Heartless: Episode 3 (Supernatural Fan fiction)

3rd installment in the Taylor Aubrey Nelson saga.

Heartless: Episode 3

“Last Night On Earth”

“Spoke to Dean,” Bobby announced as he returned to the living room. “He said him and Sam will be here tomorrow morning if they leave now,” He said and fell onto the couch with a sigh. Sheryl looked at him expectantly, “I told them to leave now,” He added, and she smiled.

“Good,” She said, “Are they gunna bring that guardian angel of theirs?”

Bobby shrugged, “I guess,” He said. He hadn’t thought about it, Castiel was just as helpful as a Christmas decoration nowadays anyway. The last time all of them were in a room together, he just peered out the window the whole time and said a grand total of six words; “I think so”, in regards to some research Sam had done. And later on, “Sounds good, Dean,” in response to Dean’s plan to track down one of Lucifer’s goons. The boys didn’t seem perturbed by their angel’s slow descent into mute-dom, Dean reasoned that it was probably a side effect of being cast out of Heaven. Bobby Singer on the other hand, couldn’t care less. “Why do you care?” Bobby asked, looking at Sheryl who stared down at the book in her hands.

“Hmm,” She pondered for a moment, “You know what?” She said as she got up, “I’ll tell you the rest of this story over some Chinese,” she smiled, “Let’s go, Bobby, I’m driving,”

Bobby sat dumbfounded for awhile, then shrugged and followed her out the door.

***

Adapted from Taylor’s journal (continued)

December 9^th 2009

I took off into the forest faster than I could think. “Taylor!” I heard his voice call out behind me, but I kept running. I didn’t really know why at the time, it just felt like the only reasonable reaction to such a sight; to such a discovery. Who I was; everything that I had once thought defined me was wrong. I was not Taylor Aubrey Nelson; a shot gun wielding college dropout; a demon hunting loner; a tag along on her brother’s journey into self destruction. This was a new one for the list: Taylor Aubrey Nelson the psychotic psychic from New Jersey.

Life was supposed to be simple, but for me, it never was. I was a misunderstood middle child, a weird kid at school, and the only survivor of a massacre at my family home. Dad was gone, mom was gone, lil’ sis was gone… as I ran, I suddenly wondered why the hell Francis and I were even hunting Amon down. He always operated on the notion: What did we have to lose? But he should’ve been asking: What did we have to gain anymore? Killing Amon; that greedy b*****d from the 7^th gate of hell was one of those million to one deals, and at the end of a potentially non-existent show down, what was going to happen? Did Francis expect us to go back to living normal lives? Or were we going to be hunting stuff down forever? I knew then for certain; I could probably never go back. No matter how much I wanted to… I could never be normal; especially not with what I know now.

I scraped my arm against a prickly thorn bush as I ran past it. I felt blood trickle down as tears blurred my vision. Suddenly, without warning, Castiel appeared in front of me. I crashed into him and he held me steady, grabbing onto my wrists and looking down at me sternly. “I’m an angel, Taylor,” He said, “You cannot outrun me.”

Finally, after trying so hard to keep it together for 9 long months… I broke down. It felt horrible, and the weight of the world on my shoulders only grew with every ugly sob I choked out. “I never wanted this,” I said, stammering as I felt my legs give way. Castiel held me up and I rested my face against his chest; I felt his resistance, but I didn’t care, I embraced him and slowly, I felt his arms envelop me carefully. “I can’t be this person, I can’t… I just wanna go back, I just wanna turn around and go home and pretend that all this stuff never happened…” I whined. “Please… you have to help me,” I said, “You have to… to… do it,”

“I can’t take this power you have away from you,” Castiel said, and I heard the sadness in his voice, “If I could heal you of it, I would, but it is not that simple,”

I looked up at him and saw his bright blue eyes staring down at me, watchful, gentle and caring. “No,” I said, “I didn’t mean that… I meant…” He cocked his head as I spoke, “I meant you… you have to kill me,” I said, “Please,”

He let me go, taking a step backwards and letting me collapse to the ground. “You know not what you ask,”

“I do,” I said, “I can’t live like this anymore… I-I can’t…”

“You are special, Taylor,”

“I don’t care, I don’t want to be special… I don’t want to see things that nobody else can,” I said, “I just want… quiet… peace…” I sighed, wiping away my tears as my body shuddered through another sob. “I just want it all to stop.”

Castiel crouched down next to me, and I felt his hand touch the side of my face. When I looked up, I saw that there were tears in his eyes. “I know,” He said, “I am sorry the path you have had to walk has been so difficult, Taylor… I am,” He cooed, “I promise I will do everything within my power to help you, but you must keep going,”

“Why?” I asked quietly.

“Because we are in a war,” He repeated, “And you are one of the few soldiers we have… you are important,”

Almost an hour away from Oak Forest an 18 year old girl had scratched the skin right off her right arm in Elmwood Park. She would’ve survived… if only that phantom itch hadn’t formed around her wrist. Everyone was baffled, and the papers labelled it a suicide, but the Winchesters knew differently. By the time they had made it to that diner where I first met Dean, another phantom-itch case made it to the press. This time, it was closer; just 20 minutes away in Orland Park. And this time, the 15 year old boy had survived. Adopting their FBI personas; Agent Page and Plant, the Winchesters talked to the boy and found… well, a whole lot of nothing. The boy didn’t see or hear anything; no cold spots or sulphur either… just an itch along his collar bone that wouldn’t go away. He had dug past at least an inch of skin when his parents found him. They had to restrain their own son from gouging out his trachea.

Thankfully though, Sam was a whole lot better at research than I was, and had figured out the culprit. You see, deep down in that fiery hole that Dante so elegantly wrote about in “The Inferno”, there was a whole lot more going on than most people think. Instead of being just a wasteland of death and endless torture, hell was also filled with the same petty things that plagued the earth it scorned; politics and rank. Of course, in hell, politics could get a whole lot more dirty without anyone batting an eyelid… the only real way to derail a powerful demon that has lost favour with the masses would be to throw him out and blacklist him from the party. Demons that get thrown out can never return, and so they roam the earth in exile. Forced to live amongst humans- the things they hate the most, can really take a toll on a demon, and it’s not long before they start throwing one hell of a tantrum. These demons, called Ekimmu, create chaos at every turn, causing horrific accidents, murders, disease and even suicides wherever they go. And guess what? They’re impossible to see with the naked eye… which I guess is where I came in.

Castiel took me back to the cabin where Dean was still up. “I had my 4 hours,” Dean told me when I spotted Sam asleep on the couch, “It’s his turn to get some shut-eye.” I nodded, it was a system I was familiar with; Francis and I did the same thing… except my big brother liked babying me, and would often let me have the full 8 hours. I guess things were different in the Winchester house- here, there was mutual respect.

I let Dean carry on being Dean for awhile, sitting in silence at the table as he cleaned out his shot gun. He was meticulous and borderline obsessive; cleaning out the barrel like it was made of fine china. For all his lack of social graces, Dean seemed to have quite a lot of respect for his material possessions; the shot gun and that polished car out front were clear indications. Add to that, the fact that he was a good looking Caucasian around the age of 30 made Dean a sure-fire poster boy for violent sociopaths. Like Dexter Morgan, the serial killer from Miami, or Sweeney Todd; the Demon Barber of Fleet Street; Dean’s charisma and charm came from the study of human life, not the experience of it. I could tell this job, this day in and day out of slaughter and near-death-experiences had moulded into his life, and walking away from it would mean walking off a cliff into nothingness.

Unlike Dexter and Sweeney Todd though, Dean seemed to have a softer side. He caught me looking and finally put his shot gun away. “So… are you okay?” He asked me, glancing to Castiel as he did.

“It’s a lot to take in…” I said, “But I’ll be fine I guess,”

“You know we’ve had our fair share of self discoveries,” Dean said, an ironic smile on his face, “If it’s any consolation… I know what it’s like to get thrown into the deep end like this,” I didn’t respond, I just stared down at the table in silence. “So,” Dean said, trying to revive the dying conversation, “What’s your real name anyway?”

I looked up at him and thought for a moment, “Taylor Nancy Thopper,” I lied.

“Taylor Nancy Thopper?” Dean repeated, barely swallowing down my response, “T-N-T?”

I smirked, “I was popular in high school,”

“I bet,”

We shared a smile in the silence that ensued; only the sound of the crackling fire and Castiel’s footsteps filled the room. I turned and watched as the trench coat wearing angel disappeared into the next room, looking around at the fixtures of the cabin wearily. “He likes pacing,” Dean explained.

“Like a cat,” I replied, and saw Dean’s confused expression, “You know, how they pace their territories… making sure there aren’t any intruders,”

“Huh,” Dean smirked, “I guess,” He took a deep breath in and leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his shifting weight. “Bet you didn’t see this coming when we met at the diner,” He said, stretching.

“Well,” I said, “I could tell you were trouble…”

Dean smiled to himself and glanced over at his brother who flipped over on the couch. “You know I’m really grateful you’ve agreed to help us,” He said to me, his gaze still averted, “I know it’s hard… but you’re gunna save a lot of lives,”

“I hope so,”

“You are,” I felt his hand on mine then, and when I looked up at him, our eyes locked. “Trust me,”

“You know I don’t know why,” I began, “But I do… I trust you guys.”

He smiled, turning pensive as he leaned back in his chair again. “If you don’t mind me asking, Taylor,” He began, “How does your situation… work… exactly,”

“You mean, how do I see things that you don’t?” I asked, and he nodded, “I don’t know,” I said, “I just see them… as plain as you or me, I never knew I wasn’t supposed to,”

“You never had even the slightest inkling?”

“That I was a doorway between heaven and hell?” I scoffed, “No, sir, no I did not,”

“You must’ve thought some of the stuff you were seeing was a little off- I mean, didn’t your brother notice?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

I thought for awhile… I could see why Dean was asking the hard questions. It had been 9 months; surely, the truth should’ve come out sooner. I wondered if Francis had noticed this weird little gift I had for awhile now, and had decided to say nothing. Maybe he was afraid of me, and the things I could see. “I… I could always tell when we came across a demon…” I began, “Their faces… they were so horrible,”

“Hell yeah,” Dean said, shaking his head, “I remember that!” I narrowed my eyes at him questioningly and he cleared his throat, “Awhile ago I had a similar predicament- I had hallucinations, saw things no one else could… I even saw a hell hound as the damned thing… nevermind…” He stopped short and stood up to walk towards the window. He looked out, scanning the dark forest outside. “I don’t see anything anymore though… main deal is; I know what you’re going through,”

“How’d you get it fixed?” I asked. Dean paused for a moment, and then turned his head.

“Long story…” He said, “Truth is, I just kinda woke up one day… and it was gone,”

If there ever were words to hold onto, Dean had just spoken it. I wondered if it was really possible, or if Dean Winchester was playing some sort of mind trick to win my vote of confidence. Is that possible? Could it be? Will I one day wake up and cease to be a freak? The whole idea didn’t seem to add up… but like I said, for some reason- and I couldn’t figure out why, I trusted him anyway.

“We should move now,” Castiel said as he came back into the room.

“I’ll wake up Sammy,” Dean replied and walked off towards his brother.

“Wait,” I said, stopping both men short, “I should tell Francis… he’d want to know-”

“That would not be a good idea,” Castiel said gruffly, “Your brother does not trust us… and he will ask you to abandon this mission,”

“I’m pretty sure he’ll realize I’m gone,” I said, “He could help,”

“We’ll be back before morning,” Castiel said, “I sincerely doubt involving your brother would come to any good at all,”

“But…” I began a retort- but could not think of any other words to follow.

“I agree with Cas,” Dean put in as he walked into the living room, “We should keep your brother out of this.”

Dean insisted against Castiel’s preferred mode of transportation; instant teleportation from one place to another, via his angelic powers. Instead, we packed ourselves into the old Impala and went for a 20min long drive to Orland Park. 20min was a lot longer when there was nothing but classic rock and the steady breathing of your travel buddies to listen to.

The old car struggled to heat up in the cold Chicago night, but she managed the slippery snow-framed roads pretty decently. I knew Francis would kill to take it for a spin… perhaps a little too literally, considering who owned the Chevrolet Impala. I wasn’t exactly sure why Francis hated the Winchesters so much, after all him and Dean seemed to have way too much in common. They were both obsessive, hell-bent on ripping apart the world for justice, and seemed to think their cars were alive. On top of that, they both shared the gag-worthy love for classic rock… and only classic rock.

Suddenly, a familiar song came on the radio; Last Night On Earth by Green Day. Dean reached for the FM button and my hand moved forward on it’s on volition to grab his shoulder. “No, wait,” I said, “Leave it on,” He didn’t seem happy about it, but he left it playing anyway. I saw Sam smile a little in the rear view mirror.

“Finally,” Sam sighed, “Some real music…” He smirked. Dean scoffed, looking irritated.

I slumped back in my seat and hugged myself, listening to the lyrics as the song washed over me. It was so fitting… after all, tonight could very well be my last night on earth. I looked up at the fogged up window beside me and wrote on it with my finger. It was a phrase that I had used for years, but had never known the real meaning until recently; “The world owes you nothing; it was here first.” They were always cool, thought-provoking, and part-pretentious. But now, they were just cruel… but they were the truth.

“Mark Twain,” I heard Castiel say beside me. I looked to him and smiled.

“Yep,” I replied.

He smiled back.

Sam rattled on a little about the research he had done, and how he figured the hell-reject was still in Orland Park. “There’s been a wave of a strange disease that causes skin lesions,” He explained, “Most of the cases are pretty minor- well, except for that 15 year old kid.” Whatever this Ekimmu was up to, it seemed scattered and unfocused; just a reign of terror and misfortune; a curse on everyone it came in contact with. For all the times the world had blamed God for the terrible things that befell them, I bet not a soul thought to point the finger at a demon that just happened to be having ‘one of those days’.

Orland Park was as quaint and neat and downright eerie as a suburb could get, and when we rolled up to the hospital, we were the only car load of people in sight. “A hospital?” I said.

“An Ekimmu is a creature of pure hatred,” Castiel said. “The closer it can be to death, disease, and as much self-loathing as possible, the better,”

“And you’re sure it’s here?” I said, turning to Sam as he handed me a shot gun from the booth of the car.

“Well,” He sighed, “You tell me,”

I looked out to the small string of shops just opposite the hospital, and the rows of houses just beyond it. Everything was still and silent; the same ambient soundtrack that played just before a monstrous hell hound exploded out of the forest at Francis and me. It was the theme music for the kind of warriors we were; silent, mysterious, unknown… forgotten by a world who was too far away in their own pretty paved paradise to realize all the ugliness churning below. It was the Last Call- without the bugle horn.

I scaled the steps, following the Winchesters and Castiel. Together, we trudged solemnly through our miserable thoughts into possible demise.

***

Bobby turned solemn when he read those last words “Together, we trudged solemnly through our miserable thoughts into possible demise”. He knew that that was the tagline for his entire life so far. He shut the book for a moment and watched as Sheryl talked to a waiter at the counter, ordering off the menu behind him. He wondered how much more of this tragic story he could get through… and how long he could possibly stave off that choking feeling he felt in his throat. Reading this journal was like staring deep into the abyss… and now it was staring back at him. Slowly, but surely enough, this story was moulding itself into his.

He took off his hat for a moment and rested it on the table. Staring out the window with a heavy sigh, he wondered if Sam and Dean were going to be breaking for the night, or if they were just going to drive all the way through their fatigue. “God speed boys,” he said to himself, “God speed.”