Cogito Ergo, Dean: Chapter 1
The sound of the gun filled the alleyway behind Fairviewâs Motel 12. It roared, bellowed in the still Pennsylvania night like the heavy handed hammer of an angry god. Fire blossomed from the end of the hexagonal barrel of the intricately carved antique revolver to form a deadly flower that bloomed almost as if in slow motion. A bead of black perforated the delicate fiery blossom. A bullet, as decoratively scrimshawed as the weapon that fired it, spun from the chamber with deadly purpose. It didnât have far to travel before colliding with its target. Metal met meat and the imprisoned magics of a long dead gun maker set about their grim task of unmaking the unfortunate recipient.
It doesnât really hurt. The dark haired man with the brooding face and scruffy green jacket thought as a light began to shine from the red ringed hole that spread rapidly of his grungy shirt. Hell, Iâve felt worse. Survived worse. His body bucked under a sudden surge of red hot magical energy, his bravado shattered like glass. Thoughts were momentarily driven from his mind as the tidal forces within the bullet wound drove him to his knees. When he came back to himself, his thoughts turned outwards. He looked up at the shaking man before him, who still held the Colt revolver in a limp, shaking grip. No, not a man, but a boy. Some kid. The dying man chuckled as blood slipped from between clenched teeth. Heâd killed monsters, devils, angels, and small gods. And here he was. He was going to be taken out by some two-bit thief whoâd made a bad call on whose room he was going to turn over tonight. A thought came unbidden to his dying mind and played across his pained grimace. Took a Colt to kill a Winchester.
Another torrent of energy coiled in his chest, driving thought away once again and replacing it with a blinding whiteness. The Colt dropped to the ground in front of him as the kid bolted. The dying man considered reaching for it, putting all of his last energies into taking a shot at the boy whoâd taken him out. He would have, too, if his arms hadnât refused to obey him. He slipped forwards, landing on his elbows. Blood leaked slowly onto the gravel road. Somewhere far off, someone was yelling out. To the dying manâs ears, it was nothing but a dull roar behind another duller roar. His body bucked again, his back arching and his teeth grinding together. He refused to cry out. Light seared from behind his eyes brightly enough to illuminate the space between the motel and the adjacent diner, then went out for good. The man was dead.
âDean!â the other man cried. He was tall, lanky and long haired. He dressed similarly to the dying man, emulated him, though he would never admit it. He ran across the gravel that crunched just a little too loud in the silence that followed the gunshot. He moved fast, but not fast enough, his brother was in the last of his death throws by the time he skated to a stop and dropped to his knees in a spray of stone chips. The crushed rock tore at his already blood flecked jeans and cut his knees, but he paid it no mind. His attention was on the slumped form in front of him. âDean?â His voice was hoarse, ragged as he laid a hand on the fallen form. Dean was still. Too still. No breath stirred his chest. âNo.â The tall man couldnât believe, he just couldnât. He saw the weapon lying in the gravel mere feet from him, noted the smoke emanating from that banded barrel, and dread rose up in his chest. It clawed at his innards, turning his legs and arms to water as he reached over and clutched at Coltâs masterpiece. The chamber was warm. Three cartridges lay nestled in its clustered chambers. But four had been there when theyâd stashed it in the locked safe. âDamn it, Dean, no! Whyâd you have to run off!?â He shook the man, the corpse, his brother. But Dead could not respond.
In the distance, sirens blared. The entire police force of Fairview, Pennsylvania would be down here any minute. The tall man looked around, searched for his brotherâs killer, but found nothing but the unlit night on all sides. Hastily, he tucked the murderous revolver into his belt and struggled to lift his burly older sibling. Boots and knees and elbows scrabbled in the sharp gravel as he gained his footing. The fatigue of the long day and his fresh injuries weighed heavily on him as he stumbled around the front of the motel building. In the distance, someone was screaming. Heâd have to change the plates once he crossed the boundaries of the small township. Heâd have to call⊠someone. Bobby, maybe. The cranky old hunter would know what to do. The tall man made plans, anything to distract him from the weight he carried on his shoulders as he reached the low, crouching, animal form of Deanâs Baby. The Chevrolet Impala, all black with silver fittings, lay still and silent as its owner. The tall man yanked open the passenger door and gently lay the body down in the back seat. The sirens were getting closer, but the tall man added no extra urgency. He made sure that Deanâs head wasnât jammed uncomfortably against the far door, propped his knees up to keep him from rolling out of the seat, and threw a dusty old blanket over him.
He had to run across the driverâs side door as red and blue lights began to flicker on the far side of the motel. The door jarred close as he shut it with just a little too much force. The throaty sound of the carâs powerful engine filled his ears and shook his fingertips as he turned the key in the ignition. More gravel crunched under the tires and he was away. He spun out onto the road and put his foot down all the way to the floor. The motor roared and the car charged down the road that led to the interstate. He had made it. No one had seen him, by the time the police made the trip around the building heâd be long gone and out of sight. He allowed himself to relax, just a little. He leaned back into the leather seat and ran a hand through sweat matted hair. He addressed the air, a question on his lips that would go unanswered. âOkay, Sam. Now what?â
Rain lashed against the tar paper shingles and raked the windows of the house that lay nestled between stacks of junked cars in a lot just off the road in South Dakota. The unseasonal storm beat at the wooden siding and caused the whole building to creak as if in pain. Inside, the two occupants shared a different, but no less severe pain. Sam sat leaned forwards in the lumpy, beaten old sofa and stared into the lit fireplace that banished most, but not all, of the rainâs chill. A forgotten tumbler half full of something that burned on the way down dangled precariously from his fingertips and swayed slightly with the unrestrained emotion that shook his body. Sam ran his free hand through the long hair that hung limply about his ears and let out a hollow, mournful sound before finding his tumbler once again and pressing it to his lips. The dark liquid felt like oil on his tongue as it slipped from the glass and into his gullet. He swallowed, suppressing a splutter. He wished for the drink to ease some of the wracking guilt that even now ate away at him. All it did was turn his stomach into a pit full of snakes.
âTell me again how it happened,â a gruff voice shook the distraught Winchester brother from his reverie. There was a man standing in the open doorway. Concern twisted the short beard that graced his well-worn, experienced face, but his eyes were hard, shrewd. He had a drink in his own hand, one of many heâd downed already that night. Every night since heâd gotten the phone call that one of his boys had fallen on the field of battle. Only this time, he wouldnât be getting up again. Not even Dean Winchester could shrug off Death forever. âSamâŠâ
âDamn it, Bobby!â Sam shook with a sudden violent outburst. âWhat difference does it make? You said it yourself, Deanâs dead. Not coming back.â He knocked back another slug of his drink, enough to drain the glass completely. He held it out towards the older hunter. He could still feel, that meant that he wasnât done drinking.
âThe difference it makes is that you havenât told me what you two idjits were doing all the way out in Fairview, Pennsylvania in the first place. The difference is I need to know what you found out there, if itâs still alive and kicking, and if I need to round up a posse to make that kicking stop. And most of all, the difference is that I donât know why in the Hell you needed to drag the Colt out there. The Colt, Sam.â Bobby knocked back his own drink. The sternness of his face softened a little as he watched the younger man shake on his couch. âLook, I know what it means to lose family. Hurts like Hell and worse. But thereâs a whole world of people out there. We can both do our mourninâ when the job is done.â He came around the dilapidated couch and let himself drop heavily into its overstuffed confines. He plunked the bottle of his finest booze down with a dull thunk upon the rickety table. Sam reached for it, but he slid it away.
âDrink later, talk now.â Bobbyâs face was set, resolute. It was not the face of a man about to change his mind. Sam sighed heavily and sank back into the sofa. His eyes were glassy as he slowly opened them, but he spoke steadily and without stumbling.
âAlright. Iâll talk.â He stopped for a second to gather his thoughts. The empty tumbler still swung in his hands. Outside, the first peals of distant thunder rolled across the South Dakota country side. The rain redoubled against the roof and against the junked cars outside until it played a symphony of percussion to underline Sam Winchesterâs words. âWe had a case. A nasty one. A monster calledâŠ
âŠKhazrak the One Eye?â Dean snorted with derision. âHowâd he get that name, doya think?â The engine of the Impala thrummed as he gunned it through the open Pennsylvania farmland. This was always his favorite part of the job. The road was empty, the windows were down, and the radio was turned all the way up. Dean sang along to a snippet of the song playing on the current station. ââŠplace is a madhouse, feels like being cloned!â
âWell the lore says⊠he only has one eyeâŠâ Sam answered awkwardly, trying to compete with the thumping drums of whatever noise his brother had selected for this afternoonâs driving. He finally stopped trying to raise his voice and reached for the dial. Dean slapped the grasping hand away.
âHey, never touch another manâs radio,â he growled, though there was no threat in his voice. This was, in fact, a time honored tradition between the two.
Sam fixed his brother with an aggravated stare. âCome on, Dean. This is serious.â
âAlright, alright.â Dean twisted the knob and brought the music back below ear splitting levels. âSo, whatâs the deal with olâ Kazgraz? And whyâs he only got one eye? You taking us to fight some kind of cyclops?â
âKhazrak. And it says here that it got shot away,â Sam rejoined as he thumbed through the ancient and creaky leather bound journal. âYes, hereâs the passage. And I looked upon mine foe at last. The One who walks in the woods and steals our sons and daughters. He was terrifying to me, his visage bestial to behold. Like that of a great horned goat who walked on his hind legs. His cloven hooves were like that of a cart horse and his hands were great claws that grasped his crude weapon. His hooded head bore a great curving horn of a ram; the other horn was broken in our last encounter. His eyes gleamed malevolently beneath that hood. I raised my flintlock to deliver my final justice. I sparked the flame, and lo did I see his right eye plucked from its socket by my bullet of silver. An eye for an eye, the Book says. I have taken his eye, as he has taken mine. The beast is still now. I will bury it in woods that it used to stalk. It seems⊠seemly. The job is done.â
âYeah but if the job was done, why are we heading up there right now?â Dean asked. He absent mindedly scratched at his chest. âSounds to me like our buddy the Pilgrim hunter took him out.â
âWell, at least he thought he did. That wasnât the last entry in the journal. Looks like the killings he describes started up again a while after. He never found Khazrak again, but he was sure that he hadnât killed it.â Sam flipped through the book again. âThey tailed off just before the author died. He fought the beast must have died of old age butâŠâ He carefully closed the age ravaged tome and set it aside, instead reaching for the stack of computer print-outs. âThese are some of the latest missing persons reports from the area. Matches One Eyeâs M.O. Late night disappearances, all around the same patch of woods. And then thereâs the cattle mutilations.â
âCattle mutilations? What, the guy canât stop in for a hamburger like the rest of us?â Dean chuckled at his own joke.
âHe⊠uh.. takes liberties with the livestock,â Sam answered with a grimace. âThey donât generally survive.â
Deanâs face twisted in a look of disgust. âOkay, so looks like weâve got us a horny goatman to kill. Why do we need the Colt with us?â He patted the oilcloth wrapped revolver that lay on the seat between the two brothers.
âGuy who hunted it before tried a little bit of everything and couldnât make it stick,â Sam said. âSilver, cold iron, wood from local trees, holy water, unholy water, the works. He made it his lifeâs work to hunt down and kill this thing, and it looks like itâs still up and walking. I figure, better safe than sorry.â He put the print-outs down and patted the journal. âI figure he deserves a little closure. Plus, I donât like the idea of an unkillable monster loping around the Northeast with Eve on the loose.â
âYeah, donât want the purple people eater finding his way back to mommy. So, whatâs the deal? We roll up to this town, run off into the woods, and hope we donât get mistaken for a pair of sexy cows?â
âItâs going to be a little more complicated than that,â Sam responded, intentionally ignoring his brotherâs comment. âLooks like the attacks are centered around this one patch of trees that backs onto a whole bunch of farms in the area. Only one hasnât been hit yet, the⊠um⊠Strutemyer property. We stake out that farm tonight, odds are good weâll catch this thing out.â
âSo whatâs our play? F.B.I.? Sherriffâs Department? Aww, come on!â Deanâs face fell as he saw the badges his brother held up. âFDA? We never get to be anyone fun anymore.â
âSo, did you get him? This One Eyed monster?â Bobby asked cautiously. Sam had stopped in the middle of his tale to stare forlornly into the fire. The rain still beat at the windows, driven by a rising wind that rattled the panes as it drove in across the lot. The taller man sipped slowly from the drink that his mentor had poured while he was talking.
âYeah. Yeah, we got him. Wasnât easy, had to burn down the forest to drive the thing out, but Dean shot him in the head and he went down hard. Salted the corpse and scattered the ashes just to be sure.â He gulped, a deep swallow burning his throat and adding fire to his words. âThat was when we⊠when Dean, heâŠâ Sam stopped abruptly and put his head in his hands. âHe wanted to celebrate.â
âLet me guess, a tour of all the bars in town?â
âTurns out there was just the one bar,â Sam answered ruefully. âWe stowed the Colt at the motel, found our way into the local dive, spent a couple hours. We didnât realize that our room was being watched.â He finished his glass and dropped it down on the table. He scrubbed at his red-rimmed eyes with his palms and resisted the wave of fresh, raw emotion that threatened to boil up inside. It was like holding close the valve of a steam engine with his bare hands. He hunched over, a solitary sob escaping confinement.
âOne of Eveâs monsters?â Bobby asked with evident concern.
âNo.â Sam answered. âThat might have made some senseâŠ.â
Sam swayed slightly as he walked beside his exultant brother. The two leaned into each other to hide their inebriation, but the joy of victory was flush above both their faces in a way that was impossible to disguise. The younger Winchester wiped absent mindedly at the smudge of soot on his brown jacket. The older brother sang a snatch of something out of tune and finished off a half forgotten line with a hearty guffaw.
âSammy, we might just be the best hunters on the face of this God damned earth.â He studiously put one foot in front of the other as they turned the corner onto the main street, passing the darkened windows of the small butcherâs shop.
âYeah, or the luckiest. If you hadnât tripped when you did, that thing would have taken your head right off!â
Dean made a dismissive noise. âPssssh. If youâre referring to my genius tactical maneuver, then you should know it was all skill. All skill.â He stumbled slightly. Sam caught him by his elbow before he could pitch face first into the asphalt of the road.
âYeah, Dean, alright. Why donât you just go and spell âmaneuverâ for me. If youâre such a genius.â He gave his older brother a friendly jab in the ribs as the two ducked into the alleyway that separated the butcher from the motel complex.
âLessee. M⊠a⊠n⊠um, uvver. Look, Sammy, point is we just killed the unkillable. And Iâll tell you what, that bitch mom of all monsters is going to be next. Jusâ a matter of time until you and Bobby put your nerd heads together and figure something out.â
âWhatever you say, DeaâŠâ Sam stopped mid-word, struck silent by the sight before him. Their motel room door was ajar, the flimsy cheap lock broken. A thin bootprint marked the spot that someone had kicked in the door. Sam clamped a hand over Deanâs mouth to block his impatient prompt for his brother to finish his sentence. âShhhhhh.â He hissed.
Dean yanked the hand off his face, but his next question was a whisper. âWhat?â
Sam pointed to the door and went for the concealed handgun in his waistband. Deanâs face sharpened, the signs of inebriation flushed in an instant by a cold rush of adrenaline. Someone or something was in their room. In their room with the Colt. He drew his own weapon, his thumb brushing over the well-worn safety catch as if it were a lover. He motioned forwards with a jerk of his head. The two brothers moved silently over the gravel of the parking lot, their boots barely crunching on the loose rock chips. Sam reached the door first and pressed his shoulder into the frame. No sound emenated from the darkened interior of the room. He gestured the all clear to Dean. The older brother whipped around to the other side of the open doorway and covered the visible sliver of the inside with his pistol. Nothing moved, all was still.
Dean slipped inside. The room was lit only by the half full moon outside the windows, but what little light did shine in revealed a sight that made his stomach drop. The room had been searched thoroughly. Drawers and doors hung open, their contents spread on the cheap blue carpet. The mattresses of both beds had been flipped over and slit open. Sheets lay jumbled in a corner where they had been tossed in haste. Deanâs eyes searched imploringly for the dark green duffle bag and found nothing. Then his eyes found the roomâs small safe. It looked like someone had knocked in the combination lock with a hammer, leaving the door hanging open to reveal an empty compartment. Deanâs blood ran cold. He tried to swallow on a suddenly dry throat. âSammyâŠâ
âI see it.â Sam rushed to the safe, taking a knee and yanking open the door. âDean, itâs gone.â
âGod damn it!â Dean roared. He lashed out at a nearby end table with a booted foot, sending it crashing over. He ran a hand through his short brown hair and shook his head. âI told you we should have kept it in the car!â He turned around and just managed to catch a glimpse of someone in the uncovered outside window. A startled looking kid, dressed in a grey hooded sweatshirt and dark jeans. In his hands, the long barreled shape of a revolver. âHey!â
The kid bolted. Dean saw red and charged after him, the devastation of his motel room forgotten.
âDean, wait!â Sam called after him. There was no answer but the sound of leather on stone as the chase went on. Sam shook his head and began to walk after his brother. Then the gunshot came. âDean!â
The fire was little more than dull embers in a smoldering hearth. The empty bottle sat on the table between the two men. Bobbyâs mustache twitched as he grunted softly as the younger man finished his tale. âHmm. So, thatâs it then.â Resignation was threaded through his words. âThe end of Dean Winchester. Shot for his gun in Fairview, Pennsylvania. At least he went down at the end of a successful hunt.â
âDonât,â Bobby cut him off sternly. âWhat you were about to say. You wish you could have done something. There werenât a damn thing you could have done short of tacklinâ your brother down to the ground to stop him runninâ off. And that would have lost you the Colt besides. No, ainât nothing you could have done. Though I get the feeling youâve already gone above and beyond on Deanâs account. Unless youâre trying to tell me it took you a week to drive the body back here.â
Sam looked away guiltily. He studiously avoided Bobbyâs inquisitively raised eyebrow. Finally, he spoke, his words slightly slurred. âThey couldnât bring him back.â He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. âNot Heaven or Hell. âNothing to bring backâ they both said. âUtterly destroyed.ââ He hiccoughed. âTook some extra pleasure to rub that one in I bet. Had to look for something else. Find an alternative. I just donât want to believeâŠâ
âAww Hell, Sam. You shouldnât have put yourself through that. God knows youâve been through that too many times already. And as for believing, well⊠Facts donât care what you believe.â The older man grumbled as he propelled himself out of the sofa to go throw another log on the fire. âWhy, IâŠâ He stopped, half turned towards his surviving protĂ©gĂ©. The guttering flames cast his grizzled face in partial shadow. âWhat kind of alternative?â He asked suspiciously. The look of guilt on Samâs face intensified. He nudged a ragged bag behind the seat, failing to fully conceal the dusty tome within. âSam, what is that? What have you brought into my house?â
With two quick steps he was across the room. The younger man tried to stop him. On a better day, he would have succeeded, but not today. Bobby was an old hand at working through the bottle while Samâs actions were fumbling, clumsy. Thick fingers grasped the book and pulled hard. The book in the bag slipped out. Silver lettering, etched in Greek shone in the firelight as a fresh peal of thunder shook the windows. âNo.â
âNecromancy, Sam? Have you lost your God damned mind!?â Bobby roared. The sympathy that had lined his face was gone. âWhat? You thought it would be okay to raise Deanâs corpse from the dead like a puppet?â
âI need my brother.â Sam said in little more than a whisper.
âI donât care how much you think you need him. What this bookâll give you ainât him. A freaking zombie. You may as well invite a demon to come in and ride him around like a meat suit. How could you be so stupid, boy? âsides, even if you bring something back that walks and talks and hunts like Dean, you think itâs going to stay that way? Youâve seen what messing with this stuff does before. And thatâs not even counting what all the other hunters might think of your little bit of casual necromancy.â
âI donât care what the others think.â Sam spat miserably, though the look of defeat was already in his eyes. He sank in on the couch and into himself as Bobby proceeded to hurl the book of black magic into the other room.
âWell itâs just as well youâve got someone looking out for you what does. Now, Iâm going to pretend I didnât see that little touch of madness, and you are going to help me give Dean the funeral he deserves. A proper, Hunterâs funeral. Now.â
There was nothing to do but agree. Sam slogged out into the rain and the wind behind his mentor and helped stack the wood for a funeral pyre. He tried not to look at the black Impala, the impromptu hearse that had carried his brotherâs body for far too long. He tried to ignore the sting of the gasoline in his nostrils as he helped Bobby liberally douse the pile and the cloth wrapped form of Dean. He looked away when the match was thrown and the salt was sprinkled. He blocked out the incantation in Latin as the body began to burn, its burnt meat stink rising above the fumes. He didnât feel the rain as it splattered over his face or the wind as it tugged at his hair and clothes. He just stood, staring into the firelight. He stood there all night, even after bobby had left to spread the ill tidings. It was early morning when the last embers finally went out in the spreading pile of ashes.
Sam knelt in the sodden dirt of the junkerâs yard. Before him, the rain had made a thick mud of the funeral ash. His mind was numb, empty but for a pair of phrases that kept repeating themselves around and around in his brain. I just donât want to believe. Donât care what you believe.
An idea dawned in the back of his mind as dimly at first as the dawn that seeped over the wooded landscape of Sioux Falls. It was stitched together of memory and half-forgotten lore, of fierce hope and bitter desperation.
Before Sam new what he was doing, he had scooped up a handful of the wet ash. It was cold as ice in his hands as he loped over to where the Impala loomed silently.
Sam knelt before the hood and clung to the thoughts that raced around his brain. Then, in the dim light of the morning, he began to paint.
