Supernatural 7 - One Year Gone

by Rebecca Dessertine

  The man didn’t answer. Instead, he flicked his wrist and Dean dropped to the ground. Silently, he gestured that Dean should walk toward the house.

  Once inside, Dean was pushed into a chair next to a large stone fireplace. Heavy curtains were drawn across floor-to-ceiling windows; so it was impossible to see outside.

  Moments later a middle-aged woman walked into the room. Dean immediately recognized the woman who had been staring at him in the parking lot. Closer up, Dean could see she had a high-browed forehead and a face set with a wide mouth.

  “Do you often trespass on private property?” she asked in a crackling, accented voice with a slight European lilt to it.

  “Angela Lansbury. Wow, I’m a big fan,” Dean said sarcastically, springing from his seat.

  The big guy in the corner flicked his wrist again and Dean was thrown back into his chair.

  “Don’t worry big guy, I’m not going anywhere. You and I can go out back and milk a cow together. Would you like that?” Dean grinned.

  “What do you want?” the woman asked. She lowered herself into a seat opposite Dean and stared coldly into his eyes.

  “Well, Constance—I’m assuming you’re Constance Hennrick, Connie of Connie’s Curios. Can I call you Connie? Under normal circumstances, Connie, I would cut your throat with a silver knife, chant a little bit then make sure you were buried well and good in four different places. Considering you tried to kill my girlfriend and drown me and her kid, I think that would be letting you off easy,” Dean said. “Though I might have spared a couple of those hotties you have outside if they behaved themselves. It’s hard to find good help these days.”

  “Effective salutation,” Connie said. “Sadly, I’ve lost patience.”

  She got up and gestured to the heavy in the corner.

  “Wait,” Dean said. “About this afternoon, you don’t deny it, so I assume it was you. You have to be pretty powerful to resurrect an entire ship’s worth of pirates.”

  Constance simply shrugged.

  “Then you are exactly the person I’ve been searching for,” Dean said.

  “And why is that?” she said.

  “Because I need your help.”

  “I really don’t have time for little piglets like you.” She gestured again, and the heavy strode over and pulled Dean from his chair.

  “Wait, wait. Listen,” Dean said, “I need a Necronomicon. I need to raise someone who is caught in a very powerful cage.”

  “You wouldn’t know what to do with a Necronomicon if you had one,” she said.

  “No, you’re right. That’s why I need you,” Dean said.

  “It’s an impossibility. A book like that has powers beyond your paltry imagination. I am quite sure you don’t have the stomach for it.”

  “So you have one?” Dean persisted.

  “If I did, I wouldn’t let you anywhere near it. Besides, what on earth makes you think I would help you?” she asked.

  “Not a thing. Only that I am pleading with someone that under normal circumstances I would gank in an instant,” Dean replied.

  “Sorry, I don’t work for peasants, much less the likes of you and your kind,” Connie said.

  With that she left the room and the brawny guy dragged Dean out of the chair by his collar, pulled him through the house, out of the front door and down the driveway.

  “Hey, Paul Bunyan, lay off the jacket!” Dean said, gasping for breath.

  The guy opened the gate and threw Dean out into the road. He landed on a double yellow line, some twenty feet away from the driveway entrance. It was quite a throw.

  Dean got up and dusted himself off. Things were not going well.

  He limped back to his car, bruised and battered and still a bit damp from his pirate adventure.

  On the passenger seat the case files he had taken from Chief Wiggum had been jostled by the drive, fanning out all the pictures. Dean picked up a particularly brutal photo of a girl in a BU sweatshirt. He was torn. There was a case here.

  All the gris-gris bags in the victims’ cars were certainly the work of witches, probably that of Connie and her girls.

  Dean shook his head at his bad luck. He was just kidding himself. There was no other explanation—Connie had to be the Constance from Nathaniel’s journal. And to make matters worse she was up to something very, very bad. Again.

  It figures that the one person I need help from could have killed ten people. Dean shook it off and decided to go back to the hotel. He should make sure Lisa and Ben were okay.

  Just then two large black Escalades slid out of Connie’s driveway and turned south. Dean’s car was still camouflaged by tree branches so he was pretty sure they didn’t see him. Dean waited until they had disappeared from view, then he turned his car around and followed.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Sam and his grandfather sat in the parked van on the side of the road hidden around a curve.

  “We’re going to lose them,” Sam said.

  “Just wait,” Samuel responded sternly. They sat silently for a few moments. “Okay, now go. Just hang back a little bit.”

  “Not my first rodeo, gramps,” Sam muttered as he started the vehicle.

  As they made their way into the glowing suburban traffic outside Salem, they watched the two Escalades ahead of them pull into a shopping mall parking lot with Dean’s CRV not far behind. It was about nine p.m. and there were very few cars left in the lot, only a few stragglers, laden with shopping bags, were making their way out of the mall. A large megalith sign, ‘Books ’n’ Novels,’ clung to the stucco side of the mall. Inside Sam could make out the employees shutting off the lights and locking the doors. The Escalades were parked in the two spaces closest to the bookstore doors.

  Dean parked on the outskirts of the lot, away from the lights. He reached for his flask. The Jack Daniels went down easy and took the edge off the crazy day. Dean wasn’t quite sure why Connie and the girls would need to make a bookstore run at nine at night. Chances were it wasn’t because they were after the next Twilight novel.

  Sam and Samuel waited in the white van on the other side of the lot, far away from the store.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” Sam asked.

  “No idea, but I don’t think it’s to pick up Ad Hoc,” his grandfather replied.

  Sam raised an eyebrow.

  “Thomas Keller’s new... Forget it. I’m a fan is all,” Samuel said.

  “You’re a fan of celebrity chefs?” Sam asked.

  “Do you know how hard it is to get a restaurant up and running?” Samuel asked with sincerity. “He’s a genius.”

  The last bank of lights in the store was shut off. Dean watched as a mousy-looking girl emerged from the double glass doors holding a large key ring. She shoved the key in the lock and fiddled with it, twisting and turning it in an increasingly desperate attempt to lock up the store.

  A figure slipped out of the back door of one of the Escalades and approached her. Dean perked up as he clocked the gorgeous blonde girl in boots and a short jean skirt.

  “Need some help?” she asked the mouse, who was beginning to visibly panic. The parking lot was silent as a grave. When he wound down his window, Dean was just about able to hear the exchange.

  “No, thanks,” the other girl replied, without looking up. “It’s just these stupid keys. My manager needed to leave early and—”

  In an instant the blonde elbowed her in the face. A look of surprise and hurt washed over the mousey girl’s features, and a line of blood dribbled out the corner of her mouth. She tried to raise her hand in a futile attempt to block another parry, but she was far too slow. The other girl punched her in the stomach. She dropped the keys and doubled over, then stumbled, losing her balance. Her assailant was behind her in an instant, effortlessly catching her by the underarms.

  Several other girls all dressed in dark hoodies jumped out of the Escalades and circled around the glass doors. Dean recognized them from Connie’s farm; he counted seven of the
m in total.

  One of them retrieved the keys from the ground and pushed open the door, then the entire group walked into the store, the first girl dragging the passed-out employee. The girl with the keys expertly pried open the face of the burglar alarm and neatly disarmed it.

  A few moments later, Connie herself slipped out of one of the cars and slid across the parking lot and into the bookstore.

  * * *

  Back in the van Samuel and Sam waited.

  “We can’t go in if Dean’s here,” Samuel said. His voice tinged with frustration.

  “Well, if they’re witches let’s catch them in the act. Either we will or Dean will.”

  “They’re most likely going to hurt that girl,” Samuel pointed out.

  “So how are they doing it, do you think?” Sam asked. “If they’re creating monsters they have to be using some sort of power for the spells, right? They must be using human sacrifices. Only way to really get a lot of juice for a spell big enough to change people into monsters.”

  Samuel closed his mouth. There were no monsters, he just had to keep up the ruse to trick Sam into believing they were in Salem for a reason other than to make sure Dean didn’t try to raise Lucifer with a Necronomicon. Maybe he had taken the lie too far.

  It seemed to him that since he had arrived back on Earth, he found himself doing things he never would have done before Mary’s death. Like being in business with a demon—the “King of Hell” no less. Samuel slowly shook his head. Where had his moral compass disappeared to?

  They watched through the giant glass windows of the bookstore as the group headed toward the central area and started moving entire sections of books, apparently clearing out a space.

  “Come on, Dean. Make a move,” Samuel murmured under his breath.

  * * *

  Inside his car Dean was furiously loading his sawed-off with real bullets—those girls weren’t ghosts, that was for sure. He was going to need real firepower.

  From the glove compartment, he pulled out a ski mask. The good thing about Lisa was that she packed for every eventuality; even if it was the middle of summer she brought winter clothing just in case they got caught in a blizzard.

  Dean pulled the ski mask over his head. Connie was inside and Dean didn’t want to get ID’d by her—after all he still might have to use her.

  Dean considered how to approach the store. Since the entire facade was plate-glass windows, he might have to create a distraction first. He zipped open a pocket on his duffle bag and pulled out four small blocks of C4.

  “Bobby, you’re a life saver,” he said to himself.

  Bobby has a near limitless of suppliers that could get them just about anything, even highly illegal C4.

  Dean pushed a series of wires into the clay-like blocks. He got out of the car and pulled Ben’s skateboard from the back seat. He then crept along the side of the building.

  At the front corner he put the skateboard down, got down on his stomach and glided past the windows, low enough to remain unseen by occupants of the building. As he steered himself past the windows, Dean pushed the blocks of C4 against the glass, until every twenty feet of window had a charge attached to it. Dean then grasped his duffle and ran around the side of the building.

  Halfway down the long side of the building a ladder ran up the wall to the roof. Dean clambered onto a nearby dumpster and, leaning precariously, managed to catch the bottom rung. He hoisted himself onto the ladder, scrambled up and then made his way cautiously across the roof.

  Inside, Connie’s girls were clearly doing some construction of their own; a large rumbling echoed from below. Dean unscrewed an air-conditioning vent and climbed in. He could hear several voices chanting in Latin from inside the store. Crawling through the ducts, he tried to get closer to the source of the chanting.

  Dean approximated that he was in the middle of the store, when he saw light filtering through a large square vent. He peeked through the slats and counted seven young girls and Connie standing in a circle. In the center, the Books ‘n’ Novels employee knelt, whimpering.

  “Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll empty all the registers. I know the code to the safe in back—I dated one of the day managers.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her pleas were ignored as the girls continued to chant.

  Dean focused his gaze on Connie. In her hands she held a small, ancient-looking book.

  The Necronomicon.

  He froze. Could it be the one mentioned in Nathaniel’s diary?

  Connie stepped forward into the circle. She held up a long silver knife and approached the blubbering captive.

  “Finally, sisters, the time has come when we can raise him,” she began, her voice cold and clear. “He will be our husband and our leader. Lift up your voices to him.” Connie started to speak in Latin.

  Dean slipped the small remote out of his coat pocket.

  “Sorry Connie, your body count is going to stop here,” Dean murmured. He pressed the button.

  Nothing happened.

  He tried again.

  Nothing.

  I’m too far in the duct for it to work. There’s too much interference, Dean realized. Crap.

  Connie held the knife over the girl as the chant continued.

  Dean frantically pressed the button over and over. Still nothing. He was left with only one option.

  He turned around awkwardly in the tight space, and with all his weight stomped onto the duct cover. The chanting stopped abruptly. Dean continued to bash his foot against the air-conditioning cover.

  He heard Connie’s powerful voice echo through the store.

  “You’re not going to stop me, Campbell.”

  There was a crash as Dean finally broke through the vent cover, he reached his upper body into the store, holding onto the edge of the vent with one hand.

  Connie flicked her hand and Dean watched horror-stricken as the employee’s head spun around 180 degrees. The girl’s eyes grew wide, then lifeless. Connie caught her with one hand by the nape of her floppy neck. With the other she sliced the blade across her throat. Blood dribbled out onto the floor, pooling over the linoleum and the industrial-grade beige rug.

  The girls began chanting again.

  Reaching his arm as far as he could into the store, Dean pressed the button on the remote.

  Almost immediately, percussive explosions ripped through the building. Shattered glass blew everywhere. Books flew off the shelves and shredded magazines confettied everyone inside.

  Dean hung from the ceiling and having replaced the remote with his sawed-off shotgun started firing. The girls took cover behind the bookshelves, but Connie remained where she was and continued chanting. Each bullet Dean fired at her ricocheted away—she had a seriously heavy duty protection spell on her.

  Right beneath Dean the linoleum floor started to fracture, then heave upwards as if it was taking deep breaths. Great chunks lifted up then toppled over. The exposed earth underneath fell away, and a pair of grimy hands broke through the soil, pushing away the rocks and stone.

  Connie’s chanting had ceased. She looked up at Dean. With a flick of her hand he was pulled out of the vent and thrown against the back wall.

  “Out of my way, worm,” she hissed.

  Connie then knelt down and gently pulled a figure out of the ground. Dust and dirt fell off of the body, like a mummy coming to life, and the figure twitched and creaked from hundreds of years of confinement. The girls gathered round in deference.

  Must be a long buried witch, Dean realized. So that’s what she’s up to, sacrificing young girls to resurrect her long-dead buddies. Nice.

  Out on the highway, Dean heard sirens scream. The girls deftly picked up the earth-encrusted figure and moved rapidly out of the store.

  Dean abruptly fell from the wall down onto the maternity section. He pulled himself out of a crushed shelf display of books on breast-feeding. He limped to the front of the store and out of a gap where one of the windows had been.

  S
o much for creating a diversion.

  The Escalades were long gone. He got in his car and peeled out of the parking lot just as a long line of emergency vehicles popped over the curbs and surrounded the store.

  Sam and Samuel pulled the van away.

  “Guess we know what they’re doing now: resurrecting people. Didn’t look like a monster to me though,” Sam said, weaving in and out of traffic.

  “I could be wrong,” Samuel said.

  “Or you could be lying,” his grandson said angrily.

  Suddenly he pulled the emergency brake and skidded to a stop on the side of the busy highway.

  “What the hell is going on, Samuel? I trusted you! I don’t think we’re here because those witches are creating monsters. So either you bring me up to speed or I am more than happy to leave you here. You’d make a great Red Sox fan, since they always seem to lose lately. And this certainly is a losing game. Tell me what’s going on.” Sam stared at his grandfather.

  Samuel shrugged his shoulders, recognizing that he was beaten.

  “Dean is trying to get his hands on a Necronomicon,” he admitted.

  “Why?”

  “I’m assuming so he can raise you from the dead. Get you out of Hell.”

  “Dean shouldn’t put himself in so much danger,” Sam said matter-of-factly.

  “That’s it?”

  “It would be bad if Dean tried to raise Lucifer mistakenly. But this is a case,” Sam said. “Those witches are up to something. You don’t start resurrecting old friends for the hell of it. ”

  Samuel shook his head, he couldn’t tell Sam about his deal with Crowley. He needed to make sure Dean didn’t raise Lucifer. Such a stupid boy, thought Samuel. He couldn’t leave Sam to watch Dean and go on this wild goose chase with witches. Whatever they were up to.

  “Sam, I have things to do. I have to get back to herding Alphas. You know that,” Samuel said. “And I need your help.”

  “Sorry Samuel. Innocent people are getting killed. This is a case. You can go back. But I’m staying.”

  Samuel nodded. “Okay, fine.”

  Sam leaned over Samuel and opened the passenger door.