Piccolo stralcio del libro... godetevelo!
The Afiri house The Bronx, New York Friday 17 November 2006
. . . Mom pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly, fire consuming her . . .
They’re with Dad, following every one of his commands. “Boys, don’t forget, you salt the en- trance, they can’t get in,” he orders. “Sam, I want you to shoot each of those bottles off the wall,” he yells. “Dean, stay with your brother,” he barks.
. . . Jessica pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly, fire consuming her . . .
Learning how to field-strip an M-16 before ever kissing a girl. Unable to get through Moby-Dick or The Scarlet Letter for school, despite having already read the collected works of Aleister Crowley—not to mention Jan Howard Brund- vand. Knowing the exorcism ritual in Latin, but unable to remember the words to the Pledge of Al- legiance, which earns a detention sentence at one of the (many) grammar schools.
. . . Cassie pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly, fire consuming her . . .
“I gotta find Dad.” “He wants us to pick up where he left off—saving people, hunting things.” “Can we not fight?” “You’re after it, aren’t you? The thing that killed Mom.” “I don’t understand the blind faith you have in the man.”
. . . Sarah pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly, fire consuming her . . .
The fear never dies, never goes away, never leaves, no matter how many times you put on the brave face, no matter how many times you lie to people that everything will be okay, no matter how often you tell people that you’ll fix it, no mat- ter how close you come to dying or being caught or being put away forever, and then you won’t be able to protect anyone ever again . . .
. . . Ellen pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly, fire consuming her . . .
“All right, something like this happens to your brother, you pick up the phone and you call me.” “Call you? You kiddin’ me? Dad, I called you from Lawrence. All right? Sam called you when I was dying. But gettin’ you on the phone, I got a better chance’a winnin’ the lottery.”
. . . Jo pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly, fire consuming her . . .
“He’s given us an order.” “I don’t care! We don’t always have to do what he says.”
. . . Sam pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly—
—but the fire doesn’t consume him. Instead, his eyes open, and they’re yellow.
“You have to kill me, Dean. Dad said so.”
“No!”
Dean shot upright, drenched in sweat, pants damp, sheets twisted and soaked.
“Dammit,” he muttered.
Untangling himself from the sheets of Manfred’s guest bed, he walked over to the bureau, on which sat a giant circular mirror with a peace symbol etched into it in red. A haggard, sweaty face looked back at him. Hell, even his hair was mussed, and he barely had enough hair to do the job, but that nightmare—latest in a freakin’ series, collect ’em all—had done the trick.
Since he was a little kid, Dean had seen every kind of horrible thing. Stuff that would make H.R. Giger throw up his hands and go into aluminum siding. Stuff that made Stephen King look like Jane Austen. Stuff that could—and had—driven other people to drink heavily, or blow their brains out, or both. And never once did he have nightmares. Sure, he had bad dreams, especially as a kid, but not the kind of bone-chilling, sweat-inducing, full- on nightmares he was getting now.
And it was all Dad’s fault.
Years on the road. Years of training, of fighting, of hunting. Years of obeying Dad’s orders to the letter, no matter how ridiculous.
Years of being the one stuck between Dad’s im- movable object and Sam’s irresistible force, trying desperately to keep family harmony.
Years of living up to the first command Dad had given him after Mom died: “Take your brother outside as fast as you can—don’t look back. Now, Dean, go!”
After all that, what were Dad’s last words to him before he let himself be taken by the same demon who’d killed Mom and Sam’s girl? “Good job, son”? “Keep up the fine work”? “I’m proud of you, Dean”?
No, it was an order for him to protect Sam - and if he couldn’t, he’d have to kill Sam.
Christ almighty.
Dean stared at his reflection, partly colored red by the peace-symbol etchings, making it look like blood was streaking down the center of his face.
On the one hand, he had to tell Sam. Leaving aside the fact that it was only fair to Sam, he didn’t want to keep carrying this by himself. But Dad had said one other thing: “Don’t tell Sam.”
Bastard.
Most of the time he was able to distract himself, lose himself in the job. They did important work, him and Sammy. All the lives they’d saved, all the souls they’d avenged—it was necessary. And dam- mit, they were good at it.
Most of the time. But then something like this . . .
Dean shook it off. He knew he couldn’t let it get to him. They had a job. In fact, they had two.
He looked over at the clock radio next to the guest bed, which told him it was 6:30 in the morn- ing. He heard the sound of a high-performance engine in need of a tuneup, and walked over to the window, pulling back the brightly colored curtains. He saw Manfred’s four-by-four back out of the driveway. His heart sank when he realized it was heading straight for the front of the Impala, which was still partly in the driveway, but at the last sec- ond Manfred veered out to the right. The two right- side tires clunked down the sidewalk lip while the left tires remained in the driveway, easing out onto the dark pavement of the street.
Forcing himself to breathe regularly again, Dean turned away and looked at the rumpled bed. No way in hell I’m going back to sleep. Much as it pained him to be up at this hour, it seemed he was stuck. Besides, he had the world’s best coffee waiting for him.
