Dean turned his head away and repeated the last sentence of the incantation.
“Non opus in hoc mundo. Revertere unde veneris. Accipe sacrificium et recedemus.”
Belial bent down and shot his hand out, grabbing Dean’s chin. He pulled him toward the fire.
“I haven’t forgotten you, Dean. We’re still waiting for you to come back.”
With that he let go of Dean and stepped back into the fire and disappeared. The brimstone died down into embers, the earth closed back up and the ground re-coagulated into solid earth.
Constance screamed in anger. She wielded her knife and sliced off the closest young witch’s head in one motion.
“You won’t get away with this!” Constance yelled to Dean. She flipped open the book in her hands. “What is this? This isn’t my book. What is this Winchester journal?” She threw the book onto the ground. Dean smiled. He hadn’t taught Ben much, but he had picked up some neat slight of hand.
Dean felt someone grab his hair and jerk his head back.
“You made her mad,” Prudence said. “And you’ve really disappointed me, Dean. Why are you always screwing things up for me?” With a powerful swing she threw Dean across the cavern. He hit the rock walls and slid onto the ground.
I’m getting really tired of being thrown around like this, Dean thought.
Prudence stepped over the dying fire and marched toward him. Dean shook the cobwebs from his head. He was still holding the Necronomicon. He flipped to another page and started reading.
“God of darkness, God of light bring forth the witness this one night. Those that have died at the hands of the undone. Bring them forth for them to shun those that have trespassed against the good and innocent. Bring them forth for the world to once again gain equilibrium.”
Prudence stopped in her tracks.
“You wouldn’t.”
“I just did,” Dean said. “I think some people have a score to settle.”
Dean pulled a canister of salt out of his jacket and poured a ring around him. Prudence raced forward, but he closed the circle before she could reach him. Dean smiled and pointed behind her. Prudence swung around.
The witches stood still as the spirits of the long-dead residents of Salem Village appeared. Bridget Bishop, the first to be hanged, approached Prudence.
“I remember you. You sent me to hang. I was innocent, yet you used your cunning and wit and let me hang.”
“You slit my throat,” a young voice said. Prudence spun again and came face to face with Abigail Faulkner. “I trusted you. I did everything you said, and how was I repaid? I became your first sacrifice.”
Prudence shrugged. “Come now, Abby. I was only doing what I was told. It was Constance who picked you to sacrifice.”
Abigail shook her head.
“No, it was you.” Abigail shot her hand through Prudence’s chest. Prudence tried to struggle, but her strength had already been drained by the resurrections. “I could have lived a long and happy life. I should have. Well, now we’ll make sure you’re shown the same justice as you showed the innocent people of Salem.”
Abigail thrust her hand deeper and Prudence’s skin began to lose its healthy pallor. Her eyes grayed over, her skin cracked and flaked. Abigail continued to hold Prudence until her body fell into a thousand dusty pieces at her feet.
Abigail looked at the walnut-sized shriveled heart in her hand, and she let it drop to the ground. She then looked at Dean and the ring of salt around his feet.
“I don’t remember you,” she said.
“I’m just here to observe. It’s your fight now,” Dean replied.
Abigail nodded, turned and sped toward Constance. The tall, fearsome witch was hissing and spitting as she fought off a dozen angry Salem ghosts all at once.
“Get off me you fleabags. You were worthless bags of skin in life and now you’re worthless specks of dust. Get off me!” she screamed.
Bridget Bishop jumped onto Constance’s back. She reached over and thrust her hand into her chest. Constance thrashed and fought, but the angry spirit held on. Other ghosts piled on top of her, until Dean couldn’t even see the witch beneath layers of ghostly flesh.
Finally, one last scream of agony and anger echoed through the cavern as Constance suddenly aged to her three-hundred-and-fifty years, and crumpled into dirt.
The cavern was suddenly eerily quiet. With their leader gone, the few witches that remained evaporated.
The gang members surveyed the scene and then gathered their weapons and limped back toward the tunnel. Dean looked around the echoing space that was littered with bodies. Some of the resurrected witches had merely turned to piles of dusty clothes. Dean shook his head.
Abigail approached him once again.
“Are you a Campbell?” she asked.
Dean nodded. “Yes, I am.”
Abigail smiled. “Thank you. Thank Thomas and Caleb for me too.”
Dean nodded, he didn’t want to correct the poor ghost and tell her they were long gone.
Their work done, Abigail and the other ghosts of Salem disappeared into thin air.
Dean stepped out of the salt circle. He searched the ground for John’s journal and finding it, tucked it safely back into his jacket. Tim’s body lay prostrate at Dean’s feet. Dean took his Zippo and tore a little piece of cloth from his shirt. He opened the back door of the Escalade, set the burning piece of fabric in the trunk next to the explosives and shut the door.
He then crouched down and swung Tim’s body onto his shoulder and started jogging up the tunnel. He knew he didn’t have long to get out.
Thirty seconds later, the percussive explosions started. Dean ran full force with the kid’s six-foot frame bumping against his. He headed through both sets of doors, swinging them closed behind him and then ran out of the parking structure.
Dean hauled ass up the parking ramp just as the BMW douche from before was pulling in. Dean stood in front of the car.
“Don’t go in there man,” he yelled.
“What are you saying to me?” BMW said. “Is that a dead body?” The guy indicated the figure thrown over Dean’s shoulder.
“I warned you,” Dean said, moving away and walking onto the grass.
With that a massive explosion ripped through the parking structure. The BMW blew backwards and Dean was thrown to the ground, Tim’s body crumpled beneath him. He stood up as the rest of the gang appeared and surrounded the body. They ceremonially placed a sheet over it.
“He was a good kid. A hero,” Dean managed to say.
The kids nodded.
“Dean!” Ben shouted, running toward him. Lisa followed and they both hugged Dean. “You made it,” Ben said. “I knew you would. The old guy did too.”
“What old guy?” Dean asked.
“Your friend. The bald old guy,” Ben said hugging him.
Dean looked at Lisa who shrugged.
“That was some nice hand work, Ben,” Dean said, referring to the switch Ben pulled on the Necronomicon and the journal.
“Thanks,” Ben said. “But next vacation I think I’m going to stay home.”
“Me too,” Lisa said with a sad smile.
“I think I owe you both a real one,” Dean said.
“Yeah, we’re going to have to talk about that,” Lisa said.
They started to walk away, then Dean halted.
“I gotta make one stop first.” He left Ben and Lisa and jogged over across the lawn to the Tim’s grandmother’s house. He rang the doorbell.
A moment later Tim’s Gram answered the door. She took one look at Dean and seemed to know immediately what had happened.
“I’m so sorry,” Dean said. “He was a good kid. There’s some money on his bed.”
The old lady shook her head.
“I don’t need no money. I need my grandson alive.”
“He sacrificed himself for me and my family. He was a real brave kid,” Dean said.
She nodded, then shut the door on Dean. H
e walked soberly back to Lisa and Ben and they started to walk down the road. Dean wished once again that he had bought the Impala.
THIRTY-NINE
Two Weeks Later
Dean opened his eyes and stared up at the eggshell-colored ceiling. Early morning light filtered through the blinds. The other side of the bed was empty. Lisa must have gotten out of bed without him waking up. Downstairs Lisa had left a note. She was filling in for a yoga class and it was Ben’s first day of school. A slight flutter of guilt filled Dean as he had wanted to be up to say goodbye to Ben, and wish him luck.
Dean poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee and sat down on the couch. The house was silent, no kids played outside. He was utterly alone. He had tried to put the events two weeks ago behind him. But no matter how much Dean tried to forget it, he always came back to the realization that he had failed Sam once again. He wasn’t able to resurrect him and the thought of living the rest of his life without him still torn his insides out.
Dean picked up his phone, he ached for someone, anyone, to call. But who would that be? Bobby would be glad to hear from him, but it wouldn’t be the same. Dean needed his brother back. He sighed. And yet he had made a promise to him. Dean decided to keep it. He pushed himself off the couch, went outside and into the garage. A few seconds later he had the mower out, and was pushing it across the lawn.
If this was the life Sam wanted him to lead, then he was going to do it. For Sam.
“Well I can’t say it was a job well done, but you did manage to keep Lucy in his cage, so I guess kudos to you.” Crowley stepped out of the shadows of Samuel’s office.
Samuel stared up at him, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“Dean almost got killed,” Samuel said. “The kid, too.”
“Ah but he didn’t, old boy. You did your job and now we have to get back to work don’t we? Must keep our eyes on the prize. Your darling Mary.”
Samuel jumped out of his seat with such force that the chair knocked over and his whiskey glass spun like a top on the table. He was chin to chin with Crowley.
“Don’t ever say her name again,” Samuel warned.
“Well since I don’t take to reading the Bible each night, I won’t have much trouble with that. Sit down and get your smelly meat mouth out of my face before I get upset,” Crowley said with an edge.
Samuel backed off.
“Now I think you have some monsters to catch.” Crowley flashed a crooked smile.
“I’m telling you this now,” Samuel said, “as soon as Mary is returned to me, you better watch your Limey ass. Because I’m going to hunt it down and send it back to Hell.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” Crowley spat. “Very much.”
And with that the demon disappeared. Samuel picked up his chair and sat back down. There was a knock on the door. Samuel grumbled some sort of acquiesce and Sam entered. He closed the door behind him.
“Thought you might like to know, there’s a nest of vamps in Oklahoma City. You want to come?” Sam asked.
Samuel shook his head.
“You can take care of it without me. You know the drill.”
Sam nodded. He paused a moment.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Samuel replied, not looking up.
Sam nodded. “Be back by noon tomorrow.”
Outside, Sam gave a quick nod to Gwen and Mark, and they headed toward the truck. Sam breathed in the crisp morning air, it felt what he imagined was “good.” He got in the van.
As they pulled away from the compound, Sam’s mind stayed on the sad look on Samuel’s face. A flicker of sympathy passed over his face, like a quick zap of static from a socket on a dry day. Then as quickly as it came, it was gone.
EPILOGUE
Fall 1705
Caleb and I rode into Philadelphia under the cover of darkness. Though only late September, the weather was unusually cold. Fog pushed in from the river and rolled down Market Street making the cobblestones wet and slick. We had been called to town by one Mrs. Webster Moreland. Her letter, hand-delivered to our inn by a servant boy, had asked that we come immediately.
She had recently arrived in the town of Philadelphia and had left a sizeable estate up the river in the care of her son, Arthur. It seems that she had become rather frightened of her only son; that he was not himself. Once a gregarious, kind-hearted young man, he now seemed sullen and mean, and was seized by frequent violent outbursts. Not knowing if a disease had taken over her son, Mrs Moreland had fled to her city house.
Caleb believes she is mad, and has made a bet with me to prove it.
“This will be a waste of our time,” Caleb said, “you’ll see. She will turn out to be a fussy old hen who is making up stories.”
I told him we would see for ourselves.
As it turned out Mrs. Moreland was neither fussy nor an old hen. She was a stocky and sane woman who seemed to have her household in order. Her son was her main concern.
We arrived at seven, just in time for dinner, and she invited us to join her. Caleb and I looked out of place in our leather coats and canvas trousers at her polished dinner table, piled high with roasts and pies. After a meal that rivaled our Christmas feasts, we sat down to speak about her son. After some discussion, it was decided that Caleb and I would ride up to her estate and survey her son’s behavior.
It seemed however that Arthur had other plans.
Arthur arrived at his mother’s brick townhouse, unannounced, just after ten. He seemed surprised that she had visitors, namely two gritty gentlemen like Caleb and myself, but he put on his best face to hide his disgust.
It was decided that we would spend the night. Caleb and I shared a room which contained two of the largest beds we had ever seen. Arthur slept across the hall. Or so we thought. At around two in the morning we heard him sneak out of his room, creep down the stairs, and then we heard the click of the front door latch. Caleb and I jumped into our boots and followed him.
The fog hadn’t dissipated any as we followed Arthur down the damp streets. At some point he turned a corner into a darkened alleyway. Not having been in the town of Philadelphia before, Caleb and I were unfamiliar with its streets. Perhaps there was another way around, but we didn’t know for sure, and since we risked losing Arthur’s trail, we followed.
We made our way after Arthur as quietly as we could. The narrow passage stunk of wharf rats from the nearby piers. Behind a brick house we saw Arthur steal into a recessed basement of some sort. When we were sure he was shut inside, we peered into the street-level windows: inside was full of merry men and women, dancing and drinking. Not so unusual, we thought, he’s just a regular young man out for a night of fun.
But then from behind us came a sound. We hid behind a couple crates of trash and watched a young man in upper-class finery walk to the same door. He looked in our direction and though I’m sure he couldn’t see us we were caught with a most surprising site. His eyes were black—jet black as the night.
Dearest sister, father once told us of demons, but we have never encountered them ourselves. We are in need of any and all of the Latin exorcism texts, as well as your expertise.
We are afraid there is a scourge of demons in Philadelphia. Please come quick.
Your dearest brother,
Thomas
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Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
PROLOGUE
EPILOGUE
FOREWORD
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
Supernatural: One Year Gone Page 24
