorry. That’s an awful way to pass.”

  “Yeah. It is. Listen Doc—”

  “You can call me Linda.”

  “Linda. I just need to know when this is going to go away. I’m putting my girl—well, my friend through hell. I’m staying at her place and I just need to be set straight again.”

  “Dean, I’m sorry, things don’t work that way. We live in the real world where no magic power is going to restore your brother or take away your pain. What we need to focus on is why you have this guilt.”

  “How about angels?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry. I think this was a waste of time.” Dean rose from the couch and dug into his pockets.

  “Dean, why don’t you sit down? Let’s talk about how therapy might help you so it doesn’t feel like the weight of the world is on you and you alone.”

  “It’s not anymore, Linda. It was on my brother and he took care of that. Thanks for your time.” Dean pulled a wad of cash from his pocket, counted out some bills and placed them on the coffee table. He then grabbed his jacket and left the office.

  When Lisa returned home that night Dean was on the couch surrounded by a pile of books.

  “I see you found the library,” she said putting down her purse and peering into the kitchen. “Where’s Ben?”

  “He’s in bed,” Dean said flipping a page. “We ate macaroni and cheese, watched 30 Rock, then he conked out.”

  “So what’s all this?” Lisa already could tell she was going to regret asking the question.

  “Um. Nothing really.”

  “So you’re just doing some light reading?” Lisa picked up a Carl Sagan book, then put it down. “Why, Dean?”

  Dean looked a
t her.

  “Because I want to know that I’ve exhausted every possible way of getting him out of there.”

  “By what? Turning back time? I mean this is...” Lisa looked around wide-eyed. “This is even a little too much for me.”

  Dean set down the book he was reading.

  “I tried it your way; Dr. Melfi didn’t work. Let me exhaust this as one last option. Please?”

  Lisa shrugged, what else could she do. These past weeks Dean had seemed more connected to her and Ben. If he needed to do a little reading, perhaps it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

  “Okay. I’m going to bed. Night,” she said.

  “Night,” Dean said, already engrossed in another book.

  “You know I’m not coming back,” Sam said. The light from oncoming cars flickered over his face.

  “Yeah. I’m aware.” Dean clenched his jaw.

  “So you’ve got to promise me something.”

  “Okay. Yeah. Anything.”

  “You got to promise not to try to bring me back.”

  Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What awaited Sam in Hell made Dean’s time down there look like the ball pit in a McDonald’s playground; fun but a little smelly. It wasn’t going to be the same for Sam. Sam was going to get the royal treatment. He would be toast. Dean couldn’t just let his brother rot in Hell.

  “So, what am I supposed to do?” Dean asked.

  “You go find Lisa. You pray she’s dumb enough to take you in. You go have barbeques. And you go to football games. You go live some normal apple pie life, Dean. Promise me,” Sam said, looking at his brother.

  Far away lights blinked in and out over the cornfields of Michigan as the Impala raced past. They were rocketing toward their destiny. Sam knew it. Dean knew it.

  Dean’s throat was dry. He wasn’t supposed to even try to get his brother back?

  Dean lay in bed for twenty minutes staring at the ceiling, thinking about Sam. Downstairs he could hear Lisa and Ben getting ready to go to the reservoir. Dean knew life was precious, at any point they could go and most likely be gone forever. Then somehow whatever was holding Dean back, the bind finally dissolved. A weight lifted off him. Dean decided he should join Lisa and Ben. He would do this for Sam.

  “Hey, buddy,” Dean greeted Ben gruffly as he appeared in the kitchen doorway freshly showered and shaved.

  Ben looked up from his breakfast. He beamed an accepting smile at Dean.

  “Hey. Are you coming with us today?”

  Lisa looked over from the stove, a wordless communication passed between them and Dean nodded. She understood him. Her limitless patience and acceptance was not the only thing Dean appreciated. As Lisa turned back toward the scrambled eggs Dean couldn’t help but admire her tightly jean-clad backside. He quickly turned his attention to Ben.

  “What’s on the agenda at the park?”

  “Fishing,” Ben said, devouring the last bit of toast. “But I’m always the one that has to hook the worms for Mom.”

  “I’m squeamish with anything squishy,” Lisa said, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Well, we can’t have that,” Dean said, taking a place on a stool next to Ben. “I mean, it’s every man for themselves when it comes to fishing. Right Ben?”

  “I’ve tried to teach her, but it’s useless.”

  “I have a Winchester method that my father taught me.” Dean lightly tapped Ben on the arm. “We’ll get your mom up to speed. Next thing you know she’ll be on Bass Masters.”

  Lisa set down some eggs, toast and a cup of coffee in front of Dean.

  “I’m not going to be on Bass Masters.”

  Dean took a scoop of eggs.

  “If I had known there was this type of service around here, I might have come downstairs more often,” he said.

  Lisa smiled. “The chef serves, the eaters wash up.”

  Dean made a face at Ben.

  “I cleaned up last night,” Ben said, taking his plate to the sink. “That means it’s your turn.”

  Lisa leaned over the counter and sipped at her coffee. She chided, “Gotta pull your own weight around here.”

  Dean shoveled more eggs into his mouth. He might be able to do that.

  “Ben, go get ready. Pull the tackle box and rods from the garage and set them out front. Okay?” Lisa said.

  “Okay.” Ben slid off the stool and disappeared through the laundry-room door leading to the garage.

  A silence fell between Dean and Lisa. She put her hand on his knee.

  “Thank you.”

  Dean set down his fork and peered into Lisa’s dark eyes. He gently brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. Dean had been sleeping in Lisa’s guest room for two months and never once had she asked why Dean had chosen her.

  “Lisa, Sam told me to come here. To be with you.”

  “Are you telling me you’re only here because Sam told you to come?”

  “No. Initially, I didn’t know where else to go. But also, yes, because he wanted me to be with you. Because even if I didn’t want to admit it, he knew I wanted a life where I didn’t have to worry if there’s something around the corner ready to jump me. Sam knew me better than I knew myself. I’m sorry. I should have told you this weeks ago.”

  “I don’t care if you’re here because Sam said so. You wouldn’t have stayed unless you wanted to. Right?”

  Dean nodded.

  “Then I guess it means you want to stay. Maybe you should start accepting that, rather than beating yourself up about it. Moving forward isn’t a bad thing, Dean. And if you want to move forward with me and Ben, well... I’m willing to try that. You get what I’m saying?”

  Dean understood. Even though the very fabric of his soul resisted the idea that he deserved good things, perhaps he couldn’t suffer any longer. There wasn’t anything he could do for Sam now except what he had asked: to be happy with Lisa.

  THREE

  “Moo shoo pork?” Dean called. He pulled the food container from the box on the kitchen table.

  “That’s mine,” Ben yelled, racing from the living room to the kitchen, “and I want white rice.”

  “Brown rice. It’s better for you.” Lisa said, spooning rice onto a plate for Ben.

  “Okay, whatever.” Ben grabbed the plate and carried it back to his position in front of the television.

  “Whoa, what’s the rush?” Dean asked over his shoulder.

  Ben turned up the sound.

  “Not so loud,” Lisa called, taking her place across the dinner table from Dean. She smiled as Dean cracked open a beer and dug into his chow mein.

  “Not a bad place,” Dean said, between bites.

  “And you wanted to go to the Golden Palace again.” Lisa smiled. “I don’t know why you like it so much. You think that waitress is cute, don’t you?”

  “She doesn’t have anything on you,” Dean said, picking up Lisa’s free hand and kissing her palm.

  The last couple of weeks with Dean had been, if anything, simply idyllic: Dean had found a job refurbishing old buildings in nearby towns, and he was even cooking every once in a while. Life with Dean was great, even after everything they had been through in the beginning. Lisa never thought that Dean would walk back into her life, but here he was. It was strange. Years ago she had resigned herself to being a single mother. She had practically mastered being a single parent: she went to Ben’s softball games, covered the parent/teacher conferences, stayed up late with Ben when he had the stomach flu. She handled a lot: the carpooling, lugging sports equipment, even the science projects which she never really understood. Lisa did it all. But it was the loneliness she felt at night that made her really want a partner. Then Dean showed up and all that changed.

  Dean had never lived a normal life except those first years in Lawrence, Kansas before his mother was killed. Life with Lisa was exactly what he had imagined domesticity to be. There was no denying it; Dean was happy. He was like a regular guy: he had bought a truck and retired the Impal
a, and had even taken Ben to a couple of Indianapolis Indians baseball games.

  Lisa had introduced Dean to the next-door neighbors. As summer approached cookouts became commonplace and Dean wholeheartedly took part in all suburbia had to offer.

  On those summer nights Dean manned the grill while the neighborhood kids and Ben ran around menacing everyone with super soakers. And as the spring days dripped away into nights buzzing with the sound of cicadas, Dean’s dreams about Sam stopped. For the first time in months Dean had slept through the night.

  “You’ve got to help me, sis!” An inflated music score of a network show blared out from the television.

  “Ben. Turn it down!” Lisa pulled her chair around and stared at the back of Ben’s head. He was thoroughly engrossed and ignored the command. Lisa sprang to her feet.

  “I’ll get it.” Dean stuffed an egg roll into his mouth and crossed to the living room. “Ben, your mom is talking to you.”

  Ben nodded but didn’t make a move. Picking up the remote, Dean pointed it at the TV to turn down the volume.

  “Carrissa, please.” On the screen a blonde clad in black leather pants was being whipped around by an invisible force. “Use the Necronomicon!”

  A brunette girl flipped through the elaborate pages of a large grimoire. “I’m trying. Here it is!” She began a Latin incantation. The wind subsided and the blonde dropped to the floor. The girls—sisters, Dean gathered—hugged each other. They had just escaped some sort of supernatural force and both of them wanted to go home. But how would they hide this from their mother? The two girls quipped a couple of lines of tween banter.

  “What’s this?” Dean asked.

  “It’s a new show. It’s about two teenage witches.” Ben blushed a bit. “But they’re badass, not like stupid witches.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Spell Bound.”

  “Spell Bound, huh?” Dean sat down, and paused the show.

  On screen, the book they called the Necronomicon hovered in digital stasis. During all of his obsessing over the past couple of months Dean hadn’t thought about the Necronomicon.

  The book had been thought to be a work of fiction by twentieth-century occultist and novelist H.P. Lovecraft. A Wikipedia search could bring up enough facts about it to make any Hollywood screenwriter seem sufficiently knowledgeable about the work; thus its appearance in the pop-song scored, tween show of which Ben was a fan.