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SUPERNATURAL™
ONE YEAR GONE
REBECCA DESSERTINE
WITH FOREWORD BY ERIC KRIPKE
Based on the hit CW series SUPERNATURAL created by Eric Kripke
TITAN BOOKS
Supernatural: One Year Gone
ISBN: 9780857685421
Published by
Titan Books
A division of
Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St
London
SE1 0UP
First edition May 2011
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
SUPERNATURAL™ & © 2011 Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
Cover imagery: Front cover image courtesy of Warner Bros..
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Printed and bound in the United States.
Contents
FOREWORD
PROLOGUE - Winter 1692
PROLOGUE - 2010
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
EPILOGUE
FOREWORD
So here’s the thing. The book that you currently hold in your hot little hands (or are reading virtually on your hot little tablet doo-hickey) was written by the Supernatural staff member who knows the inside of my sticky skull better than just about anybody. Better than Sera Gamble or Bob Singer, that’s for sure. You see, Rebecca has the unenviable job of my assistant. Which means she has to tolerate my bellowing rants, my hurling hot coffee in her face. Just kidding—I’m not really that kind of boss—more the compulsively neurotic type—a less photogenic Albert Brooks, if you will. But I digress. In truth, I interact with Rebecca more than anybody on the show—all my notes and drafts go across her desk, she performs crucial research, she contributes brilliant show ideas—and most of all, she sees how our grubby little series is made, from a catbird seat like no other. On top of it all—she’s smart. Damn smart. Damn good writer, too. And all of this adds up to the book (or hologram) you are currently grasping in your meathooks. I think you’ll enjoy the corner she’s staked out within our weird little universe. Because she lives inside that universe as much as any of us. Hell, maybe more. Anyway, have fun. And send a silent prayer to Rebecca—she needs it—after all, she’s got to put up with me.
Eric Kripke
Creator & Executive Producer, Supernatural
PROLOGUE
Winter 1692
A pale sliver of crescent moon pinches at the sky. A lone pair of footsteps crunches over a snow-encased field. Through spindly black brush, a young girl emerges and makes her way over the frozen earth. Her full black skirts scrape hieroglyphic shapes into the powdery snow. She stops and studies the ground before her; a covered mound pushes upwards from the earth. Scraping off the moss with her mitten-covered hands she reveals a grave. Despite the cold she proceeds to kneel down before it.
From beneath her coat she takes out a folded piece of purple fabric. Unwrapping the triangles of cloth, she lays it ceremonially on the frozen earth. Out of her pockets, she produces various objects and sets them precisely on the shroud. Faint moonlight glints off a silver outline of the pentagram extending to the corners. The girl pulls forth several black candles, fighting the wind as she lights them.
Into a small brass bowl she drops various feather pieces, stone, crystal, and herbs. Then she pulls a small dagger from her coat and presses the blade against her palm. Wincing slightly she slices the soft skin from her index finger to the base. Blood drips into the bowl covering the objects.
From her pocket she produces a worn book, two fists thick. Nervously, she lays it on her lap, brushing the pages apart with her gloved hands. Her voice wavers as she starts to chant, softly at first, tracing the words with her finger as she reads.
The wind whips up, steadily increasing to a screaming gale. The girl shades her eyes from the blowing snow but continues to chant over the howl of the cold air. The flakes before her begin to gather, as if attracted to one another by an unseen force, becoming denser and denser. The whirlwind slowly takes on a shape.
With each howl of the wind more snow coagulates until the figure of a woman solidifies before the girl. The girl peers up at the tall figure. A faint gasp escapes her blue lips. Her eyes move over the vestige of rotting flesh before her. She bows.
“Madam. I’ve missed you so. I serve only you.”
The specter’s glassy, dead eyes seem not to register the plea.
The girl continues. “I’ve done exactly as instructed. I’ve tried so very hard.” She wipes away a small dribble of mucus from her nose. “Council me. I know not how to make more provisions for him.”
The corners of the specter’s mouth turn upwards into a curdled smile.
“Why child, know what ye must. Raise us all.”
The color drains from the girl’s face.
“I... What if I cannot?” Her tear-streaked face turns upwards. “I’m not as strong as you.”
The specter’s lips prune into a rotten scowl. Raising her arm, she gives a quick flick of her wrist. The girl catches her breath as if someone startled her from behind. Her hands fly to her throat as a phantom grip tightens down onto her doe-sized neck. Blood rims her corneas, she fails to draw a breath.
The woman leans down, eye
to eye with the girl.
“Well then, if you cannot do it, I will find someone else.”
She slowly turns her hand. The girl’s eyes dilate to saucers as the vertebra in her neck go POP, POP, POP, snapping like chicken bones.
At that moment, from behind, a dark figure emerges from the tree line. She approaches the girl silently, produces a knife and with one hand grabs the girl’s neck as the blade slices across her throat. Her small body falls limp into the snow, lifeless dark eyes staring out across the white expanse.
The pages of the old tome flap like the wings of a downed bird.
The figure holds the knife downward as blood drips from its blade. She picks up the book and continues the incantation as the blood petals over the white snow; spreading and soaking the purple cloth.
“Deviser of Darkness, imus adque deportamus...”
As the woman continues the chant, the specter darkens and materializes. With each word the figure becomes more corporeal: Her limbs take shape. The rancid skin on her face smoothes and tightens. Her rotting, torn clothes repair themselves.
The woman stops chanting, and looks at the creature before her.
“Dear mother, I’ve missed you so.”
The old woman nods, and the two walk off across the field together.
Snow wafts over the young girl’s dead body. Gradually, the snow covers the slight figure, blending it into the white landscape.
PROLOGUE
2010
Dean and Sam swig from a bottle as they barrel-ass down a dark country road. Dean cranks the tunes. Sam smiles and lays back into the Impala’s passenger seat. All is right with the world.
“How long till we get there?” Sam asks.
Dean casts a sidewards glance at Sam. “Dude, you’re my personal Garmin, figure it out.”
Dean smiles, he loves making Sam feel like the little brother. But Sam doesn’t respond.
“You’re my co-pilot. Just without the uniform.”
No answer.
“Sam? You in there? When are we going to get there?” Dean asks, a flicker of concern on his face.
Sam turns toward Dean.
“We’ll never get there, Dean. It’s over. All over. I’m gone.”
* * *
Dean woke with a start. His flailing arm hit the quarter-full glass of Scotch on the bedside table. A brown spot on the cream-colored sisal rug widened to a stain. Crap.
Hefting himself up off the bed Dean reached for the towel that was draped over the chair by the window. But as his feet hit the ground, the sheets wrapped around his ankles, impeding his progress. Tied and tripped up, he landed on his face.
“Perfect, another kick-ass way to start the day, Dean,” he muttered to himself.
The bedroom door creaked open. Dean studied the pair of feet sporting nicely painted toenails that moved into his eyeline. He looked up. Lisa Braeden stood over him with a pitying smile on her face. Dean had grown quite accustomed to the expression that he induced almost every time they spoke. It was the same face Dean was met with when six weeks ago he showed up on her doorstep, after God knows how many years. They hadn’t been serious, it was just a couple of dates, years ago. But Dean and Sam had come to her rescue when her housing development had been taken over by a serious case of deadly child-nappers.
“Nice to see you made it this far out of bed today. That’s farther than any day this week.”
Bleary-eyed, Dean nodded. This is his life.
ONE
“I’ll make you some eggs,” Lisa said as she picked up a pair of jeans from the floor. “We’re going to Morse Reservoir today, if you want to come.”
Dean heaved himself back onto the bed.
“No thanks. I’ll just stay here.”
Lisa’s eyes flicked over Dean’s unshaven face.
“Why don’t you come? It might be fun. Remember fun?”
Dean smiled tightly, the levity of the conversation almost making him nauseous.
“Besides, you haven’t talked to Ben in a week.” Lisa sat on the bed next to Dean, taking his hand in hers. “I don’t mind you staying in our spare room, but it’s like living with a ghost. I told you I wasn’t going to push you—”
“You’re right, you did.” Dean cut in, immediately regretting his tone. “I’m sorry. I’m trying.”
“I know you are. So am I. That’s why I’m asking you if you want to go to the park.”
She brushed the light hairs on the back of Dean’s hand. The pure emotion made his stomach twist.
Dean withdrew his hand from Lisa’s.
“Give me a couple minutes.”
Lisa pursed her lips, as though she wanted to say more. Instead, she kissed Dean on the cheek and stood up. At the door she turned and held up Dean’s discarded jeans.
“Just in case you care to join us, I’m going to throw these in the wash.”
Dean nodded.
Lisa closed the door to Dean’s room, slowly clicking the lock. She stood there for a moment wondering whether she had made a mistake when Dean came to her front door and she let him into her and her son’s life. Ben was twelve, impressionable and sensitive. She knew deep down how kind and generous Dean was, but she also knew that the years of hunting had calloused his ability to commit himself emotionally. She thought that perhaps she could get through to him. Two months on, she wondered if she had done the right thing. Emotionally, Dean was an out-of-control rollercoaster with faulty brakes. It was only a matter of time before he ran off the rails.
Dean sat on the edge of the bed, then lay back and closed his eyes. In his head he played over again the vision of Sam jumping into the pit of Hell: the fiery opening swirling and writhing in the middle of the cemetery. He had been there for his brother, but there hadn’t been anything he could do to stop him. Talk about being impotent. Sam had to jump, but an acidy feeling of regret constantly swirled in Dean’s stomach. He should have stopped him. But there wasn’t any other way. Every so often, like every two minutes, Dean’s heart would palpitate and leap into his throat. The reality was constantly there, Dean’s brain wouldn’t let it go: Sam was gone forever.
The smoky Scotch he drank in large gulps helped his cause. But frequently, mid-morning, after Ben had gone to school and Lisa had left to teach an early morning yoga class in Carmel, Dean’s mind would clear enough so that once again he remembered, moment by moment, Sam jumping into the pit.
There had been no other way to save the world. Sam had said “yes,” and Lucifer had taken over Sam’s body. The plan rested on the tenuous idea that Sam could somehow gain enough consciousness that he could hurl himself, with Lucifer within him, into the hole. The brothers had collected all four horsemen’s rings—Death gave Dean his ring outright—and together the rings opened up the portal to Hell.
But it didn’t go down like that. They weren’t able to get Lucifer into the portal. As was their fate, Lucifer and Michael met on the battlefield, ready to duke it out. The collateral damage would only be a few hundred million lives, and no one would need Pay-Per-View for this fight, it was going to be right outside everyone’s front door.
But on that field, in the middle of the fight, somehow Sam had gained enough control of his own body, while possessed by Lucifer, to hurl himself into the cage. And there he would stay for eternity.
With that act, a hole had opened up in Dean’s soul and there was no way to fill it. The Scotch only anesthetized him for a few hours. After that, the thoughts would come flooding back. The panicky guilt would set in and Dean would race down the stairs to the kitchen looking for everything and anything to drink in order to knock himself out again.
Once, Lisa had found him on the kitchen floor in just his boxers: a bottle of cough syrup spilled onto the linoleum beside him, a glass smashed on the floor and several shards embedded in his feet. Lisa had patiently brought him upstairs and put him into the shower then waited until he had sobered up enough to get into bed.
The next morning when Dean woke, Lisa was perched on the
side of his bed watching him.
“Not your finest moment yesterday,” she said.
“Yeah, sorry about that. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea coming here.”
“Maybe, but I want you to get better, Dean.”
Dean drew his fingers across his brow and pinched them together.
“I don’t think you can get better from something like this. That’s why I should probably leave.” Dean made a move to get out of bed.
“You’re not leaving. You can stay here as long as you want. But you have to make the decision if you want to move past this.”
“You can’t just move on from something like this, Lis. I let him do it.”
“There was no other way. Remember you said that? I can’t forgive you, Dean. You have to do that on your own.” Lisa got up and turned at the door. “You couldn’t have done anything else.”
Dean shook his head. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“No one could have.” Lisa’s hand hovered over the doorknob. “I’ll bring you up some coffee.” She shut the door, leaving Dean with his heart beating in his ears.
Day by day, Dean had started to rejoin the ranks of the living: he got up a little earlier rather than sleeping until noon, at night he would join Lisa and Ben while they were watching TV, still with a bottle close to hand, but drinking a little less every day.
Dean’s relationship with Lisa thrived through Dean’s self-imposed confinement.
“I know how to do laundry, Lisa.” Dean leaned against the washing machine as Lisa separated out the whites and coloreds.
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