One Year Gone E-Book

Rebecca Dessertine

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 379

Beschreibung

Dean believes that Sam is in Hell so he is trying to keep his promise to his brother and live a normal live with Lisa and Ben. When he realizes that a spell in the Necronomicon could raise Lucifer and therefore Sam, he convinces his new family to travel with him on vacation to Salem. Meanwhile Sam is not as far away as Dean thinks and is determined to protect his brother from the Salem witches... A Supernatural novel that reveals a previously unseen adventure for the Winchester brothers, from the hit TV series! Twenty-seven years ago, Sam and Dean Winchester lost their mother to a demonic supernatural force. Following the tragedy, their father taught the boys everything about the paranormal evil that lives in the dark corners of America... and how to kill it. This story will fill in gaps in the Supernatural timeline thanks to the author's first-hand knowledge of the show and unrivalled access to the show's creator

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

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

The Official Supernatural Magazine

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS:

Supernatural: Heart of the Dragon

by Keith R.A. DeCandido

Supernatural: The Unholy Cause

by Joe Schreiber

Supernatural: War of the Sons

by Rebecca Dessertine & David Reed

COMING SOON FROM TITAN BOOKS:

Supernatural: Coyote’s Kiss

by Christa Faust

Supernatural: Night Terror

by John Passarella

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.

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.

“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 at 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 Impala, 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.

But in truth, the book had existed over millennia, though it had been called a couple of different things: The Red Dragon, The Great Grimoire. These texts had all been combined, picked apart, then combined again. But the original text was thought to have come from one man, some seven hundred years before Christ’s birth in Sumeria, what is now Iraq. It had been recopied, abridged and added to over centuries. The original was in an ancient form of Arabic, but it was later translated into Latin, Greek, German, and French by other scholars, monks, and priests.

The book contained ancient rights and spells with which to bind gods, which were in actuality demons. When the book was translated by Christians it was interpreted with less mysticism and more religion. The unorthodox nature of the text made many Christian scholars nervous, so they added locks and safety measures into the text, but it still stayed powerful.

Despite the changes made to the incantations, the text included spells for necromancy, raising the dead, the binding of demons, and mastery over the earthbound. If someone knew what they were doing the book was as potent as the day it was written. But there was one spell in particular—the only spell in the Necronomicon which Dean was interested in—a spell that could raise Lucifer.

The brothers had toiled to get Lucifer into the cage, but the Necronomicon was written to release Lucifer and bind him—a whole different story to raising Lucifer and starting the Apocalypse. It had never been done before because all sixty-six seals had to have been broken. But Sam had taken care of that and that meant that, in theory at least, Lucifer could now be raised and bound.

If Dean could get Lucifer out of Hell, he would be getting Sam out of the cage as well. Lucifer would no longer have to fight Michael, so he might have lost his spunk and perhaps could be lassoed silent for enough time for Dean to expel Lucifer from his brother’s body. But the first step would be freeing Lucifer.

Dean thought about where he could find a complete enough version of the book. The brothers had run into a Necronomicon a couple of times, though usually only abridged, watered-down, fit-for-public-consumption pamphlets. An elementary version of the book had been used by the teens who had switched Sam into the body of a suburban geek a couple of years ago. It was witchcraft all right, but the pesky, pimpled kids had probably picked up their copy in a head shop.

The actual Necronomicon was locked up in a cloister somewhere in Europe. Chances were that H.P. Lovecraft had made most of his version up, since reading from the actual text is often fatal—it can only be used by someone very practiced and powerful. Dean was pretty sure that Amazon wasn’t selling the originals. He had to find a real one.

And then who would help him cast the spell? He needed someone who knew how to handle powerful magic. Witches and those who practice witchcraft had used the Necronomicon and texts like it since ancient cultures developed an alphabet. The lineage of the sorcerers familiar with the book trickled down from ancient Sumeria to today. But where was Dean going to find a witch? He couldn’t ask Bobby to point him in the right direction, and he and Sam had ganked every other witch that they had encountered. Finding a witch that was powerful enough and willing to help Dean might be difficult in Cicero, Indiana.

Dean sat down next to Ben, who again commandeered the remote.

“You want more?” Lisa called to Dean. “If not I’m saving it for leftovers.”

Dean didn’t answer, he was thinking about his brother.

FOUR

Sam peered at the house through the Impala’s rain-splattered windshield. They had followed their mark home, but there hadn’t been any movement since he went inside.

“What do you think he’s doing in there?” Sam asked.

“What else would a guy who has killed everyone in his family be doing?” Dean said.

“You think he did it?” Sam asked.

“Totally. You’re such a softy, Sam. You think he’s in there making a fluffer-nutter and sitting down to watch Frontline? No, he’s getting ready to go out and eat more human flesh. He’s the last man standing. Of course he did it. He’s gotta be a rugaru or a shapeshifter or something.”

Sam wasn’t so sure. Granted, Nick Warner had been found in the house where all three of his family members were found dead. But he claimed that he was sleeping and didn’t hear anything. Plus, the police had cleared him. However, in all of Sam and Dean’s travels they had come across stranger things. It could be a case of amnesia. Certainly in werewolf cases they had encountered the infected people didn’t remember anything when they turned back. Maybe Nick Warner didn’t remember killing his family.

“We have to just wait and see.”

“Well, I’ve had enough, I’m going in,” Dean said as he kicked open the car door and grabbed his sawed-off from the back seat.

“Dean, wait. What’re you gonna do? Just walk into the guy’s house? That’s breaking and entering,” Sam said, following closely behind his brother, shotgun in hand.

“Not the way I do it. The way I do it, it’s just breaking.”

Dean stomped up the steps and yelled, “Nick Warner, we know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up or we’re coming to get you!”

“What are you going to do when he comes out and sees you’re not the police, Kojak?” Sam asked.

Dean ran his fingers through his hair. “Just let me handle that pa—”

A horrible scream came from inside the house. Followed by the sound of breaking furniture.

“Watch out!” Dean cried.

He stepped back, then hurled his shoulder into the door. The lock splintered away, revealing the dark interior beyond.

“Mr. Warner? Nick Warner?” Sam called.

The house had fallen silent. Dean motioned that he was going to check the back rooms, and he indicated that Sam should sweep the upper floors. As Sam crept up the stairway, a dark streak crossed quickly before him. A door slammed at the top of the landing. Sam stood before the door with his shotgun at the ready, then slowly turned the door handle and entered the room.

On the bed a nasty old crone crouched over a tied and bound man, who Sam assumed to be Nick Warner. She was up to her elbows in Nick, her hand jammed into his mouth. Nick was turning blue. She was trying to tear out his heart.

Sam pulled the trigger back and aimed at the crone’s back. But she was quick. In moments, the old hag humped on top of him and overpowered his large frame. He struggled beneath her weight, her putrid breath wet his face with corpse-smelling saliva.

“Dean!” Sam yelled.

The crone was stronger than her bony body suggested. Both Sam’s arms were pinned to the floor. She bent down and examined Sam’s face. Sam half expected her to tell him how pretty he was. Instead she said, “I’m going to eat your heart.”

“Talk about cliché,” Dean said from the doorway.

The crone’s dark pupils swept over Dean.

“You’re next. But first I’m going to take his liver,” she cackled.

She shot her arm down Sam’s throat. His eyes bugged out, and he fought against her with his one free arm.

BLAM! The bullet blew apart the crone’s head. Her body slumped over. Sam gagged and threw the body off him. He rubbed his tongue with his hand, trying to get the taste of the old woman’s disgusting limb out of his mouth.

“Yum. Croney,” Dean said.

He took one look at Nick Warner and his smile vanished.

“Let’s get this poor guy to the hospital. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“I almost lost a liver. I can still feel her fingers touching my stomach lining,” Sam said with a grimace. “So, I guess Nick wasn’t to blame.”

“Nope, guess not,” Dean said, untying the poor man from the bed. He then hoisted him onto his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get going.”

Later that night, as Dean and Sam drove out of the small North Dakota town, they both enjoyed a moment of quiet contemplation. The feeling that they were doing good in the world.

Dean woke from his reverie.

“You seem far away.” Lisa leaned back in her lawn chair and regarded Dean.

It was a very warm day, summer was in full swing and Ben was out riding his bike with friends. Dean had been staring into space silently for a good twenty minutes without speaking. His mind was far away, in a different dimension entirely, he was thinking about breaking Sam out of the cage. The terrible dreams about Sam had stopped, but Dean’s obsession with springing Sam had not.

“What’s going on in there?” Lisa tapped Dean’s head with her index finger.

Dean dusted away the cobwebs.

“I’m good. I’m good. Don’t I look good?”

“Yes. I was just wondering what you were thinking,” Lisa said, then held up her hand in defense. “I know it’s one of the cardinal sins of relationships to ask a guy what he’s thinking. But I figure I have a kid, I’m way past stuff like that.”

“I’m thinking...” Dean in fact knew he couldn’t tell Lisa what he was thinking. The Necronomicon, he thought. I’m thinking about how I’m going to find a powerful ancient book, steal it, and then use it to bounce my brother—who is probably already ripped to shreds—