Fic: Thirteen at Dinner (12/15)
Masterpost
Chapter X: Peter Winn
Chapter XI: Joyce Ashby
Dean followed Avery into the room at the youth centre where she was staying. Frances was already there.
“Here you go,” Avery said, shutting the door behind Dean. “I brought him. Will you talk to him?”
Frances glared at Avery, and then turned a hard gaze on Dean. “Why are you here now? Yesterday you were ready to call your brother a murderer. What changed your mind?”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll explain myself to Sam, and apologize to him. I don’t owe you anything.”
“You do if you want me to tell you what I know.”
Dean held out for a moment before he sighed. Frances knew where Sam was, and right then that meant she could have anything she wanted from Dean.
“I know Sammy,” he said. “He would feel guilty about killing a Wendigo that was about to eat him. No way he randomly decided to murder Isabelle, even if she was a witch. He wouldn’t have killed her unless she left him no choice.”
“You didn’t say this yesterday.”
“Yeah.” Dean shot a glance at Avery. “It’s - I just found out Josh Mathieson’s been giving me stuff that affected my mind somehow. All the papers he gave me with people’s names and addresses.”
“My dad’s been controlling your mind?” Avery asked skeptically.
“I think so. Sam would know for sure.” He turned back to Frances. “I’m not saying I didn’t make mistakes. Sam knew something was off with Mathieson from the beginning. I should have listened to him. But he’s my little brother, and I would never have left him to the mercies of the law even if he really had gone psycho and murdered Isabelle.”
“Is that possible?” Frances asked. “Can someone control your mind like that? I thought… Even Isabelle, even if she was a witch…”
“You work in this business long enough, you realize anything’s possible.” Dean shrugged.
“So - Kat -” Frances shook her head. “Do you think somebody did something to her? Whoever killed Ralph, they must have thought that if… Well… If even my best friend didn’t trust me…”
“It’s possible.”
“But that doesn’t explain Joyce.” Frances shot a glance at Dean. “My daughter. I… I’ve never said this to anyone. She didn’t really believe I’d killed Ralph. She told me that. But she was so frightened of being ostracized, of what people might say or do - and of whether Bernard would leave her…”
Dean frowned. “Do you think Joyce could’ve killed your husband? You said he could be cruel -”
“No.”
“Look, Frances, I understand you’re loyal to your daughter, but she’s long dead. Nothing can hurt her now. And if knowing the truth will help you find peace -”
“Joyce wasn’t brave, but she wasn’t a killer!”
Dean opened his mouth, and then closed it again. There was no point antagonizing her. “Fine. It wasn’t Joyce. Can you tell me about my brother now?”
“I’ll tell you what I know. On one condition. Avery and I go with you to find him. I need to know that he’s all right.”
“You don’t know where he is?”
“I don’t know where he is now, but I know how you can find out. I… Let me explain.”
“I’m listening.”
“I was in Mathieson’s office earlier -”
“You can get in there?”
“Is that what you’re worried about right now?” Frances asked, raising her eyebrows.
Dean sighed. “No, you’re right. Tell me what happened.”
“I heard him talking. He wanted Sam out of the way. He made a deal with the police officers - he offered them a lot of money. They were supposed to say they wanted to transport Sam to another holding facility to get him out and into the squad car. Then they were to go to a deserted stretch of highway and shoot him, and claim later that he attacked them and was shot trying to get away.”
Dean let out a breath. “Son of a bitch.”
Frances smiled. “My thoughts exactly. I spoke to Steve. When Isabelle died, it broke the spell she’d placed on Steve.”
“So he was telling the truth?”
“About being Joyce’s son? Yes. He was. We’ve… known each other for some time. Once the spell was broken he started to age rapidly - he would have been dead in a day in any case. He was willing to help.”
Dean’s breath caught. “There were three bodies in the squad car.”
“The two officers, and Steve. Steve shoved Sam out of the car. He managed to take the officers by surprise and make them crash it. It wasn’t actually that bad a crash - nobody died. The people in the other cars got out. Steve shot both officers and himself.” There was grim satisfaction on her face. “Exactly what those horrible men planned to do to Sam.”
“And you made the cars catch fire.”
“The police found three bodies. Of course, there’ll eventually be questions, and the other people will report what they saw. But they didn’t see Sam - we arranged it all several miles after we shoved him out. Any witnesses would have seen Steve.”
“Please. Where is Sam?”
She bit her lip. “That’s what I don’t know. He was disorientated, and another car hit him -”
Dean felt like he’d been plunged in a bucket of ice water. “Is he OK?”
“I don’t know. He was alive, the driver got out and helped him, but I couldn’t follow them - I had to help Steve finish it. And I can’t find him now.”
“OK.” Dean took a deep breath. “OK. If he’d gone to a hospital, they’d’ve notified the police. And the police think Sam’s dead, so he didn’t go to a hospital… We need to find the person who helped him. Did you see who it was? Somebody you recognized?”
“No, but I saw the license number of the car.”
Dean grinned. “That’s a start.”
Eight hours later - eight hours was how long it took Dean and Avery between them to figure out how to hack the DMV database, identify the owner of the car as Daryl Trent, and track down his address - Dean was knocking at the front door of a suburban house with doors and shutters painted a cheerful blue. Avery was waiting in the car with Frances, because they didn’t want to freak this guy out by bringing a ghost to his doorstep.
The man who opened the door was in his sixties, short and balding. He surveyed Dean with a frown.
“I suppose you’re the brother? I’m Daryl. You call me Mr. Trent. I’m surprised it took you this long. I was beginning to think the kid was right and you weren’t coming.”
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Of course you don’t. But I know all about you, because your brother gets really chatty when he’s high on prescription painkillers. Do you really hunt ghosts?”
“Sam told you that? And you’re not freaking out?” Dean drew in a shaky breath. He hadn’t let himself hope before, not really, because if he believed Sam was alive and then had that taken away, he wouldn’t survive it. But now he finally dared to let himself feel like maybe, maybe Sammy was OK. “Is he here? Can I see him?”
“He’s here. Don’t think he wants to see you.”
“Please.”
Mr. Trent shrugged. “Come with me. I’m not going to force him to talk to you if he doesn’t want to, though.”
Dean forced himself not to retort - nobody kept him from Sammy - and quietly followed the other man into the house and upstairs. He knocked at one of the doors, opened it, and stuck his head in.
“Hey, kid. Guy claiming to be your brother is here.”
“I don’t want to see him.”
The voice was weak, and exhausted, but it was Sammy’s voice, and Dean’s heart was ready to burst out of his chest. He pushed past Mr. Trent, ignoring the man’s pathetic attempt to grab his arm and hold him back, and there was Sammy, sitting in an armchair by the window with a book in his lap, his shirt off and bandages swathed around his chest.
“Hey, kiddo,” Dean said hoarsely.
“Go away, Dean.”
Dean turned to Mr. Trent. “Dude, you want to give us a minute?”
“Sam?” Mr. Trent asked.
Sam nodded. “You can go, Daryl, thanks. I’ll be OK.” He waited until the door had shut behind the older man before saying, “Doesn’t mean I want to talk to you, Dean. You can go, too.”
“So you’re allowed to call him Daryl?” Dean snickered. “Figures you would’ve sweet-talked him already. How badly are you hurt?”
Sam ignored him, going back to his book.
Dean studied him for a moment, and finally walked around Sam to sit on the windowsill.
“The Republic,” Dean noted, peering at the cover of Sam’s book. “You always do go for the Ancient Greeks when you’re mad at me. So is this Daryl dude a classics professor?” He studied Sam. The bandages around his chest were expertly wrapped, and although there were a couple of spots of blood, he didn’t seem to be in pain. And the guy had mentioned giving him the good stuff. “No, Daryl’s a doctor, isn’t he? You puppy-dogged him into not taking you to a hospital, and he brought you home and patched you up.”
Sam scowled.
“I know you’re mad, Sammy. You have reason to be. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’m not going to make excuses. It was a dick move, what I did to you.”
Sam’s mouth tightened.
“OK, so you’re going to sit there and be quiet. That’s OK. Quiet’s good. I like quiet. So how about Joyce Ashby? I bet you know that story already, but I just figured it out when Frances mentioned her. Joyce turned against her, too, didn’t she? Poor Frances.” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You think Joyce killed her dad? Frances says not, but she might be wrong. He sounds like the kind of creep who deserved it. Kind of poetic justice, then, that Isabelle cursed Steve. Of course, not very good for Steve.”
Dean turned to look out the window. There was a kid mowing the back lawn. Dean watched him for a couple of minutes before he turned back to Sam.
“You remember that time you mowed lawns for a month to get me that Metallica shirt for my birthday? I kept it for years, even after I outgrew it. Lost it when a black dog got into our room and tore my stuff apart.”
He glanced out the window again.
“Hey, Sam? That kid’s gone up and down the lawn like eight times, and you’ve not turned a single page.”
Sam dropped the book.
“What do you want from me, Dean?”
“Nothing. You’re mad, I get it. And you don’t want to talk to me. But, Sammy, if you’re trying to punish me… They called me into the police station, gave me your stuff, and told me your body was too badly burned for identification. They had me looking at coffins. Do you really think anything you do now is going to punish me worse than that?” Sam said nothing. “Are you going to make me beg?”
“Dean, I don’t…”
“You don’t what?”
“How do I… I don’t… You abandoned me!”
“I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry, kiddo.”
Sam shot him a quick sideways look, and something in Dean’s expression must’ve got through to him because he was trying to lever himself up and reach for Dean.
“Hey, whoa, easy there.” Dean jumped off the windowsill and grabbed Sam’s arm to steady him. “Let’s keep you from falling on your face.”
“Dean.”
“Yeah, I know.” Dean tugged Sam closer. “It was something in those papers Mathieson kept shoving at me - you’ll need to look at them and figure it out. I think it lets Mathieson put ideas in people’s minds.”
“Shady business practices,” Sam said, with the ghost of a smile. “You know, you could’ve led with that. I wouldn’t have given you a hard time.”
Dean smiled back. “Didn’t need to. I knew you wouldn’t last long against the Dean Winchester charm.” His smile faded a little. “And… I didn’t want to make excuses, Sammy.”
Dean suddenly found himself being hugged so tightly he could barely breathe. He patted Sam’s back gently over the bandages.
“Ease up there, kiddo.”
“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, loosening his grip fractionally.
When his head dropped to Dean’s shoulder, Dean didn’t bother holding back the tears. He’d thought Sammy was gone, lost to him for good, and anyone who’d judge him for crying had clearly never had a baby brother.
“Dean,” Sam whispered, fists clenching in his jacket. “Dean, don’t. I’m OK.”
Dean just slid his hand up into Sam’s hair and held on.
An hour later, when he helped Sam down the stairs, because it was either that or have the little idiot kill himself trying to get down on his own, they found Mr. Trent sitting with Avery in the living room, while Frances hovered by the wall looking awkward.
“Dean!” Avery said brightly. “You made up.” Then, sobering, “Sam, I’m so sorry.”
“There’s no point being sorry,” Frances snapped. “There’s no excuse for being a coward.”
“It’s OK,” Sam said, sounding a little startled at her vehemence. “I mean - it wasn’t right, but I understand.”
“It’s not OK!” Frances floated forward, and Dean put himself in front of Sam just in case. “It’s not even close to OK! You can’t accept these things! I made that mistake, with Joyce. I felt so sorry for her, Ralph could be so cruel, that I never encouraged her to stand up for what was right. She grew up saying anything, anything, to keep Ralph from losing his temper, and - I’m not going to see it happen again!”
“You need to calm down,” Mr. Trent said, sounding remarkably calm himself considering that a couple of days ago he’d been a normal person and now there was a ghost yelling at a ghost-hunter in his living room. “Frances - I don’t think they understand. You’ve not been honest with them.”
“What are you talking about?” Sam asked.
“Sit down, Sam. You shouldn’t be on your feet too long.”
Dean settled Sam in a large padded chair and pushed an ottoman under his feet. Then he perched on the arm of the chair, turned to Frances, and said, “Explain.”
She hesitated.
“Do you want me to tell them?” Mr. Trent asked.
Frances tilted her head in his direction. “How do you know?”
“My wife was a genealogist, and she specialized in this region. Bernard Elliott’s father was one of the most prominent citizens of Andover.”
“Yes. I should’ve known someone would work it out.” She shrugged. “Avery, you’re… You’re probably not going to believe me, actually. But you’re a descendant of my daughter Joyce, through her son, Stephen Elliott.”
Dean choked on air. “What?”
“Steve never married!” Sam protested. “He was sixteen!”
“Sixteen was old enough to be considered an adult at that time - at least old enough to marry, if you wanted to. But no, he didn’t marry. He did have a child, and that child had a child, and… You get the picture.”
“So… my dad’s…”
Frances grimaced. “No, not Joshua Mathieson. Joyce’s descendants aren’t exactly heroic, but none of them has been evil yet, and I hope none of them ever will be. It’s your mother, Margaret.”
“You’re insane.”
“No, it makes sense.” Sam was sitting up straight, eyes gleaming in the way they did when he was putting a puzzle together. “That’s why she can possess you, and go where you go, or where you’ve been. She’s not confined to where she’s buried because you’re a blood relation.”
“And you never told me?” Avery demanded angrily.
“Would you have believed me?” Frances asked.
Avery sighed, the fight going out of her as she sat back. “I suppose not. But… What now? Are you stuck here as long as you have descendants still living?”
“No,” Sam said. “No, she’s not. We’re going to find out the truth about what happened the night Ralph Ashby died, and then we’re going to send your great-great-great grandmother into the afterlife.” He turned to Dean. “Right?”
Dean squeezed his shoulder. “You bet we are.”
Chapter XII: Kat O'Donnell
Chapter X: Peter Winn
Chapter XI: Joyce Ashby
Dean followed Avery into the room at the youth centre where she was staying. Frances was already there.
“Here you go,” Avery said, shutting the door behind Dean. “I brought him. Will you talk to him?”
Frances glared at Avery, and then turned a hard gaze on Dean. “Why are you here now? Yesterday you were ready to call your brother a murderer. What changed your mind?”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll explain myself to Sam, and apologize to him. I don’t owe you anything.”
“You do if you want me to tell you what I know.”
Dean held out for a moment before he sighed. Frances knew where Sam was, and right then that meant she could have anything she wanted from Dean.
“I know Sammy,” he said. “He would feel guilty about killing a Wendigo that was about to eat him. No way he randomly decided to murder Isabelle, even if she was a witch. He wouldn’t have killed her unless she left him no choice.”
“You didn’t say this yesterday.”
“Yeah.” Dean shot a glance at Avery. “It’s - I just found out Josh Mathieson’s been giving me stuff that affected my mind somehow. All the papers he gave me with people’s names and addresses.”
“My dad’s been controlling your mind?” Avery asked skeptically.
“I think so. Sam would know for sure.” He turned back to Frances. “I’m not saying I didn’t make mistakes. Sam knew something was off with Mathieson from the beginning. I should have listened to him. But he’s my little brother, and I would never have left him to the mercies of the law even if he really had gone psycho and murdered Isabelle.”
“Is that possible?” Frances asked. “Can someone control your mind like that? I thought… Even Isabelle, even if she was a witch…”
“You work in this business long enough, you realize anything’s possible.” Dean shrugged.
“So - Kat -” Frances shook her head. “Do you think somebody did something to her? Whoever killed Ralph, they must have thought that if… Well… If even my best friend didn’t trust me…”
“It’s possible.”
“But that doesn’t explain Joyce.” Frances shot a glance at Dean. “My daughter. I… I’ve never said this to anyone. She didn’t really believe I’d killed Ralph. She told me that. But she was so frightened of being ostracized, of what people might say or do - and of whether Bernard would leave her…”
Dean frowned. “Do you think Joyce could’ve killed your husband? You said he could be cruel -”
“No.”
“Look, Frances, I understand you’re loyal to your daughter, but she’s long dead. Nothing can hurt her now. And if knowing the truth will help you find peace -”
“Joyce wasn’t brave, but she wasn’t a killer!”
Dean opened his mouth, and then closed it again. There was no point antagonizing her. “Fine. It wasn’t Joyce. Can you tell me about my brother now?”
“I’ll tell you what I know. On one condition. Avery and I go with you to find him. I need to know that he’s all right.”
“You don’t know where he is?”
“I don’t know where he is now, but I know how you can find out. I… Let me explain.”
“I’m listening.”
“I was in Mathieson’s office earlier -”
“You can get in there?”
“Is that what you’re worried about right now?” Frances asked, raising her eyebrows.
Dean sighed. “No, you’re right. Tell me what happened.”
“I heard him talking. He wanted Sam out of the way. He made a deal with the police officers - he offered them a lot of money. They were supposed to say they wanted to transport Sam to another holding facility to get him out and into the squad car. Then they were to go to a deserted stretch of highway and shoot him, and claim later that he attacked them and was shot trying to get away.”
Dean let out a breath. “Son of a bitch.”
Frances smiled. “My thoughts exactly. I spoke to Steve. When Isabelle died, it broke the spell she’d placed on Steve.”
“So he was telling the truth?”
“About being Joyce’s son? Yes. He was. We’ve… known each other for some time. Once the spell was broken he started to age rapidly - he would have been dead in a day in any case. He was willing to help.”
Dean’s breath caught. “There were three bodies in the squad car.”
“The two officers, and Steve. Steve shoved Sam out of the car. He managed to take the officers by surprise and make them crash it. It wasn’t actually that bad a crash - nobody died. The people in the other cars got out. Steve shot both officers and himself.” There was grim satisfaction on her face. “Exactly what those horrible men planned to do to Sam.”
“And you made the cars catch fire.”
“The police found three bodies. Of course, there’ll eventually be questions, and the other people will report what they saw. But they didn’t see Sam - we arranged it all several miles after we shoved him out. Any witnesses would have seen Steve.”
“Please. Where is Sam?”
She bit her lip. “That’s what I don’t know. He was disorientated, and another car hit him -”
Dean felt like he’d been plunged in a bucket of ice water. “Is he OK?”
“I don’t know. He was alive, the driver got out and helped him, but I couldn’t follow them - I had to help Steve finish it. And I can’t find him now.”
“OK.” Dean took a deep breath. “OK. If he’d gone to a hospital, they’d’ve notified the police. And the police think Sam’s dead, so he didn’t go to a hospital… We need to find the person who helped him. Did you see who it was? Somebody you recognized?”
“No, but I saw the license number of the car.”
Dean grinned. “That’s a start.”
Eight hours later - eight hours was how long it took Dean and Avery between them to figure out how to hack the DMV database, identify the owner of the car as Daryl Trent, and track down his address - Dean was knocking at the front door of a suburban house with doors and shutters painted a cheerful blue. Avery was waiting in the car with Frances, because they didn’t want to freak this guy out by bringing a ghost to his doorstep.
The man who opened the door was in his sixties, short and balding. He surveyed Dean with a frown.
“I suppose you’re the brother? I’m Daryl. You call me Mr. Trent. I’m surprised it took you this long. I was beginning to think the kid was right and you weren’t coming.”
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Of course you don’t. But I know all about you, because your brother gets really chatty when he’s high on prescription painkillers. Do you really hunt ghosts?”
“Sam told you that? And you’re not freaking out?” Dean drew in a shaky breath. He hadn’t let himself hope before, not really, because if he believed Sam was alive and then had that taken away, he wouldn’t survive it. But now he finally dared to let himself feel like maybe, maybe Sammy was OK. “Is he here? Can I see him?”
“He’s here. Don’t think he wants to see you.”
“Please.”
Mr. Trent shrugged. “Come with me. I’m not going to force him to talk to you if he doesn’t want to, though.”
Dean forced himself not to retort - nobody kept him from Sammy - and quietly followed the other man into the house and upstairs. He knocked at one of the doors, opened it, and stuck his head in.
“Hey, kid. Guy claiming to be your brother is here.”
“I don’t want to see him.”
The voice was weak, and exhausted, but it was Sammy’s voice, and Dean’s heart was ready to burst out of his chest. He pushed past Mr. Trent, ignoring the man’s pathetic attempt to grab his arm and hold him back, and there was Sammy, sitting in an armchair by the window with a book in his lap, his shirt off and bandages swathed around his chest.
“Hey, kiddo,” Dean said hoarsely.
“Go away, Dean.”
Dean turned to Mr. Trent. “Dude, you want to give us a minute?”
“Sam?” Mr. Trent asked.
Sam nodded. “You can go, Daryl, thanks. I’ll be OK.” He waited until the door had shut behind the older man before saying, “Doesn’t mean I want to talk to you, Dean. You can go, too.”
“So you’re allowed to call him Daryl?” Dean snickered. “Figures you would’ve sweet-talked him already. How badly are you hurt?”
Sam ignored him, going back to his book.
Dean studied him for a moment, and finally walked around Sam to sit on the windowsill.
“The Republic,” Dean noted, peering at the cover of Sam’s book. “You always do go for the Ancient Greeks when you’re mad at me. So is this Daryl dude a classics professor?” He studied Sam. The bandages around his chest were expertly wrapped, and although there were a couple of spots of blood, he didn’t seem to be in pain. And the guy had mentioned giving him the good stuff. “No, Daryl’s a doctor, isn’t he? You puppy-dogged him into not taking you to a hospital, and he brought you home and patched you up.”
Sam scowled.
“I know you’re mad, Sammy. You have reason to be. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’m not going to make excuses. It was a dick move, what I did to you.”
Sam’s mouth tightened.
“OK, so you’re going to sit there and be quiet. That’s OK. Quiet’s good. I like quiet. So how about Joyce Ashby? I bet you know that story already, but I just figured it out when Frances mentioned her. Joyce turned against her, too, didn’t she? Poor Frances.” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You think Joyce killed her dad? Frances says not, but she might be wrong. He sounds like the kind of creep who deserved it. Kind of poetic justice, then, that Isabelle cursed Steve. Of course, not very good for Steve.”
Dean turned to look out the window. There was a kid mowing the back lawn. Dean watched him for a couple of minutes before he turned back to Sam.
“You remember that time you mowed lawns for a month to get me that Metallica shirt for my birthday? I kept it for years, even after I outgrew it. Lost it when a black dog got into our room and tore my stuff apart.”
He glanced out the window again.
“Hey, Sam? That kid’s gone up and down the lawn like eight times, and you’ve not turned a single page.”
Sam dropped the book.
“What do you want from me, Dean?”
“Nothing. You’re mad, I get it. And you don’t want to talk to me. But, Sammy, if you’re trying to punish me… They called me into the police station, gave me your stuff, and told me your body was too badly burned for identification. They had me looking at coffins. Do you really think anything you do now is going to punish me worse than that?” Sam said nothing. “Are you going to make me beg?”
“Dean, I don’t…”
“You don’t what?”
“How do I… I don’t… You abandoned me!”
“I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry, kiddo.”
Sam shot him a quick sideways look, and something in Dean’s expression must’ve got through to him because he was trying to lever himself up and reach for Dean.
“Hey, whoa, easy there.” Dean jumped off the windowsill and grabbed Sam’s arm to steady him. “Let’s keep you from falling on your face.”
“Dean.”
“Yeah, I know.” Dean tugged Sam closer. “It was something in those papers Mathieson kept shoving at me - you’ll need to look at them and figure it out. I think it lets Mathieson put ideas in people’s minds.”
“Shady business practices,” Sam said, with the ghost of a smile. “You know, you could’ve led with that. I wouldn’t have given you a hard time.”
Dean smiled back. “Didn’t need to. I knew you wouldn’t last long against the Dean Winchester charm.” His smile faded a little. “And… I didn’t want to make excuses, Sammy.”
Dean suddenly found himself being hugged so tightly he could barely breathe. He patted Sam’s back gently over the bandages.
“Ease up there, kiddo.”
“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, loosening his grip fractionally.
When his head dropped to Dean’s shoulder, Dean didn’t bother holding back the tears. He’d thought Sammy was gone, lost to him for good, and anyone who’d judge him for crying had clearly never had a baby brother.
“Dean,” Sam whispered, fists clenching in his jacket. “Dean, don’t. I’m OK.”
Dean just slid his hand up into Sam’s hair and held on.
An hour later, when he helped Sam down the stairs, because it was either that or have the little idiot kill himself trying to get down on his own, they found Mr. Trent sitting with Avery in the living room, while Frances hovered by the wall looking awkward.
“Dean!” Avery said brightly. “You made up.” Then, sobering, “Sam, I’m so sorry.”
“There’s no point being sorry,” Frances snapped. “There’s no excuse for being a coward.”
“It’s OK,” Sam said, sounding a little startled at her vehemence. “I mean - it wasn’t right, but I understand.”
“It’s not OK!” Frances floated forward, and Dean put himself in front of Sam just in case. “It’s not even close to OK! You can’t accept these things! I made that mistake, with Joyce. I felt so sorry for her, Ralph could be so cruel, that I never encouraged her to stand up for what was right. She grew up saying anything, anything, to keep Ralph from losing his temper, and - I’m not going to see it happen again!”
“You need to calm down,” Mr. Trent said, sounding remarkably calm himself considering that a couple of days ago he’d been a normal person and now there was a ghost yelling at a ghost-hunter in his living room. “Frances - I don’t think they understand. You’ve not been honest with them.”
“What are you talking about?” Sam asked.
“Sit down, Sam. You shouldn’t be on your feet too long.”
Dean settled Sam in a large padded chair and pushed an ottoman under his feet. Then he perched on the arm of the chair, turned to Frances, and said, “Explain.”
She hesitated.
“Do you want me to tell them?” Mr. Trent asked.
Frances tilted her head in his direction. “How do you know?”
“My wife was a genealogist, and she specialized in this region. Bernard Elliott’s father was one of the most prominent citizens of Andover.”
“Yes. I should’ve known someone would work it out.” She shrugged. “Avery, you’re… You’re probably not going to believe me, actually. But you’re a descendant of my daughter Joyce, through her son, Stephen Elliott.”
Dean choked on air. “What?”
“Steve never married!” Sam protested. “He was sixteen!”
“Sixteen was old enough to be considered an adult at that time - at least old enough to marry, if you wanted to. But no, he didn’t marry. He did have a child, and that child had a child, and… You get the picture.”
“So… my dad’s…”
Frances grimaced. “No, not Joshua Mathieson. Joyce’s descendants aren’t exactly heroic, but none of them has been evil yet, and I hope none of them ever will be. It’s your mother, Margaret.”
“You’re insane.”
“No, it makes sense.” Sam was sitting up straight, eyes gleaming in the way they did when he was putting a puzzle together. “That’s why she can possess you, and go where you go, or where you’ve been. She’s not confined to where she’s buried because you’re a blood relation.”
“And you never told me?” Avery demanded angrily.
“Would you have believed me?” Frances asked.
Avery sighed, the fight going out of her as she sat back. “I suppose not. But… What now? Are you stuck here as long as you have descendants still living?”
“No,” Sam said. “No, she’s not. We’re going to find out the truth about what happened the night Ralph Ashby died, and then we’re going to send your great-great-great grandmother into the afterlife.” He turned to Dean. “Right?”
Dean squeezed his shoulder. “You bet we are.”
Chapter XII: Kat O'Donnell