Forget Me Not - Part 4

     There are four knives lodged in the wood of the door, each blade an equal distance from the two on either side of it. It’s the result of years of throwing them whether or not it serves a purpose. Power is required to make the shots as well. The wood is of a hard make, made to keep out intruders long enough to give the inhabitant time to grab a weapon or escape before the danger gets in.

    There is no danger, only intense staring and the half-hearted throws of a man who lost the girl he fell for before she even knew how he felt. He can’t stop blaming himself for what happened to her. If only he’d seen the danger quicker, if only he’d moved faster when he saw it coming, if only it had been him instead of her. If only, if only, if only . . .

    He’s forgotten to eat for nearly two days, and he hasn’t done much else other than sit and mourn the death of the third member of his hunting trio. What Sam can see concerns the younger Winchester, but what happens when he isn’t with his brother worries him to no end. If he had to guess, he would say that Dean isn’t sleeping, and if he is then not well because the hulking, 6’ 2” figure of a man walks out of his room every morning looking scrawnier and more pathetic than the day before as he sports worsening shadows under his eyes.

    Try as he might, Sam can’t get through to Dean, can’t remind him that there are other people who need him to be there. If he doesn’t start eating soon, there are going to be even more problems that Sam will have to deal with. Castiel can keep him from getting sick from sleep and food deprivation, but he can’t stop Dean from giving up the will to live.

    Dean’s own mind runs rampant, contrary to his detached outward appearance. He’s very much in touch with things, just nothing in the real world. Images derived from memories of his time with (y/n) float through his mind, shifting too quickly for him to focus on any specific one. Ever since Castiel told him that she was imprisoned in Hell a week ago, he’s had trouble sleeping. His dreams are visionless, and all he can hear is her screaming in pain and terror, shouting, begging for him to come and save her. So he stopped sleeping.

    Two days ago he began to see brief images in his dreams during the times he had no strength to stay awake. It was (y/n). All he saw was a mess of blood and sickness repeating itself over and over. The flashes horrified him, making him feel sick to his stomach. So he swore off food as well.

    Now, late at night and long after Sam has gone to bed, Dean sits in his room, staring at the knives he’s embedded in the door. Making a rash decision, he stands up, slightly dizzy from lack of sleep and food, and grabs his duffel bag before heading out the door.

    He heads down the hall. His steps are habitually quiet, but, in all honesty, he can’t care less if he wakes Sam. There’s nothing his baby brother could do to stop him now anyway. Heading right out the front door, Dean walks down the path to the road where his Impala is parked. He gets right into the driver’s seat and starts the car, stepping on the gas and flying down the road.

    It’s a twelve hour drive to the spot where he and Sam buried (y/n) a month ago, but Dean has no respect for speed limits, sticking to highways and back roads where law enforcement is scarce, and makes it in ten. By this time, his brother is probably awake and looking for him.

    Sam had convinced Dean to leave (y/n)’s body near the spot where she’d been killed. He knew it was far from the bunker, and his thinking was that, the farther away Dean was from (y/n), the easier it would be for him to recover from the loss. Obviously, he was wrong.

    It’s a meadow located in the center of a large forest. The forest itself is in the middle of nowhere. Long ago the meadow might have been a campground, but now nothing but a few herds of deer come to visit. In the far back corner lies (y/n)’s grave, marked by a sturdy wooden cross Dean nailed together out of two oak planks.

    He reaches her grave with a can of red spray paint, a box filled with various odds and ends, and a shovel. Setting the supplies aside, he kneels down on the mound. The past month has been fairly warm, allowing soft grass to grow over the grave and cover it like a natural blanket.

    The lovelorn hunter sinks to his knees, resting his hands on his thighs. For a moment, he says nothing. When he does speak, the only words that come out are those of profuse and heartfelt apology. He stumbles a few times, but then raw emotion takes over and he lets everything spill out. How much he loved her, how badly he wishes it could have been him that died, how terrible the pain of losing her was, and a vow to bring her back no matter what it costs him.

    After the vow, he stands, brushes the dirt from his jeans, and grabs the spray paint. He marks out a large devil trap on a bare patch of ground about thirty feet away. Then he opens the box and sets up the ingredients for a very specific summoning spell. When the spell is finished, he steps back away from the trap and waits.

    “Come on. Show yourself.” He mutters.

    He waits for upwards of ten minutes before his target demon finally shows.

    “Hello, squirrel.”

    Dean looks up, ticked off for being kept waiting so long. “What took you so long?”

    “I had some business to take care of.” Crowley seems unfazed by the fact that he’s caught in the devil trap and also surprisingly calm.

    “You too busy to make a deal with me?”

    “It depends.”

    “On?” Dean raises an eyebrow.

    “What you want.”

    Dean opens his mouth to state his request, then shuts it again, looking away nervously.

    “I’m only joking. I know exactly what you want.” The demon grins. “You want me to get your precious little girlfriend.”

    “She wasn’t – isn’t – my girlfriend.” Dean retorts.

    “Regardless, I can’t help you.”

    “Why the hell not?” He’s close to losing his temper. “Did you lose her or something? Did you lose track of her on your way down to that stink hole of yours?”

    “Not really.”

    “Then I don’t see a problem. You’re the freaking King of Hell. Whatever you say goes, so I suggest you get down there and say that (y/n)’s soul is freed.”

    “I’d love to help you.” Crowley says sarcastically. “Really, I would, but I’m willing to bet you couldn’t pay the price.”

    “Wanna bet? Name it.”

    The demon thinks for a moment. “On second thought, what would you be willing to give for your part of the bargain?”

    Dean doesn’t hesitate to answer. “I know my soul would go for a pretty damn high price on the demon black market.”

    Crowley considers Dean’s offer. Then, “Here’s the deal: You go down with me, and I release your darling (y/n).”

    “You want me to come right now?” Dean raises an eyebrow, but isn’t surprised.

    “Of course.”

    “Not before I make sure you keep your word.” Dean crosses his arms. “I want to see (y/n) alive and well before I got anywhere.”

    “Fine. But you might want to . . .” Crowley gestures in the general direction of the grave.

    “What?”

    “Dig her up. Me bringing her back won’t have much of a point if she just suffocates six feet under.”

    Dean sees Crowley’s point and grabs the shovel, then walks over to (y/n)’s grave. He digs up the young grass, pulling out the grave marker and tossing it aside. Fortunately, the ground is soft and comes away easily, shortening the amount of time it takes for him to reach the makeshift coffin. Kneeling down beside the rectangular structure, Dean lifts the lid to reveal (y/n)’s lifeless body.

    The corpse hasn’t decayed at all. Dean stitched up her wounds and cleaned away the blood from her skin before burying her, and – as a parting gift – Castiel used his celestial powers to preserve her. She could sit in the ground for any number of millennia and still look exactly the way she did the day she died. Dean gazes at her for a moment, reaching out to stroke her face as tears threaten to spill.

    “I don’t have all day you know!” Crowley hollers from inside the devil trap, snapping Dean out of his lustful trance.

    He scoops up the body and stands to gently place it on the edge of the grave and then climbs out himself. Scooping up the body again, he brings it over to set it at the edge of the devil trap.

    “Alright.” He digs away a portion of the red paint to release Crowley from bondage. “Now bring her back.”

    “Not until you sign,” Crowley steps out of the circle and pulls a sheet of parchment paper from his jacket. “This.”

    Dean makes no hesitation to pull out a pen and reach for the contract. He brings his knee up a little to use as a table, but a voice stops him short before he can flourish a signature.

    “Dean!”