By Fingertips 7/9
Title: By Fingertips
Author: AmeliaCareful’sDaughter
Word Count: 1,800
Pairings: none/gen
Rating: R For Language Mostly
Spoilers: none
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: AU: When Dean was 14, he argued irreparably with John. Now he’s 26 and a firefighter when he runs into a 6’4” guy in an abandoned house and recognizes that he’s a hunter and thinks that maybe he knows him. But Sam is nothing like he remembers.
The room was dark and it took a bit for Dean’s eyes to adjust and then he was a kid again and he was scared because last time he’d seen his Dad, his Dad was pissed at him. It looked like his Dad had just stepped out. The place felt like his Dad. It wasn’t the room (which was a hotel room, this one with wood paneling and a plaid bedspread.) It was the research, tacked up to the walls. Pictures. A map. Newspaper articles. Like the inside of John Winchester’s brain was there for him to see.
7/9Sam picked a hotel. Dean followed him into reception even though Dean knew he smelled like sewage. The old guy at the desk didn’t even raise an eyebrow until he looked at the credit card Sam handed him then he said, “You guys having a reunion or something?”
“What do you mean?” Sam said.
“That other guy, Bert Aframian, he came in and bought out the whole room for a month.”
Sam nodded and said, “Something like that.”
Dean looked down and saw that Sam’s card said ‘Victor Aframian.’
Sam smiled and picked up his card and said thanks.
He headed straight for Room 10, ‘Bert’s’ room, and said, “Keep an eye out.” He was carrying a lock pick set and unlike Dean, he was obviously in practice. Well, Sammy always was good at the clever stuff, Dean thought. He turned his back and looked at the parking lot. What was it, a five pin lock? Click click click click click. Sam was in in less than a minute.
The room was dark and it took a bit for Dean’s eyes to adjust and then he was a kid again and he was scared because last time he’d seen his Dad, his Dad was pissed at him. It looked like his Dad had just stepped out. The place felt like his Dad. It wasn’t the room (which was a hotel room, this one with wood paneling and a plaid bedspread.) It was the research, tacked up to the walls. Pictures. A map. Newspaper articles. Like the inside of John Winchester’s brain was there for him to see. Salt around the bed.
“Salt and cat’s eye shells,” Sam said. “He was worried, trying to keep something from coming in.”
Dean stepped across the salt line. There was half a hamburger next to the bed still sitting in a fast food wrapper. He picked it up and took a whiff and winced. “I don’t think he’s been here in a couple of days.”
On one wall were pictures of victims. “I don’t get it,” Dean said. “I mean, different men, different jobs, age, ethnicities. There’s always a connection, right? What do these guys have in common?”
From behind him, studying another wall, Sam said, “John figured it out. He found the same article we did. Constance Welch. She’s a woman in white.”
It took Dean a moment and then he remembered. He looked back at all the victims. “You sly dogs,” he said.
“John would have dug her up, salted an burned her,” Sam said. “But she’s still out there.”
“So he didn’t,” Dean said. “Why not?” Because she got him? Don’t think that. John Winchester wouldn’t get trapped by a ghost. He had bigger fish to fry.
“I don’t know,” Sam said, “but I’d go talk to her husband, if he’s still alive. I’ll see if I can track down an address. You…get a shower. You smell like shit. I mean, actually.”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Thanks for that.”
Sam started for the Impala to get his laptop. “Hey Dean,” he said.
Dean turned around and saw something he didn’t expect to see. He saw on the face of this twenty-two year old guy, an expression he knew from his ten-year-old little brother. “What I said,” Sam said, “on the bridge, about you leaving? I’m sorry. I’m really glad you have a good life. Roni seems like a great girl.”
“It’s okay, Sam. I meant it when I said I was sorry for not being there.”
Sam nodded. Took a step back, all but fled to the Impala. Dean turned around and saw a photo stuck to the mirror, old Kodachrome, shiny and faded with age. It was of John and him and Sam. Sam was so young his hair was blond. He remembered the picture, not surprising since they had so few. They’d gone fishing-well something like fishing. Really, Sammy was only five and too young to stay still to fish. Dad was perched on the hood of the Impala with Sammy on his lap, and Dean was next to Dad trying to look cool, squinting into the sun.
It had been a good day.
Dean took the photo.
When he came out of the shower Sam was talking to someone on his cell. “Yeah, I’m going to be there in a day or two…If you’re not busy…No, I just want to check some stuff out.” Sam listened for a minute and his face went soft, smiling. “I don’t know if I can, but I should be able the day after. Got a lot to tell you. See ya, Jess.”
A girl? It sounded like his brother was talking to a girl.
Dean checked his own phone. Roni had left him a message. “You were right, I did okay on my midterm in adolescent psych. All right, better than okay. A-. Practicum next semester. I miss you. Can’t wait to hear about Sammy.”
Sam said, “You, um, want me to pick you up something to eat?” Sam didn’t appear to think about eating much. Dean had the sense that Sam ate to live rather than living to eat but clearly the kid needed to get out and get some space. He was used to being alone.
“Yeah,” Dean said, “sounds good. Anything. Long as it’s fried. You know, I’m kinda on vacation here.”
“Still like pie?” Sam asked.
A little warm spot bloomed in Dean. “What the hell kind of question is that? Only commies don’t like pie.”
Sam grinned and ducked his head, weirdly shy. He scooted back out the door again.
Maybe things were turning around. Maybe his brother was somewhere in that big body. He would call Roni, tell her, then after eating they’d go talk to Constance Welch’s husband.
His phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. “Dean Winchester,” he said.
“Cops, Dean, take off,” Sam said casually in his ear.
“What about you,” Dean said, thinking, ‘Sam has my number?’ and ‘Now I have Sam’s number,’ and ‘Fuck,’ all at the same time.
“Kind of too late, but don’t worry, I can handle it,” Sam said. “Go find John.” And hung up.
Dean couldn’t help it. He checked out the window which was not what he was supposed to do. It was the deputy from the bridge and there was another deputy walking towards the hotel room.
Dean went out the window in the bathroom. Sam could handle himself. As Dean was learning, Sam could clearly handle himself better than Dean could.
# The husband had a junkyard which looked like got very little use from the grass growing in it, more like a place where cars came to die than salvage. Joseph Welch looked old before his time. He was unshaven and lined and he had a kind of musty smell. Dean wondered how Sam would talk to Welch. What would he be? Official? Open and trustworthy? As it turned out Welch himself told Dean what role to play when Dean showed him the photo of Dad with him and Sammy and asked if he’d seen Dad. Welch had seen him and thought he was a reporter.
“Yeah,” Dean said. “We’re reporters. Working on a story about the disappearances.” Sam would really be better at pulling off reporter.
“Hell of a story you’re working on,” Welch said. “The kind of questions he asked me?”
“About your late wife, Constance,” Dean said. He kept his face as open and trustworthy as possible. He was used to being trusted. People hated cops but they liked firefighters. Firefighters were the good guys.
“He asked me where she was buried,” Joseph Welch said.
“Right,” Dean said, “and just where is that, again?” Welch frowned at him. “Just fact checking, you know. Probably won’t end up in the story or anything.”
“In a plot. Behind my old place over on Breckenridge.”
“Right,” Dean said. “And you moved because...”
“I'm not gonna live in the house where my children died.”
Dean nodded. He saw tragedy a lot and was starting to get used to it. Kids were the hardest, though. He looked around. “Did you ever think of starting over, getting married again?” he asked. This didn’t look like the life of a man who was really living, not with that shack of a trailer and this yard.
Welch shook his head. “No way. Constance, she was the love of my life. Prettiest woman I ever known.”
The woman on the bridge was beautiful. Dean wondered if Welch had been fighting above his weight class and knew it. Probably didn’t know it, men never did. Women in white were women who had been betrayed in love.
“Love of your life,” Dean said. Lying asshole. “You were good to her, right?”
Welch looked at him for a moment but couldn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Thanks for your time,” Dean said. He walked toward the Impala. He knew he should just get in the car. Should just drive away. Just close his mouth for once. Cause he was so good at that.
“You ever hear of a woman in white?” he said. He knew how well his voice carried. He was used to talking over a lot of noise. Fires and accidents could be noisy places.
Welch turned around, eyebrows knit in confusion.
“A weeping woman? It’s just a ghost story, Mr. Welch. That’s all.”
“A ghost story?” Welch said.
“Yeah. A ghost story, told all over the world. Kind of universal. Funny about that. There’s lots of different versions, I guess but they all got a few things in common,” Dean explained.
“I already talked to that other reporter and you,” Welch said, “I don’t really have time-”
“When they were alive, their husbands cheated on them. So in a moment of total insanity, see, they kill their children,” Dean says. He can see his words strike like silver bullets. “Then they realize what they’ve done and it just makes them snap and they kill themselves. Their spirits are cursed to wander lonely roads and when they find an unfaithful man, they kill him and that man is never seen again.”
“You…you think that has something to do with Constance?” Welch said.
“You said you were good to her,” Dean said.
“Even if…” Welch said, “I mean, I made mistakes but Constance, she was a good mother, she would never…you get the hell away from here. And you don’t come back.”
It was fine with Dean. He had found out what he needed to know. Now Sam needed to get out of the hands of the county.
Part Six
Part Eight
Author: AmeliaCareful’sDaughter
Word Count: 1,800
Pairings: none/gen
Rating: R For Language Mostly
Spoilers: none
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: AU: When Dean was 14, he argued irreparably with John. Now he’s 26 and a firefighter when he runs into a 6’4” guy in an abandoned house and recognizes that he’s a hunter and thinks that maybe he knows him. But Sam is nothing like he remembers.
The room was dark and it took a bit for Dean’s eyes to adjust and then he was a kid again and he was scared because last time he’d seen his Dad, his Dad was pissed at him. It looked like his Dad had just stepped out. The place felt like his Dad. It wasn’t the room (which was a hotel room, this one with wood paneling and a plaid bedspread.) It was the research, tacked up to the walls. Pictures. A map. Newspaper articles. Like the inside of John Winchester’s brain was there for him to see.
7/9Sam picked a hotel. Dean followed him into reception even though Dean knew he smelled like sewage. The old guy at the desk didn’t even raise an eyebrow until he looked at the credit card Sam handed him then he said, “You guys having a reunion or something?”
“What do you mean?” Sam said.
“That other guy, Bert Aframian, he came in and bought out the whole room for a month.”
Sam nodded and said, “Something like that.”
Dean looked down and saw that Sam’s card said ‘Victor Aframian.’
Sam smiled and picked up his card and said thanks.
He headed straight for Room 10, ‘Bert’s’ room, and said, “Keep an eye out.” He was carrying a lock pick set and unlike Dean, he was obviously in practice. Well, Sammy always was good at the clever stuff, Dean thought. He turned his back and looked at the parking lot. What was it, a five pin lock? Click click click click click. Sam was in in less than a minute.
The room was dark and it took a bit for Dean’s eyes to adjust and then he was a kid again and he was scared because last time he’d seen his Dad, his Dad was pissed at him. It looked like his Dad had just stepped out. The place felt like his Dad. It wasn’t the room (which was a hotel room, this one with wood paneling and a plaid bedspread.) It was the research, tacked up to the walls. Pictures. A map. Newspaper articles. Like the inside of John Winchester’s brain was there for him to see. Salt around the bed.
“Salt and cat’s eye shells,” Sam said. “He was worried, trying to keep something from coming in.”
Dean stepped across the salt line. There was half a hamburger next to the bed still sitting in a fast food wrapper. He picked it up and took a whiff and winced. “I don’t think he’s been here in a couple of days.”
On one wall were pictures of victims. “I don’t get it,” Dean said. “I mean, different men, different jobs, age, ethnicities. There’s always a connection, right? What do these guys have in common?”
From behind him, studying another wall, Sam said, “John figured it out. He found the same article we did. Constance Welch. She’s a woman in white.”
It took Dean a moment and then he remembered. He looked back at all the victims. “You sly dogs,” he said.
“John would have dug her up, salted an burned her,” Sam said. “But she’s still out there.”
“So he didn’t,” Dean said. “Why not?” Because she got him? Don’t think that. John Winchester wouldn’t get trapped by a ghost. He had bigger fish to fry.
“I don’t know,” Sam said, “but I’d go talk to her husband, if he’s still alive. I’ll see if I can track down an address. You…get a shower. You smell like shit. I mean, actually.”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Thanks for that.”
Sam started for the Impala to get his laptop. “Hey Dean,” he said.
Dean turned around and saw something he didn’t expect to see. He saw on the face of this twenty-two year old guy, an expression he knew from his ten-year-old little brother. “What I said,” Sam said, “on the bridge, about you leaving? I’m sorry. I’m really glad you have a good life. Roni seems like a great girl.”
“It’s okay, Sam. I meant it when I said I was sorry for not being there.”
Sam nodded. Took a step back, all but fled to the Impala. Dean turned around and saw a photo stuck to the mirror, old Kodachrome, shiny and faded with age. It was of John and him and Sam. Sam was so young his hair was blond. He remembered the picture, not surprising since they had so few. They’d gone fishing-well something like fishing. Really, Sammy was only five and too young to stay still to fish. Dad was perched on the hood of the Impala with Sammy on his lap, and Dean was next to Dad trying to look cool, squinting into the sun.
It had been a good day.
Dean took the photo.
When he came out of the shower Sam was talking to someone on his cell. “Yeah, I’m going to be there in a day or two…If you’re not busy…No, I just want to check some stuff out.” Sam listened for a minute and his face went soft, smiling. “I don’t know if I can, but I should be able the day after. Got a lot to tell you. See ya, Jess.”
A girl? It sounded like his brother was talking to a girl.
Dean checked his own phone. Roni had left him a message. “You were right, I did okay on my midterm in adolescent psych. All right, better than okay. A-. Practicum next semester. I miss you. Can’t wait to hear about Sammy.”
Sam said, “You, um, want me to pick you up something to eat?” Sam didn’t appear to think about eating much. Dean had the sense that Sam ate to live rather than living to eat but clearly the kid needed to get out and get some space. He was used to being alone.
“Yeah,” Dean said, “sounds good. Anything. Long as it’s fried. You know, I’m kinda on vacation here.”
“Still like pie?” Sam asked.
A little warm spot bloomed in Dean. “What the hell kind of question is that? Only commies don’t like pie.”
Sam grinned and ducked his head, weirdly shy. He scooted back out the door again.
Maybe things were turning around. Maybe his brother was somewhere in that big body. He would call Roni, tell her, then after eating they’d go talk to Constance Welch’s husband.
His phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. “Dean Winchester,” he said.
“Cops, Dean, take off,” Sam said casually in his ear.
“What about you,” Dean said, thinking, ‘Sam has my number?’ and ‘Now I have Sam’s number,’ and ‘Fuck,’ all at the same time.
“Kind of too late, but don’t worry, I can handle it,” Sam said. “Go find John.” And hung up.
Dean couldn’t help it. He checked out the window which was not what he was supposed to do. It was the deputy from the bridge and there was another deputy walking towards the hotel room.
Dean went out the window in the bathroom. Sam could handle himself. As Dean was learning, Sam could clearly handle himself better than Dean could.
# The husband had a junkyard which looked like got very little use from the grass growing in it, more like a place where cars came to die than salvage. Joseph Welch looked old before his time. He was unshaven and lined and he had a kind of musty smell. Dean wondered how Sam would talk to Welch. What would he be? Official? Open and trustworthy? As it turned out Welch himself told Dean what role to play when Dean showed him the photo of Dad with him and Sammy and asked if he’d seen Dad. Welch had seen him and thought he was a reporter.
“Yeah,” Dean said. “We’re reporters. Working on a story about the disappearances.” Sam would really be better at pulling off reporter.
“Hell of a story you’re working on,” Welch said. “The kind of questions he asked me?”
“About your late wife, Constance,” Dean said. He kept his face as open and trustworthy as possible. He was used to being trusted. People hated cops but they liked firefighters. Firefighters were the good guys.
“He asked me where she was buried,” Joseph Welch said.
“Right,” Dean said, “and just where is that, again?” Welch frowned at him. “Just fact checking, you know. Probably won’t end up in the story or anything.”
“In a plot. Behind my old place over on Breckenridge.”
“Right,” Dean said. “And you moved because...”
“I'm not gonna live in the house where my children died.”
Dean nodded. He saw tragedy a lot and was starting to get used to it. Kids were the hardest, though. He looked around. “Did you ever think of starting over, getting married again?” he asked. This didn’t look like the life of a man who was really living, not with that shack of a trailer and this yard.
Welch shook his head. “No way. Constance, she was the love of my life. Prettiest woman I ever known.”
The woman on the bridge was beautiful. Dean wondered if Welch had been fighting above his weight class and knew it. Probably didn’t know it, men never did. Women in white were women who had been betrayed in love.
“Love of your life,” Dean said. Lying asshole. “You were good to her, right?”
Welch looked at him for a moment but couldn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Thanks for your time,” Dean said. He walked toward the Impala. He knew he should just get in the car. Should just drive away. Just close his mouth for once. Cause he was so good at that.
“You ever hear of a woman in white?” he said. He knew how well his voice carried. He was used to talking over a lot of noise. Fires and accidents could be noisy places.
Welch turned around, eyebrows knit in confusion.
“A weeping woman? It’s just a ghost story, Mr. Welch. That’s all.”
“A ghost story?” Welch said.
“Yeah. A ghost story, told all over the world. Kind of universal. Funny about that. There’s lots of different versions, I guess but they all got a few things in common,” Dean explained.
“I already talked to that other reporter and you,” Welch said, “I don’t really have time-”
“When they were alive, their husbands cheated on them. So in a moment of total insanity, see, they kill their children,” Dean says. He can see his words strike like silver bullets. “Then they realize what they’ve done and it just makes them snap and they kill themselves. Their spirits are cursed to wander lonely roads and when they find an unfaithful man, they kill him and that man is never seen again.”
“You…you think that has something to do with Constance?” Welch said.
“You said you were good to her,” Dean said.
“Even if…” Welch said, “I mean, I made mistakes but Constance, she was a good mother, she would never…you get the hell away from here. And you don’t come back.”
It was fine with Dean. He had found out what he needed to know. Now Sam needed to get out of the hands of the county.
Part Six
Part Eight