Dogtown

By Tidia & MOG, September 2006


Chapter 8/10

Directly above the rock, dead leaves swirled upward as heralds; spinning like an ethereal tornado in slow motion. And in the center hovered a familiar, weathered figure.

“The toll must be paid.” She gazed down at them, her arm outstretched, palm turned up in a demanding fashion. Her toes hung just inches above the boulder. Sam’s eyes flickered downward and in the glow cast off by his flashlight he could see the word ‘Hope’ carved into the stone. The irony did not escape him – their whole plan was based on little more than hope.

“Just a little closer…” Dean mumbled. “Sam, if this doesn’t work, I want you to…” His suggestion was cut off as the spiral of leaves exploded outward, raining dust and debris down around them. The brothers shielded their eyes, but recovered quickly, not wishing to lose sight of the old woman.

They realized immediately that wouldn’t be a concern. She stood before them, the rock of Hope just inches behind her. No expression colored the taut, wrinkled face, and the milky white film shading her pupils gave Sam the feeling that the witch stared right through him. He unconsciously took a step back, ignoring the pain of his wounded leg.

“Come on,” he whispered, desperate for Emily to take control.

The old woman stumbled back suddenly, as if pulled from behind. With arms outstretched, her hands grabbed at the stone in an attempt to keep her body in contact with the boulder. Her neck arched, rolling her head back against the rock.

“Wants a life, took a life, she wants a life.” The young voice gasped forcefully, trying to communicate too many thoughts, too quickly. “Trade for trade, toll must be paid.”

Her head snapped down and clear, youthful eyes stared at Dean. “You trapped her,” she whispered. “She came back, shouldn’t come back…came back as I did…with me, in me. You brought me back and trapped her here.”

“Tell me what to do,” Dean answered. “How can I help you?

Emily’s eyes watered as she struggled to convey her thoughts. She whispered again, as if the soft tone would prevent anyone, or anything, undesired from hearing. “She brought me here. I didn’t want to come. This is her place. These are her woods. She takes my life here. Gives me her body. Gave me her body and takes my life. I don’t have much left…the life of the gifted is strong…I had the gift - and in the dark, she found me. You brought me back from the dark. But she still takes my life. She wants more. I can’t give anymore.”

She pulled a hand from the rock and pointed at Sam. “She wants his life.”

Dean stepped in front of his brother. “Not gonna happen,” he answered flatly. “This is about me. He’s got nothing to do with it.”

“The life of the gifted is strong. She wants him…Help me.” The old figure buckled forward, gasping as Emily struggled to maintain her lucidity and control.

Dean spoke quickly, desperate to keep in contact with the girl. “Listen, it was me who did this to you…Me! Come on, a little revenge would be good for you.” The two people closest to Dean fed their souls’ breath on revenge - he knew how that game was played. It was primeval, a base emotion.

“No, get away.” Emily pressed back against the stone, balancing on the line between her sanity and suffering. “I remember you. Please, I- she, will kill you.”

“Dean?” Sam reached for his brother’s shoulder, but Dean stepped toward Emily, shrugging off the touch.

It was too late, and Sam saw it - Dean was a hostage to his soul. The temptation to aid Emily and save Sam fed his courage. This was Dean.

Sam shifted from one foot to the other, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his leg and forearm. “You can’t do this on your own.”

The older Winchester didn’t look back, only kept his focus on Emily. “You’re right, but I can try.” Dean was invested with this life, invested in Sam. But even as the soul accepts condemnation, it is eager for redemption. And Dean craved redemption. “Can’t I, sweetheart?”

He held his arms out in a show of surrender. He had no doubts. This was what he was supposed to do - the right thing. Sam however, saw it as something different. It was an act beyond despair - this was resignation.

The easy offering was too a great temptation for the Queen of the Witches. Tammy Younger regained control, leaping out at Dean. She gripped his upper arms with a strength that belied her frail form, and the force of the connection enveloped Sam, knocking him to the ground.

Dean felt his muscles shake and his ability to concentrate wavered as a cold wind plucked at his skin. The sensation seemed familiar, his memory flashed back to his encounter with the grim reaper. However, the reaper was neither good nor bad, its agenda was simple. The hard grip now digging into the flesh of his arms was sinister.

He fought to catch his breath and struggled against the feeling that his very being was evaporating. The wound inflicted by the black dog’s talons burned across his side, further draining him. He shook his head, defying the evil that fed on him.

‘You’re gonna stay hungry, bitch.’

Dean had unfinished business - first, with the shtriga, and now with Emily. If he could know that Sam and his father would be safe from the evils in the world or the demon that had disrupted their lives, then he could die a happy man - but life and death wasn’t about happiness, it was about fulfilling a purpose.

Dean resisted his initial reaction to shirk back from the witch’s touch. He leaned toward her, forcing himself to tightly grab the bony shoulders. With his remaining strength, he propelled her backwards, pinning her against the rock. He was betting it all on the hope that Emily would help him, that she would have the strength of character to come forward.

Sam grabbed up the shotgun and pushed himself to his feet, wary of the charge that had knocked him back. He looked for an opening, any way he might help his brother. He readied the shotgun, hoping Dean could defy the witch. Rock salt had worked before, and although it wouldn’t free Emily, it would allow Dean and Sam to live another day.

As Dean pushed Thomazine against the boulder, Sam took aim. He could see Dean’s entire frame shake as he struggled to hold the woman to the stone. Sam knew he would have to risk hitting his brother in order to free him. His finger moved to pull the trigger just as the witch released her hold. Dean broke away, dropping to his knees.

Sam relinquished the opportunity to take the shot. He seized, instead, the back of his brother’s shirt and dragged him from the witch’s reach. Dean felt the strong hand at his back and pushed with what strength he had to help Sam move them both back. Yet, the wizened woman seemed not to care. She stared at the two men, white eyes glowing in the beam of Sam’s flashlight, and her smile was evident.

“The toll has been paid,” she laughed. She lifted her arms, as if in triumph, and raised the wind to surround her. The spiraling breeze that had delivered her earlier, once again spun around her body. This time, however, it was not under her command.

The wind picked up, attacking her and chipping away at the shriveled body. It sucked the breath from her lungs. The stringy gray hair and wrinkled skin were stripped away, swept up and carried on the wind. But there was no blood, no exposed muscle. It was as if an outer layer had been shorn off, leaving only a thin, shaking girl standing before them.

Dean recognized her - the face of one of the innocents. “Emily?”

She smiled weakly. “She wanted so much. I did what I could. She’s free now…” She opened her mouth to say something more, but a confused expression passed over her face and she looked down at her hands. Lifting one hand into the beam of Sam’s flashlight allowed the men to see what Emily felt. She was fading. Her shoulders drooped in disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, holding out a hand to her. The look on the girl’s face spoke volumes – bittersweet regret, forgiveness, a gentle smile. But Dean knew the truth - no one wants to die. She had been given hope, maybe by the rock or maybe by Dean, that she would survive.

A soft breeze passed through the woods and swept away the fading figure of Emily Carver.

Dean slumped, feeling weary from the oppressive weight of another death on his shoulders, from the fight and from the raked skin of his right side.

Sam stood behind his brother, wanting to give him a moment of mourning, but knowing they needed to leave the area as soon as possible to avoid unwanted attention. Favoring his wounded leg, he moved to pick up Dean’s small backpack and flashlight.

“We have to go,” Sam said softly, extending a hand to his brother. Dean nodded in response and accepted the assistance. He couldn’t allow himself the moment to wallow. Sam’s wounds needed to be taken care of, and it would be better if they were close to the car. Dean’s body was drained already, the healing would exhaust him. Sam could drive them back to the motel.