The Disney Life
Hello, flist! Welcome to my first (and probably last!) work of fanfiction! It is my love-letter to Disney World and to the Winchester boys. (For those of you expecting crack, you're out of luck this time! *g*) I hope you enjoy it...
**
Title: The Disney Life
Author: deirdre_c
Disclaimer: Sadly, Sam and Dean belong to the CW network, not me. No profit is being made.
Rating: PG (language), Gen
Summary: A hunt takes Sam and Dean to the Magic Kingdom.
Word Count: 8,877
Author's Notes: Set in Florida, for the spn_50states challenge. The character of Jeremiah Woolridge is borrowed with kind permission from sevenfists' brilliant story, The Vagaries of Disbelief. My story would never have seen the light of day without my magnificent betas, girlmostlikely and krisomniac. Everything good about this fic is to their credit; the rest is mine.
How do people live like this? Sam wonders.
The mid-June heat in Florida is as thick and heavy as a sauna. The sun beats down mercilessly on the hood of the Impala. Sam plucks his damp t-shirt away from where it sticks to his chest as he stares at the landscape rushing by. The pines and scrub palmetto that litter the roadside shimmer in mirage. As though they're melting, like candlewax, like--
“Christ, it’s hot as balls out there.”
Yeah. Like that. “Thank you for that keen observation, Dean. I hadn’t noticed.”
“Don’t be a tool,” Dean replies mildly. “So, have you found any leads for us around here, or can I head north?” He rubs the sweat off the back of his neck and up into his hair. The windows are down, but the air rushing in feels more like a hair-dryer set on high than a cool breeze. Sam thinks they’re both starting to smell a bit ripe.
He glances back down at the collection of local newspapers he’s been sifting through. “Nothing on the radar. Why don’t we--”
His suggestion is cut off by the muffled sound of Dean’s phone. Dean fumbles for it for the first few rings, fishes it out of some pocket or bag or the gap between the seats, and flips it open.
He stares at the message and is quiet for a long moment until Sam finally demands, “What? What is it?”
Dean answers in disgust, “The Happiest Place on Earth.” His lips twist the way they do when he's faced with a particularly grisly corpse or maybe a plate of green vegetables.
“What do you mean?”
Dean holds up the phone so Sam can see the screen. The text message is from Dad, and it contains two words: Magic Kingdom.
“Sonofabitch,” Dean grumbles. “We’re going to Disney World.”
***
The drive takes them one more time through “Women and Children First” (and whatever their differences over music, at least they share a mutual disgust for Van Hagar), before the Impala joins the parade of cars exiting the expressway at International Drive. As they cruise this particular shrine to tourists’ bad taste, Sam wonders if the Orlando city planners deliberately set out to collect a sample of every middle-brow restaurant and hotel franchise in existence. There’s an Appleby’s next to a Best Western, and a Cracker Barrel nestled up to Day’s Inn.
The traffic inches along, slow but hazardous. Some idiot whips across three lanes into the crowded Outback Steakhouse parking lot to a chorus of horns. Another makes a u-turn, almost side-swiping a group of oblivious pedestrians chattering and jaywalking. Dean doesn’t comment, but Sam watches a vein pulse at his temple.
“There’s a Starbucks, second one we’ve passed on this block.” Sam points out.
“Let’s see if we can’t find somewhere that has wireless and food, so you can pop the laptop and we can get some dinner.” There’s an edge to Dean’s voice that makes Sam twitch.
“Alllll-right.” Sam drawls. He starts rattling off the nearest options. “Panera? Denny’s? McDonald’s?”
“Whatever floats your boat, man. I’m hungry and not particularly picky tonight.” Sam realizes that his brother seems unusually tired or preoccupied. Sam might even call his mood ‘pensive,’ except he can’t imagine applying that word to Dean. Usually restless and wired when starting up a new hunt, tonight, he’s strangely low. Irritable, too.
“Everything okay?” Sam asks, trying to sound casual and sure he's not fooling anyone.
“Dude, fine. Just choose already.”
Most days Sam can read Dean like an open book. Growing up practically in each other’s laps, there’s not much of his brother Sam hasn’t seen. Although he doesn’t always understand the why of Dean's moods, at least he knows the what. However, there are those times when Dean closes up and goes blank, and then he might as well be someone Sam just met on the street. Now is shaping up to be one of those times.
Sam decides not to push; if he gives Dean enough rope, there’s usually a hanging anyway.
They end up at Panera. Sam catches snippets of conversation in at least three languages as they make their way to a booth in back. After a few minutes, the servers call out “Elwood? Jake?”
Dean goes up to the counter to pick up their sandwiches.
Between bites, Sam checks local motel listings to find some cheap lodgings in the less-popular areas of town, and then begins to dig into what’s going on at Disney: police reports, news articles, hospital records, chat room buzz. He’s just bookmarked a dozen or so sites when Dean, whose time has been divided between checking out Dad’s journal and the dark-haired girl at the cash register, interrupts.
“Time to pack it in. What do you have so far?”
“One possible lead,” Sam replies. “An article in the back of the paper three days ago, about a five-year-old child lost in the Magic Kingdom overnight.”
“That’s not much to go on.” Dean settles into his best Devil’s Advocate routine.
“Yeah, but it turns out police records show three other missing persons reports in the past week, reports that never made it into the papers--all about children lost at Disney. Each time they disappear in the afternoon and show up again the next day.”
“Well, could be garden-variety kidnapping, or maybe the kids just have a piss-poor sense of direction.”
“None of them have any memory of being missing. Also, doctors’ reports show that the last two kids had to be hospitalized for exhaustion way beyond what would be expected over a 24 hour period.”
“Hmm. Funny that this hasn’t gotten the public all riled up,” Dean notes.
Sam smiles grimly. “Turns out Disney is very good at suppressing negative press.” He powers down the computer. “Let’s find a room with internet, and I’ll see what else I can dig up before morning.”
***
Shit, shower, and shave. Then they are out the door.
The Workingman’s Breakfast at the local diner costs them twelve bucks with tip. Conversation is limited to “Salt?” and “You gonna eat that?” as they glance over what information Sam could find about the job. Sam looks up from the laptop with a smile.
“You know the story that someone was decapitated on Space Mountain is just an urban legend, right?”
Dean grunts. He keeps on reading.
“But, hey, someone really did get killed on the Skyway before they closed it down.”
“Is this somehow relevant?”
“Jesus, Dean. Can’t we have a little fun with this? I mean, Disney is every kid’s dream destination. It’s like the Holy Grail of childhood. Didn’t you ever want to go see it?”
Finally, Dean looks up with a tight smile. “The only place I dreamed of going was the Indy 500. Oh, and R-rated movies.”
“Whatever, man.” Sam can tell it’s going to be a hell of a long day.
Twenty minutes later, they’re driving up the long, pristine, and strangely desolate roadway that leads into the Disney complex.
The Magic Kingdom parking lot mid-morning is a vast sea of vehicles.
“Did you know that the whole of Disneyland in California could fit into Disney World’s parking lot?”
“Dude. One more useless piece of trivia and I’m locking you in the trunk and doing this myself.”
Sam rolls his eyes at Dean’s continued bad humor but knows better than to needle him further. He doesn’t feel like inspecting the inside of the Impala’s trunk that closely.
***
They’ve collected as much information as possible about the missing children and about the park itself, but Sam is the first to admit that what they have is pretty lean. So they figure today is primarily a reconnaissance mission.
But it never pays to go in unprepared.
Disney inspects bags and backpacks, so they only put relatively innocent items-salt, sage, Dad’s journal, holy water in Evian bottles-in the backpack. The EMF is still Walkman enough not to look suspicious. Every other necessity that might be questioned is secreted in their clothes. Lock picks tucked in a back pocket, knives in soft leather sheaths at ankle and hip under their jeans. Easy concealment of weapons is just another reason Dean doesn’t do shorts, even in Florida’s June heat.
The tram that takes visitors from the parking lot to the ticket counters pulls up. Dean clambers on, shifting around on the narrow, Plexiglas bench seat, trying to get comfortable and bitching about it. Sam figures that with an extra four inches to arrange, comfort is a lost cause.
A frighteningly perky female voice comes flitting out of the speaker. “Howdy, folks, and welcome to the Magic Kingdom! Please keep arms and legs inside the tram at all times. And remember, you’re parked in the Goofy section of the parking lot, aisles 20-24. Don’t forget! Goofy, aisles 20-24.”
“How appropriate for you,” Dean says.
“Since you drove, I'm surprised we didn't end up in the Grumpy lot.”
***
“Sixty dollars to get into this dump? That’s outrageous! Do you know how much beer I can buy with that kind of cash?”
“It’s not your money, so it's not your problem, ‘Mr. Campbell.’”
“It’s the principle, Sam. I oughta thaw out Walt and give him a piece of my mind.”
***
The monorail platform is jammed with happy tourists, bright and cheerful and ready for a day of steady, hyper-mediated fun. Sam scans the crowd. At six-four, he's never really blended in, and Dean, well, Dean sticks out like a knife in a drawer full of spoons, like a dog among the sheep. He's leaning casually against a concrete support pillar, but his eyes and mouth are tight, shoulders up like he’s allergic to the overabundance of pink and plastic and people.
“This place sucks.” Dean's mutter is low, cutting under the high-pitched children’s babble.
Sam aggressively picks at a loose thread on his jeans. “It seems to me like they’re all looking forward to a nice time with their families,” he says, looking significantly at Dean.
He certainly hadn’t meant it to come out as an accusation, but it does anyway. Damn if he isn’t getting sick of this mood of Dean’s.
Dean looks up at Sam sharply. He might as well be sighting down the barrel of a gun. Sam turns away, towards the woman in line in front of them and her three rambunctious boys. With a polite, soft smile, he tells her, “I hear if you ask the attendant--” He nods at the nearest Disney employee. “Sometimes they arrange it so you can all ride up front with the driver.”
The woman thanks Sam enthusiastically, and in the next minute he’s watching her and her brood being escorted to the head of the line.
Sam turns back to see Dean still gazing at him, eyes full of something Sam can’t decipher. Then the moment is gone, and together they turn to look down the tracks, to watch the monorail slide into the station.
***
Entering the Magic Kingdom is a carefully controlled experience. Guests funnel through a dark archway and emerge blinking into the dazzling openness of an idealized Town Square. An old-time train bell clangs overhead. Steam hisses.
The crowd pulls them along up Main Street toward Cinderella’s castle. Sam imagines with amusement that this must be what it’s like to see the Eiffel Tower or the Parthenon for the first time.
It’s smaller than he expected.
But-- he looks around to see that almost every small face is turned up toward it in wonder-- it's bigger, too.
He scans the street, impressed with what he sees: the ingenuity, the cleanliness, the attention to detail on every square inch from pavement to rooftop. Turning to comment on it to Dean, he sees the scowl still looming and keeps his admiration to himself.
Instead, he focuses on the job. “The reports say all of the kids went missing near Liberty Square.”
Dean perks up at this. “So let’s quit messing around and head over there.”
Sam pulls two maps out of his back pocket. One is the standard glossy map of the park they picked up at the gate, the other a map detailing the system of underground tunnels criss-crossing the entire complex. He’d downloaded that one from an “unofficial” Disney website earlier this morning. Smiling, Sam marvels at how obsessed fans can become. But he has to admit, he secretly had fun learning the arcane insider terminology.
“Since the kids were all gone overnight, I think we should start with the tunnels.”
***
The employees-only door in Liberty Square is behind some new construction on the Hall of Presidents. The turnstiles are blocked by a sandwich board: Mickey in a Ben Franklin wig and bifocals, holding a trowel. “Excuse our mess!” the sign reads. “We’re renovating to serve you better!”
Shielded by Dean, Sam picks the lock in seconds flat. They quickly enter and pull the door shut behind them, uncertain what they’ll find. Immediately inside is a stainless-steel commercial elevator and staircase. They take the stairs.
At the bottom, they emerge into a wide hallway. Even though the tunnel walls are color-coded and decorated with motivational posters, it seems oddly barren after the ruthless busyness upstairs. Disney employees pass by in ones and twos and fives, some in costume, some in street clothes. It’s not hard to slip in behind a group going past. “Where do you suggest we start?” Sam asks under his breath.
Dean glances up and down the hall. He hesitates for a moment then keeps walking. “I think I have an idea. Didn’t you tell me they don’t allow anyone under 16 in the tunnels?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, look.” Dean jerks his chin toward a woman a few years younger than Sam coming down the hall. She’s wearing a stylized Colonial Era costume of greens and blacks with starched white apron and holding the hand of a little girl about five years old. The little girl is a tiny, chubby little puppy, with a bright pink backpack and her brown hair in pigtails. Her face is blotchy, as if she’s been crying, but now she stares up at the woman with trust and a little wonder. The woman whispers reassuringly to her.
Dean grabs Sam’s shoulder and spins him around so that Sam will have a view of where their quarry goes if they pass by down the hall. He ad-libs a little conversation to cover their surveillance. “… so, dude, Vanessa and Kristin want us to meet them at the bar after work tonight…”
His voice trails off as the pair hurry past. Sam signals “all safe” with two nods and both of them watch as the woman and girl enter a door nearby.
They quickly make their way to the door. Sam goes to grab the doorknob, but Dean is there before him, sliding soundlessly into the room beyond. Sam rushes in behind him, all tumult to Dean’s stealth.
It turns out stealth was unnecessary. The woman and girl have disappeared.
***
They search the storage room with rapid efficiency, opening cabinets and bifold doors to closets filled with supplies, but there’s no one hiding. Sam starts to think maybe the woman had never led the girl in here when Dean calls out to him.
“Sam. Take a look at this.”
Against the far wall, there is a faint seam. A faint, door-sized seam.
“Secret door?”
“No knob or hinges.” Sam runs his hands carefully along the seam looking for a hidden release mechanism. He slides a razor-thin knife out of a leg sheath and tries to slip it into the crack, maybe lift a latch. Nothing happens. “What now?”
Dean looks up. Above their heads, just above the invisible doorway, is an air vent.
Sam laughs, “Man, you’ve seen Die Hard too many times.”
Dean smirks and does his best Bruce Willis imitation, “’Come out to the coast, we’ll have a few laughs.’” His best is pretty pitiful. “Have you got a better idea? Now give me a boost.”
Sam makes a wry face. “I know you’ve always wanted to be the tall one, but no way in hell are you climbing up on my shoulders.”
So together they heave a pallet of boxes over to the wall. Dean uses a screwdriver from the backpack to take out the four corner screws on the vent, tucks it into his jeans, flicks on a small flashlight, and crawls up into the tiny, dark passageway. Sam sighs, grabs his own flashlight, and scrambles in behind.
The ventilation duct is so narrow they have to inch along in a soldier’s crawl, flashlights extended forward. Sam can’t see anything but the soles of Dean’s boots, and he thinks grimly that going back will be a serious pain in the ass. The shushing sound of their jeans on the metal floor of the vent echoes ahead and behind. After about ten yards, Dean stops.
“I’ve found another vent. I think I see the girl.”
“Great.” Sam whispers back.
Dean is silent for a moment.
“Can you reach my back pocket?”
“Why?”
“Can. You. Reach my back pocket? Jesus. That’s where the screwdriver is and I can’t get my hands back there.”
“Nice.”
“Bitch,” Dean says, “you can keep the editorial to yourself. Can you reach it or not?”
Sam inches forward and pulls the screwdriver out of Dean’s jeans. Then he shoves it forward along Dean’s side, giving it a last hard flick with his fingers to send it sliding up under his brother’s arm. Dean grabs it and goes to work, noiselessly placing the vent face aside.
Dean grips the edge of the vent and ducks head-first into the room, flipping his legs around and down, landing softly on the floor below. Show off, Sam thinks, as he quickly follows suit.
By the time Sam hits the floor, Dean is already across the room. The young woman they saw earlier leaps to her feet in surprise, mouth a wide-open oh as Dean grabs her tightly by the wrist. “Who are you? What's going on here?”
Sam automatically takes his place at Dean’s back and surveys the scene. It’s another storage room, very similar to the first. But in the middle of the room he sees a second young woman. She’s also in employee uniform and looks like she’s related to the woman in Dean’s grip; they share the same thick black braid, dusky skin, and heavy brows. Beside her is the little girl, and both are sitting unmoving on the floor.
The two sit within a large pentagram drawn in thick black lines. Several candles stand just inside the circle, the red wax completely melted down into shapeless puddles. The stench of magic and the eerie stillness of the woman and the girl in the otherwise brightly-lit, nondescript room raises Sam’s hackles more than the grimmest cemetery.
Dean releases his prisoner and strides toward the little girl. “What have you done to her?” he growls.
Just as the woman shouts, “Don’t touch them!” Dean reaches the edge of the circle. A bright light flares and he is thrown backward.
“Dean!” Sam.leaps forward to keep Dean from falling.
“Ugh. Shit. M’okay.” Dean shakes his head like a dog shedding water.
“Always with the impulsive.” Sam mutters in Dean’s ear, gripping his shoulders hard before releasing him.
“Screw you, too,” Dean gasps back, hands on his knees to catch his breath.
Sam walks slowly towards the pair in the pentagram, his hands out-stretched. As he reaches the edge of the markings, he can feel the thrumming of an invisible barrier in his palms. He looks over his shoulder at the miserable young woman. “How do we break through this?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” she chokes out. “She never meant for this to happen. I don’t know what’s gone wrong.”
Dean shifts impatiently, but Sam slowly approaches, standing between the frightened woman and the two figures on the ground. “Listen. I know you’re scared. But we’re here to help. I’m Sam and this is my brother, Dean. What can you tell us?”
She presses her hands to her cheeks, hard, as though to keep herself from flying apart. After two shuddering breaths, she finally says, “I’m Lynnette Singh. That’s my older sister, Lindsay. We both got jobs here for the summer while we’re on break from school at UCF. We thought it would be fun, you know, working here. Disney’s supposed to be fun, right?” Tears well in her eyes, and she begins to cry again.
When Dean loudly clears his throat, Sam gives him a look begging for some restraint. This isn’t the time for Dean’s impatience; they need this witness calm.
“So what’s all this?” Sam gestures toward the tableau behind him.
“A few weeks after we started working here, Lindsay started dating this guy, Jeremiah Woolridge--”
Dean interrupts, “Sam, does that name sound familiar?”
“Yeah. But I don’t know where from.”
“Could he…” Dean’s thinking now. He squeezes his eyes shut and taps a beat on his forehead with two fingers. He looks up quickly. “Could he be one of those fucked up necromancers we tangled with in Boston, that time your almost got your arm cut off?”
“Possibly. I--”
Lynnette stares. “How did you know he was from up north?” She’s calmer now, curiosity overcoming her surprise and apprehension. She knits her brow. “Necromancer?”
Sam says simply, “He deals in black magic.”
She stares. “Well, he was definitely messing around with some very strange stuff: witchcraft, sorcery, stuff like that there.” She gestures toward the circle. “He convinced Lindsay that she could cast some spell or something that would give her everlasting life. He helped her hide this room and taught her about the spell.” Her eyes take on a bleak, faraway look. “But I think she must have made a mistake. She told me it was supposed to be continually charged by her life force, but instead it’s draining her somehow, and it won’t let her go.”
“Like an energy sink?” Sam asks.
Dean adds, “And now she’s trapped.” Then he scowls. “What about the kids? What are you doing with them?”
Lynnette replies, “At first, after she was trapped, Lindsay could still talk to me. She told me that by using the children’s life forces, she taps into enough energy to survive and hopefully break free.”
Even as she says it, her voice falls. She knows it’s a weak excuse, either stupid or evil, or both. She begins to plead, “It doesn’t hurt them. It’s only a few hours. I take them back.” She looks uncertainly over at her sister. “But she’s getting weak. She hasn’t spoken to me since yesterday.”
Sam says coldly, “The children are getting weaker, too. The last two were taken to the hospital.”
Lynnette closes her eyes and says, “Oh god. I just wanted to help her. To save her.”
Dean breaks into her lament. “Where’s Jeremiah now? Can we get him to fix this?”
“He disappeared. I think maybe he left town. Everything of his is gone from their apartment. He left just after the spell went wrong.”
Dean glances at Sam, looking for suggestions, ideas, answers-- anything.
“I don’t know, man.”
Sam gets as close as he can to Lindsay and the girl, looking for inspiration. He notices that each has a hand resting on a flat, triangular object. It is the orange-brown of dull copper, with a slight patina, almost like a large slice of pizza inscribed with runes. “What is that under their hands?”
“Um. I think it’s part of a talisman. Lindsay said it’s supposed to channel the power,” Lynnette responds. She walks across the room and pulls something off of a shelf in one of the closets. “Here’s the book she got from Jeremiah that tells about it.”
Dean strides over and snatches it out of her hands. “Why didn’t you give us this before?”
“Sorry,” she says in a small voice, cowering back.
The book is small, barely larger than Dean’s palm, but it’s thick and bound in soft, weathered leather. “Huh,” he says. “It’s a copy of The Black Pullet.”
“The grimoire?” asks Sam.
“No, the cookbook. Here.” He tosses the book to Sam and turns to examine the rest of the contents of the closet, not trusting Lynnette to have shown him everything.
Sam rapidly scans through the pages. He’s seen copies of The Black Pullet before-it’s pretty much a classic in the world of magical arts. Talismans and the channeling of powerful forces certainly feature prominently in its pages. Dean comes up to stand behind him as the pages flip by. He stays Sam’s hand for a moment.
“What’s that?” There is something handwritten in small, precise script in the margin.
PoC Juliet-14 58
HM Papa-22 102
“It looks like some kind of code.”
“Well, then. You know the drill: you get your geek on, I’ll check the journal. You,” he barks at Lynnette, “stay out of the way.”
***
Dean calls out, “Bingo! Here’s something. It looks like she’s trying to make an Enochian ‘Ensign of Creation.’ It’s a power-generating talisman, like she said.” He glances at Lynnette and then back down at the journal page. “Dad says that the talisman can be separated into parts, which increases its power. It looks like Lindsay--or Woolridge--did something with the other two pieces. Once we have those other pieces, then maybe, we can break into the circle and destroy it.”
Sam stares at the grimoire for a moment, “Yeah, I think this tells us where the other two pieces are, if I could just figure out the code. Who are Juliet and Papa?”
Lynnette, who has been relegated to watching and waiting and sitting as far from Dean as possible, says hesitantly, “I don’t think they’re people. I think maybe it’s referring to rides.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, um. Rides are made up of a series of events or rooms or, you know, parts. We refer to the different parts by Alpha for the first section, then Bravo, and then Charlie and so on.”
“So these are rides here in the park?”
Dean mutters under his breath, “Please not Small World. God, anything but Small World.”
“It looks to me like they’re in the Pirates of the Caribbean and the Haunted Mansion, ” volunteers Lynnette.
“Of course they are.” Dean laughs incredulously. “You’re joking, right?”
Sam agrees, checking his map. “Well, they are equidistant from here. That makes sense in terms of the requirements of the spell.”
“Okay then. Lynnette and I will go talk to some of her buddies and find out about where ‘Juliet’ and ‘Papa’ are located on the rides. You stay here and figure out how we destroy this thing and get Lindsay and the girl out. And see if you can figure out what those other numbers mean.”
***
Sam’s still nose deep in the book when Lynnette draws a rune on the secret door and it slides open.
“Any luck?”
“Well,” Sam says, “I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is I think I know how to break the trap around these two once we have all three pieces in the same place.”
“And the bad news is?”
“Sorry, Dean. Whatever “58” and “102” mean, I can’t work it out.” Sam hates to go into a situation blind. If only he had more time, he thinks. But he knows Dean’s itching to go, and the trapped girls are fading fast.
Dean shrugs. “Well, nothing to it but to do it. Let’s hot foot over to see the Pirates.”
***
Out in front of the Pirates of the Caribbean, a sign on a red and brown shield informs people: “Wait from this point: 40 minutes.”
Dean looks at the long line of tourist with disdain. He pulls Sam’s arm. “C’mon. Let’s jump the line. What are we waiting for?”
Sam digs in his heels. “You know they’ve got this place lined with security cameras. Skipping in line is just going to draw too much attention. We still have another piece to get after this one. We need to be inconspicuous.”
Annoyed but accepting Sam’s rationale, Dean leads the way into the dim interior of the ride. The contrast with the bright sunlight leaves them both blinking until their eyes adjust.
They make their way to the end of the line and settle in for the wait. With careless agility, Dean hops up to sit balanced on the cool metal railing, hands resting lightly on his thighs.
About twenty people ahead of them is a group of teenage girls; it’s hard to tell quite how old they are with their lip gloss and too-short skirts. As the line wends back and forth, the girls pass Dean and Sam, laughing and whispering as they glance in their direction.
“Hey, Sam.” Dean gives a tiny smirk and glances over. “I think they’re checking us out.”
“Charming, Dean. Now you’re picking up high schoolers?”
“Naw, man, gross. I’m just sayin’, it’s nice to be admired.”
Doesn’t matter if they’re 16 or 60, Dean has this way with women, a reckless confidence. Sam watches him do it every day, leaning towards them like he’s listening with his whole body, smiling at them with a look that’s part teasing, part dangerous, There’s something he’s never been able to pinpoint in Dean’s swagger or stride or slouch that communicates with women on an unseen level. Like a secret code, like snake charming, like…
“Hello there, ladies.”
Yeah. Like that.
Almost as one, the girls giggle and close ranks. Then a skinny blonde ringleader in a ponytail and halter top steps forward. She looks up slyly at Sam, back at the group, then over at Dean.
“Hey. Um. Would you mind, you know, taking a picture of all of us with your friend?” She looks sideways at Sam, almost greedily.
Dean’s thrown off his game a bit by this. “You’re kidding, right?”
Sam’s sentiments exactly.
“Naw. We’re collecting shots of us with cute boys we run into around the park. We’ve got some other friends doing the same thing. The ones who get the best collection win.” Again she throws Sam a look. Again the group giggles.
Dean cracks up, too, and sing-songs, “Come on, Sammy. It’s just a quick picture.”
Sam’s internal debate over what is going to bring the most lasting pain: taking the picture or refusing, lasts less than a moment. With a sigh and a disgusted look at Dean, he agrees. He feels absolutely ridiculous as the girls gather around him like a pack of hungry sharks. He’s sure that when it’s Dean’s turn, he’ll throw his arms around them and grin like a superstar.
As soon as the camera clicks, Sam scoots away.
Dean hands the camera to Sam. “Okay, girls, let’s show him how it’s done.”
Blondie looks at him matter-of-factly, holding out her hand for the camera. “No thanks. You’re kinda too old for us.” She turns and they all scurry down the ramp to the ride’s loading zone.
“Shut up.” Dean snaps, before Sam can utter a word. “Shut up or I’ll show you I’m old enough to kick your ass.” And no matter what that girl said, he sounds like a petulant little boy when he scratches his head and mutters to himself, “Old? What the hell?”
Finally, they reach the head of the line and board one of the tiny twelve-person boats that shuttle people through the ride, maneuvering so that they have the hindmost seat to themselves.
Sam’s tense. They know where the ‘Juliet’ section is, but they don’t know the exact location of the talisman piece within it. Lynnette warned them that, once they jump out of the boat, they’ll only have a minute or two before security arrives. Depending how well-hidden the talisman is, they’ll be cutting it close, and it’s unlikely they’ll get a second try.
Along the ride, their boat passes a series of scenes: a half life-size pirate ship trades cannon blasts with an English fort, various animatronic mannequins of drunken pirates chase hapless townspeople. As their little boat rounds a bend in the ride, Sam spies the scene they’re looking for. Five jolly pirates sit on a dock, drinking rum and shouting mild insults across the waterway.
Dean pulls the EMF reader out of the pack. “Here we go.”
They hop out of the boat onto the fake cobblestones of the “shoreline.” Instantly, the line of boats packed with tourists comes to a halt, the cheery soundtrack of “Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me” cuts off. A stern voice blares out over the loud speakers: “Guests must remain in the vehicles at all times. Please return to your boat immediately. Thank you.”
Sam goes right while Dean goes left, sweeping the EMF reader in a wide arc. The indicator lights briefly glow bright. “Hey, man,” he shouts, “over here.”
Dean swiftly reaches down to open a chest rigged up between two of the pirates. Within the chest gleams the coppery piece of talisman. Before Dean can retrieve it, a booted foot comes crashing down on the lid. He ducks, but not fast enough to avoid a glancing blow across the temple from the heavy plastic bottle of rum wielded by a suddenly mobile--and murderous--pirate.
Sam races over, throwing a shoulder into the mannequin attacking Dean. He sends it flying, the collision with hard plastic and metal knocking the air out of him for a moment. Dean grabs the back of his shirt and hauls Sam to his feet. “I guess this is going to be more complicated than we thought.”
The tourists over in the stalled boats start to applaud, thinking this is part of the show.
The other four pirates from the scene converge on them. Dean slams a fist into the first one that reaches them, then curses vividly and jumps back, cradling his abused hand. Sam grapples with the pirate to his right and wrenches a sword from it. “Dean!” he shouts, and tosses the sword to him. It’s just a prop, with a blunt edge and a blunt tip, but it makes a better weapon than bare fists.
Dean swings the sword in a wide arc, driving one of the mannequins back toward Sam, who sends it stumbling down some stairs and into the water, grabbing its sword for himself on the way down.
“Hey, Dean,” he calls out. “I bet this really feeds into your crush on Johnny Depp, huh?”
“Yeah, Sam.” Dean fends off another attack with the flat of the sword. “Sure.” He parries the swing of a bottle. “But don’t think I don’t know about you and Orlando Bloom.”
Sam huffs out a laugh as he partially decapitates his opponent with a cracking blow.
A collective “Ewww!” sounds from the stranded tourists.
Dean slowly maneuvers away from Sam, spreading the defense. It looks like whatever magic is animating the mannequins is limited to this small area, because all of the other characters on the set remain immobile. Sam manages to hold the two facing him at bay, moving sideways in an attempt to keep one of his assailants between himself and the other. He finds himself pressed down toward the waterline and slips on the slick footing there, losing his sword and going down on one knee.
Then Dean is there. He makes a sweeping parry, knocking the lead pirate’s sword aside. He dives forward under the return cut, tucking and rolling to his feet. In one unbroken move he pivots toward the pirate and thrusts his sword half a foot into its back. Although the cut doesn’t seem to faze the machine, Dean uses the sword like a lever to push the pirate into the water.
Sam scrambles away toward a rowboat, grabbing the prop oar out of its rigger and slamming it into the pirate advancing on him.
Dean shoves away the last mannequin in Sam’s path. “Go, Sam, go! Here come the cavalry!” Three real live Disney employees emerge from a hidden door, staring horrified at the chaos of broken pieces of set and ruined animatronics below.
Sam snatches the triangle of metal out of the chest, breaking the spell and draining the pirates of whatever force was controlling them. Thank goodness for fire codes, because the dimly lit red ‘exit’ sign behind the scenery offers them a way out.
They tumble out of the door into the soggy summer heat. Dean leans with his back to the door, breathing heavily. “How’s that for inconspicuous?”
***
Sam leads the way to a nearby bench, partially hidden within the entrance to the Jungle Cruise. Wearily, they both sit. Sam unzips the pack and pulls out the grimoire. “I think I know now what that last bit of code means. Lindsay’s code said “PoC Juliet-14 58,” right? Well, the animation spell-- the one that made the pirates come to life?-- there’s a version of it on page 58. See?” He flips to that page and hands the book over to Dean.
“So let’s check out what’s in store for us behind Door #2 before we hit the Haunted Mansion. I could stand for fewer surprises at my advanced age.”
As Sam pages through the book, he says worriedly, “Dean, this is some serious sorcery. Can you imagine how much power it took to animate those things? To make them that strong?”
Dean frowns briefly, but then conspicuously relaxes back on the bench with a smirk. “Yeah, but we kicked their asses. And next time we’ll have a plan to counter the defenses, right? So, nothing to worry about.” He rubs his hands together. “Let’s get planning.”
He shoots a glance at Sam, who turns back to the book, hiding a tiny, knowing smile.
***
They stand and sweat in the Haunted Mansion preshow area, listening to the wolf cries and assorted boo-spookery from the hidden speakers.
The doors creak open, revealing a girl in a rotting maid’s uniform, her eyes lined with black, her skin powered to a deathly pallor. She gives the crowd a cold, considering glare and then intones, “The Master requests more bodies.”
As the crowd pushes them inside, Sam notices how over-aggressive the air conditioning is, mysterious chills that blow through the rooms to simulate wandering spirits making their presence felt.
“Not bad,” Dean remarks. “Add some ozone and they’d be onto something here.”
A steady stream of cars shaped like great, black half-shells glides by. Dean slows to leave a few empty cars in between them and the family ahead, and they slide in. The car is designed with young children riding with parents in mind, not two large men and their pack full of surprises.
Dean can’t resist a barb. He elbows Sam in the ribs. “You get any closer, Sam, and we’re going to have to get a prenup.”
“Shut up.” Sam bumps his head on the curved roof and then his knees against the safety bar as he slouches down. “Dammit, this thing is tiny.”
The ride is much darker than Sam expected for a kids’ theme park. Hands push up from inside a coffin lid, disembodied heads pop out of baskets. Parts of the ride are pitch black.
When they come to The Mansion’s attic, they squeeze gracelessly from behind the restraining bar, out of the moving car, and onto the set. This time, the ride keeps moving on without them.
Dean drops down onto one knee and mutters, “Huh. Looks like the Powers That Be didn’t notice us.”
“Quick. Let’s find the piece and get out of here.”
Sam begins a search with the EMF reader, while Dean reluctantly takes a bandana out of his pocket.
“I really think I can do this without a blindfold, Sam.”
Sam replies, “This defense spell is based on illusion. Seeing the thing you fear the most, as far as I can tell. It’s designed to completely freak you out. If you can’t see it, you should be immune.”
“So why aren’t you wearing one? Are you the Man Without Fear, Daredevil?”
“No, asshole. But I’m the man who’s going to lead you to where it’s hidden and then let you do the dirty work.”
“The blind leading the blind.”
“Just put it on.”
Dean blindfolds himself and takes Sam by the shoulder. The EMF leads them toward a chest just behind one of the fake ghosts popping up to scare the kiddies.
Sam places Dean’s outstretched hand onto the chest.
“Get back, Sam.”
There’s nagging worry in the back of Sam’s mind that he’s figured wrong, that he might be letting Dean go-- alone and blind-- up against something unexpected, something more dangerous than they planned on.
Ice-water adrenaline dumps into his veins, and his heart starts to pound. As Dean’s hands fumble with the lid, Sam edges closer to Dean’s side. He averts his eyes just as Dean flips it open, but he’s too late.
Something slams into Sam and knocks him backward. He gasps for breath, but it's pressing on his chest. A kaleidoscope of images floods his mind: Dad, much younger, falling though a rotted-out floor; teenage Dean savaged by a Black Dog; Andrea drowning in the bathtub; Dean lying lifeless in a puddle of water; Lori fleeing the Hookman; Dean staring, unseeing at the ceiling, with a bullet hole in his head.
Sam presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets viciously, trying to break the spell’s grip on him. He clings desperately to the knowledge that this is magic, an illusion, not real. But in the next instant, his mind is overwhelmed.
Stunned, he drops to his knees as one image comes to dominate the rest. It’s the moment he's relived in countless nightmares: Jessica, pinned to the ceiling, blood seeping from the gash across her stomach. Again, he sees her eyes open. Again, he hears her anguished gasp. Flames burst through the room. Smoke chokes him and his lungs are charred.
Instead of being pulled from the fire, he finds himself engulfed, burning, the flesh on his arms and face searing, his own screams blending with Jess’s. Then it stops.
“-am! Sammy!” he hears Dean yelling. Dean has ripped the blindfold off and thrown it to the ground. He has Sam’s arm in a crushing grip, the piece of talisman in the other hand.
“It’s gone. It’s done,” Sam gasps. His head swims, and he swallows back the bile rising in his throat.
“Goddamnit, Sam!” Dean gives his arm a quick, rough shake. “What the hell were you thinking? You told me you were going to close your eyes, stupid!”
Sam musters a slight smile. “Sorry, man. Reflexes must be going. Could’ve happened to anyone.”
"No, it really couldn't," Dean says. "Jesus. You're like one of those idiot savants without the savant. I just can’t believe--"
“Can you be done now? ‘Cause I think I’m gonna yak.”
Dean shuts up and hauls him up onto his feet. Nose-to-nose, he peers into Sam's eyes, trying to gauge his condition through the dim light. Satisfied, they stagger back to the rumbling line of cars. They crouch in the dark, waiting for less than a minute before an empty car glides by for the taking.
Dean stows the talisman in their pack while Sam leans his head against the high back of the car. He’s still trembling slightly, silently working to shake off the lingering dread. The end of the ride comes just as Sam pushes the last sounds of Jess's screaming back into that corner of his brain where it stays in the daytime.
He can see that Dean’s wavering somewhere between his third you okay? and a smart remark.
Jaunty theme music follows them off of the ride. “Reminds me of early Metallica,” Sam jokes weakly.
Dean looks relieved and swats his arm. “Dude, don’t blaspheme.”
They walk out of the building, trying to slip away unnoticed, but Dean can’t resist chatting up the cute cast member working the exit door. He glances at her nametag.
“Nice ride, Erin,” Dean remarks, his grin just this side of lewd.
She’s in character and not supposed to be cheerful. But nothing female can resist when that feral light of success is in Dean’s eyes. She attempts an evil stare and ghastly voice, but it comes out more flirtatious than fearsome. “Thank you, sir, we do try to keep it ‘spirited.’”
Both boys groan appreciatively, and Sam taps Dean’s elbow signaling, let’s finish this thing. They set off into the fried-food and disinfectant perfume of the park.
***
Lynnette is waiting for them at the entrance door to the employee tunnels. The three of them make their way back to the hidden room, hurrying, but not enough to draw attention. They hear people gossiping in the halls about a certain fiasco over at the Pirates ride.
Once inside the room, Dean sets their pack down on a table and slides out the two talisman pieces and the grimoire. Sam reaches out, but Dean pauses before handing them over.
“Listen,” he says. “You sure you’re up for this? Because I--” He looks away from Sam, over at the pair in the pentagram. He murmurs, “You want me to do it?”
Sam can’t say he’s not tempted. He’s drained. A part of him wants to rest, to turn responsibility for the job and for himself over to Dean like he did when they were kids. But he’s not a child any longer, whatever Dean may think. He’ll be damned if he’s going to let down his end of the canoe.
“No way,” Sam replies, grinning. “I need you as backup for when I screw this up.”
Sam takes the things from Dean and approaches the top point of the pentagram. He drags over a small table on which to rest the grimoire. Dean stands behind his left shoulder, and Lynnette hesitantly comes up to his right. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Sam begins to read the incantation, holding the two pieces of the talisman out in front of him.
For a few minutes, nothing happens. Then there’s an audible click, and the two pieces in Sam’s hands join seamlessly together. He sweeps the grimoire up off the table with his free hand and holds it eye-level, continuing to chant as he walks slowly toward the edge of the pentagram.
Dean tenses, ready to grab Sam if he’s repelled by the spell. But Sam crosses the perimeter easily and moves steadily toward the final piece of the talisman. Growing more and more confident, he sets his piece in place, maneuvering it gently under the girls’ unresponsive hands. Above the sound of Sam’s voice, another click signals that the talisman is whole. He licks his thumb, and slowly rubs it over the runes drawn on the talisman’s face, smearing them.
The spell holding Lindsay and the girl dissipates. They both slump to the ground.
Dean, Sam, and Lynnette quickly agree that there would be fewer questions asked if Lynnette takes the girl to children’s lost-and-found at City Hall, while Dean and Sam carry an unconscious Lindsay to the employee infirmary. Lynnette offers a brief and embarrassed thanks and rushes out the door clutching the girl.
***
They wander from Liberty Square over the boarder into Fantasyland.
“Why don’t we stick around for awhile,” Sam suggests. “Maybe until the park closes?”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know.” He looks around wistfully. “We’re here already. The job’s done. Maybe it’d be fun. Everyone seems, well, so happy.”
There's a shift in the air. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets and gives Sam his patented glare of withering scorn. “Yeah, just like them.” He jerks his chin toward a family with two sobbing kids and two screaming parents.
Sam stops in the middle of the walkway. He hauls Dean out of the flow of traffic and underneath a scalloped, aqua-striped awning. Dean looks down at an empty soda cup, up at a wayward balloon, at a little girl wearing a Cinderella tiara, anywhere but at Sam.
Like a flipped switch, all Sam’s pleasure morphs into frustration. “What?”
Dean shrugs.
Sam seethes. His hands clench. It's all he can do to keep from shaking the shit out of Dean. "Just say it, man. Say something, anything." Can I just get a tiny goddamn hint, like a crumb, like…
“This is why you’ll leave again.”
Yeah. Like that. Dean’s words rattle around inside of Sam as he tries to get a hold on to them. It’s hard to catch them with his chest all hollowed out. “What?” He repeats quietly.
Dean still doesn’t look at him, but Sam can see his face and his eyes have softened. His hands are unmoving, resting lightly on the railing in front of him.
“You don’t remember those couple months we lived in Florida, do you? It was over on the coast… St. Augustine, I think. You were only three, or maybe four. You begged Dad over and over to take us to Disney. For weeks and weeks you wouldn’t let it go. Of course, Dad couldn’t afford to bring us.” The rush of words peters out.
“Dean, I don’t understand. I was just a little kid.”
“It’s just. It’s always been… this.” He gestures weakly toward the castle, the crowds of trouble-free families, the wide darkening sky. “Ever since the beginning you’ve wanted things, things we could never give you.”
Sam lets this sink in. He reaches up and combs his hands through his hair. Various responses swirl around in his brain. It’s alright and Don’t worry and You idiot. I’ve had to live with your rotten attitude all day, just because you think I’m taking off over Disney World? But none of them is really enough. Every time in the past when he has answered off the top of his head, he’s managed to wound Dean by saying the wrong thing. So now he takes his time.
He wanders a couple of steps away and then comes back to grip the rail, too.
“When I was 18, I left because I thought I had to choose between Dad’s life or… or the Disney life.” He pauses, and then adds quietly, “Now I’m not so sure.” He wants Dean to understand, but the fact that he’s still working it out himself makes it hard to explain. “I’m trying to figure out a way not to have to choose anymore. Because I won’t not choose you.”
Dean’s head hangs a little lower for a second. And then he laughs. It’s the best sound Sam’s heard all day. All year.
“Nice grammar, Sammy. What were they teaching you there at Stanford, anyway?”
Sam can’t help but grin back. “Whatever. Who are you, Strunk or White?” He suddenly feels as light as a feather, like he might drift away on the breeze. He thinks Dean might feel it, too, and suddenly, he wants to show Dean how good the Disney life can be. “Let’s go get a beer.”
Dean quirks a brow. “They serve? In Mickeyland? Doubtful.”
Sam grin grows wider and he pokes Dean in the shoulder tauntingly. “If I find you a beer, you have to agree to go on one ride with me.”
“You’re on.”
When they emerge from the Plaza Restaurant on Main Street, each two Budweisers and a burger fuller thanks to Mr. Campbell and an under-the-table alcohol service Sam had read about on-line, it has rained hard and cleared again. The setting sun gleams off of wet plastic surfaces. People make way as they merge into the crowed sidewalk, side by side.
Dean stretches and says, “I dunno, Sam. If the beer’s not on the actual menu, it might be considered cheating.”
“Don’t try to talk your way out of this now, Dean. The beer is in you and you are going with me on a ride. For fun. You remember fun, don’t you?” Sam lengthens his stride a little. Just enough to leave Dean trailing behind.
“Spare me, Princess. This is the most ridiculous idea you’ve had since…well, yesterday at least.” Dean calls out. “What, you want me to hold your hand while you ride Dumbo?”
“I’ve got an opportunity to kick your ass on that shooting-gallery ride,” Sam calls back, walking backward, arms wide, taunting. “When have you ever known me to pass that up? If I win, you’re wearing Mickey ears, bitch. Race you to Tomorrowland.”
Dean takes a stutter step to catch up, but Sam turns and adds a little more speed. He hears Dean grumble, “This is so on.”
It’s a game, a challenge. Finding the path of least resistance, filling the gaps, dodging the traffic. They dart through the bustling crowd with just a whisper to spare-moving with precision and grace and expedience. Sam laughs. Like birds soaring and diving, like rushing wind, like…
“Wooooo!” Dean yells, throwing a wild grin over his shoulder at Sam as he passes him.
Yeah. Like that.
THE END.
**
Title: The Disney Life
Author: deirdre_c
Disclaimer: Sadly, Sam and Dean belong to the CW network, not me. No profit is being made.
Rating: PG (language), Gen
Summary: A hunt takes Sam and Dean to the Magic Kingdom.
Word Count: 8,877
Author's Notes: Set in Florida, for the spn_50states challenge. The character of Jeremiah Woolridge is borrowed with kind permission from sevenfists' brilliant story, The Vagaries of Disbelief. My story would never have seen the light of day without my magnificent betas, girlmostlikely and krisomniac. Everything good about this fic is to their credit; the rest is mine.
How do people live like this? Sam wonders.
The mid-June heat in Florida is as thick and heavy as a sauna. The sun beats down mercilessly on the hood of the Impala. Sam plucks his damp t-shirt away from where it sticks to his chest as he stares at the landscape rushing by. The pines and scrub palmetto that litter the roadside shimmer in mirage. As though they're melting, like candlewax, like--
“Christ, it’s hot as balls out there.”
Yeah. Like that. “Thank you for that keen observation, Dean. I hadn’t noticed.”
“Don’t be a tool,” Dean replies mildly. “So, have you found any leads for us around here, or can I head north?” He rubs the sweat off the back of his neck and up into his hair. The windows are down, but the air rushing in feels more like a hair-dryer set on high than a cool breeze. Sam thinks they’re both starting to smell a bit ripe.
He glances back down at the collection of local newspapers he’s been sifting through. “Nothing on the radar. Why don’t we--”
His suggestion is cut off by the muffled sound of Dean’s phone. Dean fumbles for it for the first few rings, fishes it out of some pocket or bag or the gap between the seats, and flips it open.
He stares at the message and is quiet for a long moment until Sam finally demands, “What? What is it?”
Dean answers in disgust, “The Happiest Place on Earth.” His lips twist the way they do when he's faced with a particularly grisly corpse or maybe a plate of green vegetables.
“What do you mean?”
Dean holds up the phone so Sam can see the screen. The text message is from Dad, and it contains two words: Magic Kingdom.
“Sonofabitch,” Dean grumbles. “We’re going to Disney World.”
***
The drive takes them one more time through “Women and Children First” (and whatever their differences over music, at least they share a mutual disgust for Van Hagar), before the Impala joins the parade of cars exiting the expressway at International Drive. As they cruise this particular shrine to tourists’ bad taste, Sam wonders if the Orlando city planners deliberately set out to collect a sample of every middle-brow restaurant and hotel franchise in existence. There’s an Appleby’s next to a Best Western, and a Cracker Barrel nestled up to Day’s Inn.
The traffic inches along, slow but hazardous. Some idiot whips across three lanes into the crowded Outback Steakhouse parking lot to a chorus of horns. Another makes a u-turn, almost side-swiping a group of oblivious pedestrians chattering and jaywalking. Dean doesn’t comment, but Sam watches a vein pulse at his temple.
“There’s a Starbucks, second one we’ve passed on this block.” Sam points out.
“Let’s see if we can’t find somewhere that has wireless and food, so you can pop the laptop and we can get some dinner.” There’s an edge to Dean’s voice that makes Sam twitch.
“Alllll-right.” Sam drawls. He starts rattling off the nearest options. “Panera? Denny’s? McDonald’s?”
“Whatever floats your boat, man. I’m hungry and not particularly picky tonight.” Sam realizes that his brother seems unusually tired or preoccupied. Sam might even call his mood ‘pensive,’ except he can’t imagine applying that word to Dean. Usually restless and wired when starting up a new hunt, tonight, he’s strangely low. Irritable, too.
“Everything okay?” Sam asks, trying to sound casual and sure he's not fooling anyone.
“Dude, fine. Just choose already.”
Most days Sam can read Dean like an open book. Growing up practically in each other’s laps, there’s not much of his brother Sam hasn’t seen. Although he doesn’t always understand the why of Dean's moods, at least he knows the what. However, there are those times when Dean closes up and goes blank, and then he might as well be someone Sam just met on the street. Now is shaping up to be one of those times.
Sam decides not to push; if he gives Dean enough rope, there’s usually a hanging anyway.
They end up at Panera. Sam catches snippets of conversation in at least three languages as they make their way to a booth in back. After a few minutes, the servers call out “Elwood? Jake?”
Dean goes up to the counter to pick up their sandwiches.
Between bites, Sam checks local motel listings to find some cheap lodgings in the less-popular areas of town, and then begins to dig into what’s going on at Disney: police reports, news articles, hospital records, chat room buzz. He’s just bookmarked a dozen or so sites when Dean, whose time has been divided between checking out Dad’s journal and the dark-haired girl at the cash register, interrupts.
“Time to pack it in. What do you have so far?”
“One possible lead,” Sam replies. “An article in the back of the paper three days ago, about a five-year-old child lost in the Magic Kingdom overnight.”
“That’s not much to go on.” Dean settles into his best Devil’s Advocate routine.
“Yeah, but it turns out police records show three other missing persons reports in the past week, reports that never made it into the papers--all about children lost at Disney. Each time they disappear in the afternoon and show up again the next day.”
“Well, could be garden-variety kidnapping, or maybe the kids just have a piss-poor sense of direction.”
“None of them have any memory of being missing. Also, doctors’ reports show that the last two kids had to be hospitalized for exhaustion way beyond what would be expected over a 24 hour period.”
“Hmm. Funny that this hasn’t gotten the public all riled up,” Dean notes.
Sam smiles grimly. “Turns out Disney is very good at suppressing negative press.” He powers down the computer. “Let’s find a room with internet, and I’ll see what else I can dig up before morning.”
***
Shit, shower, and shave. Then they are out the door.
The Workingman’s Breakfast at the local diner costs them twelve bucks with tip. Conversation is limited to “Salt?” and “You gonna eat that?” as they glance over what information Sam could find about the job. Sam looks up from the laptop with a smile.
“You know the story that someone was decapitated on Space Mountain is just an urban legend, right?”
Dean grunts. He keeps on reading.
“But, hey, someone really did get killed on the Skyway before they closed it down.”
“Is this somehow relevant?”
“Jesus, Dean. Can’t we have a little fun with this? I mean, Disney is every kid’s dream destination. It’s like the Holy Grail of childhood. Didn’t you ever want to go see it?”
Finally, Dean looks up with a tight smile. “The only place I dreamed of going was the Indy 500. Oh, and R-rated movies.”
“Whatever, man.” Sam can tell it’s going to be a hell of a long day.
Twenty minutes later, they’re driving up the long, pristine, and strangely desolate roadway that leads into the Disney complex.
The Magic Kingdom parking lot mid-morning is a vast sea of vehicles.
“Did you know that the whole of Disneyland in California could fit into Disney World’s parking lot?”
“Dude. One more useless piece of trivia and I’m locking you in the trunk and doing this myself.”
Sam rolls his eyes at Dean’s continued bad humor but knows better than to needle him further. He doesn’t feel like inspecting the inside of the Impala’s trunk that closely.
***
They’ve collected as much information as possible about the missing children and about the park itself, but Sam is the first to admit that what they have is pretty lean. So they figure today is primarily a reconnaissance mission.
But it never pays to go in unprepared.
Disney inspects bags and backpacks, so they only put relatively innocent items-salt, sage, Dad’s journal, holy water in Evian bottles-in the backpack. The EMF is still Walkman enough not to look suspicious. Every other necessity that might be questioned is secreted in their clothes. Lock picks tucked in a back pocket, knives in soft leather sheaths at ankle and hip under their jeans. Easy concealment of weapons is just another reason Dean doesn’t do shorts, even in Florida’s June heat.
The tram that takes visitors from the parking lot to the ticket counters pulls up. Dean clambers on, shifting around on the narrow, Plexiglas bench seat, trying to get comfortable and bitching about it. Sam figures that with an extra four inches to arrange, comfort is a lost cause.
A frighteningly perky female voice comes flitting out of the speaker. “Howdy, folks, and welcome to the Magic Kingdom! Please keep arms and legs inside the tram at all times. And remember, you’re parked in the Goofy section of the parking lot, aisles 20-24. Don’t forget! Goofy, aisles 20-24.”
“How appropriate for you,” Dean says.
“Since you drove, I'm surprised we didn't end up in the Grumpy lot.”
***
“Sixty dollars to get into this dump? That’s outrageous! Do you know how much beer I can buy with that kind of cash?”
“It’s not your money, so it's not your problem, ‘Mr. Campbell.’”
“It’s the principle, Sam. I oughta thaw out Walt and give him a piece of my mind.”
***
The monorail platform is jammed with happy tourists, bright and cheerful and ready for a day of steady, hyper-mediated fun. Sam scans the crowd. At six-four, he's never really blended in, and Dean, well, Dean sticks out like a knife in a drawer full of spoons, like a dog among the sheep. He's leaning casually against a concrete support pillar, but his eyes and mouth are tight, shoulders up like he’s allergic to the overabundance of pink and plastic and people.
“This place sucks.” Dean's mutter is low, cutting under the high-pitched children’s babble.
Sam aggressively picks at a loose thread on his jeans. “It seems to me like they’re all looking forward to a nice time with their families,” he says, looking significantly at Dean.
He certainly hadn’t meant it to come out as an accusation, but it does anyway. Damn if he isn’t getting sick of this mood of Dean’s.
Dean looks up at Sam sharply. He might as well be sighting down the barrel of a gun. Sam turns away, towards the woman in line in front of them and her three rambunctious boys. With a polite, soft smile, he tells her, “I hear if you ask the attendant--” He nods at the nearest Disney employee. “Sometimes they arrange it so you can all ride up front with the driver.”
The woman thanks Sam enthusiastically, and in the next minute he’s watching her and her brood being escorted to the head of the line.
Sam turns back to see Dean still gazing at him, eyes full of something Sam can’t decipher. Then the moment is gone, and together they turn to look down the tracks, to watch the monorail slide into the station.
***
Entering the Magic Kingdom is a carefully controlled experience. Guests funnel through a dark archway and emerge blinking into the dazzling openness of an idealized Town Square. An old-time train bell clangs overhead. Steam hisses.
The crowd pulls them along up Main Street toward Cinderella’s castle. Sam imagines with amusement that this must be what it’s like to see the Eiffel Tower or the Parthenon for the first time.
It’s smaller than he expected.
But-- he looks around to see that almost every small face is turned up toward it in wonder-- it's bigger, too.
He scans the street, impressed with what he sees: the ingenuity, the cleanliness, the attention to detail on every square inch from pavement to rooftop. Turning to comment on it to Dean, he sees the scowl still looming and keeps his admiration to himself.
Instead, he focuses on the job. “The reports say all of the kids went missing near Liberty Square.”
Dean perks up at this. “So let’s quit messing around and head over there.”
Sam pulls two maps out of his back pocket. One is the standard glossy map of the park they picked up at the gate, the other a map detailing the system of underground tunnels criss-crossing the entire complex. He’d downloaded that one from an “unofficial” Disney website earlier this morning. Smiling, Sam marvels at how obsessed fans can become. But he has to admit, he secretly had fun learning the arcane insider terminology.
“Since the kids were all gone overnight, I think we should start with the tunnels.”
***
The employees-only door in Liberty Square is behind some new construction on the Hall of Presidents. The turnstiles are blocked by a sandwich board: Mickey in a Ben Franklin wig and bifocals, holding a trowel. “Excuse our mess!” the sign reads. “We’re renovating to serve you better!”
Shielded by Dean, Sam picks the lock in seconds flat. They quickly enter and pull the door shut behind them, uncertain what they’ll find. Immediately inside is a stainless-steel commercial elevator and staircase. They take the stairs.
At the bottom, they emerge into a wide hallway. Even though the tunnel walls are color-coded and decorated with motivational posters, it seems oddly barren after the ruthless busyness upstairs. Disney employees pass by in ones and twos and fives, some in costume, some in street clothes. It’s not hard to slip in behind a group going past. “Where do you suggest we start?” Sam asks under his breath.
Dean glances up and down the hall. He hesitates for a moment then keeps walking. “I think I have an idea. Didn’t you tell me they don’t allow anyone under 16 in the tunnels?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, look.” Dean jerks his chin toward a woman a few years younger than Sam coming down the hall. She’s wearing a stylized Colonial Era costume of greens and blacks with starched white apron and holding the hand of a little girl about five years old. The little girl is a tiny, chubby little puppy, with a bright pink backpack and her brown hair in pigtails. Her face is blotchy, as if she’s been crying, but now she stares up at the woman with trust and a little wonder. The woman whispers reassuringly to her.
Dean grabs Sam’s shoulder and spins him around so that Sam will have a view of where their quarry goes if they pass by down the hall. He ad-libs a little conversation to cover their surveillance. “… so, dude, Vanessa and Kristin want us to meet them at the bar after work tonight…”
His voice trails off as the pair hurry past. Sam signals “all safe” with two nods and both of them watch as the woman and girl enter a door nearby.
They quickly make their way to the door. Sam goes to grab the doorknob, but Dean is there before him, sliding soundlessly into the room beyond. Sam rushes in behind him, all tumult to Dean’s stealth.
It turns out stealth was unnecessary. The woman and girl have disappeared.
***
They search the storage room with rapid efficiency, opening cabinets and bifold doors to closets filled with supplies, but there’s no one hiding. Sam starts to think maybe the woman had never led the girl in here when Dean calls out to him.
“Sam. Take a look at this.”
Against the far wall, there is a faint seam. A faint, door-sized seam.
“Secret door?”
“No knob or hinges.” Sam runs his hands carefully along the seam looking for a hidden release mechanism. He slides a razor-thin knife out of a leg sheath and tries to slip it into the crack, maybe lift a latch. Nothing happens. “What now?”
Dean looks up. Above their heads, just above the invisible doorway, is an air vent.
Sam laughs, “Man, you’ve seen Die Hard too many times.”
Dean smirks and does his best Bruce Willis imitation, “’Come out to the coast, we’ll have a few laughs.’” His best is pretty pitiful. “Have you got a better idea? Now give me a boost.”
Sam makes a wry face. “I know you’ve always wanted to be the tall one, but no way in hell are you climbing up on my shoulders.”
So together they heave a pallet of boxes over to the wall. Dean uses a screwdriver from the backpack to take out the four corner screws on the vent, tucks it into his jeans, flicks on a small flashlight, and crawls up into the tiny, dark passageway. Sam sighs, grabs his own flashlight, and scrambles in behind.
The ventilation duct is so narrow they have to inch along in a soldier’s crawl, flashlights extended forward. Sam can’t see anything but the soles of Dean’s boots, and he thinks grimly that going back will be a serious pain in the ass. The shushing sound of their jeans on the metal floor of the vent echoes ahead and behind. After about ten yards, Dean stops.
“I’ve found another vent. I think I see the girl.”
“Great.” Sam whispers back.
Dean is silent for a moment.
“Can you reach my back pocket?”
“Why?”
“Can. You. Reach my back pocket? Jesus. That’s where the screwdriver is and I can’t get my hands back there.”
“Nice.”
“Bitch,” Dean says, “you can keep the editorial to yourself. Can you reach it or not?”
Sam inches forward and pulls the screwdriver out of Dean’s jeans. Then he shoves it forward along Dean’s side, giving it a last hard flick with his fingers to send it sliding up under his brother’s arm. Dean grabs it and goes to work, noiselessly placing the vent face aside.
Dean grips the edge of the vent and ducks head-first into the room, flipping his legs around and down, landing softly on the floor below. Show off, Sam thinks, as he quickly follows suit.
By the time Sam hits the floor, Dean is already across the room. The young woman they saw earlier leaps to her feet in surprise, mouth a wide-open oh as Dean grabs her tightly by the wrist. “Who are you? What's going on here?”
Sam automatically takes his place at Dean’s back and surveys the scene. It’s another storage room, very similar to the first. But in the middle of the room he sees a second young woman. She’s also in employee uniform and looks like she’s related to the woman in Dean’s grip; they share the same thick black braid, dusky skin, and heavy brows. Beside her is the little girl, and both are sitting unmoving on the floor.
The two sit within a large pentagram drawn in thick black lines. Several candles stand just inside the circle, the red wax completely melted down into shapeless puddles. The stench of magic and the eerie stillness of the woman and the girl in the otherwise brightly-lit, nondescript room raises Sam’s hackles more than the grimmest cemetery.
Dean releases his prisoner and strides toward the little girl. “What have you done to her?” he growls.
Just as the woman shouts, “Don’t touch them!” Dean reaches the edge of the circle. A bright light flares and he is thrown backward.
“Dean!” Sam.leaps forward to keep Dean from falling.
“Ugh. Shit. M’okay.” Dean shakes his head like a dog shedding water.
“Always with the impulsive.” Sam mutters in Dean’s ear, gripping his shoulders hard before releasing him.
“Screw you, too,” Dean gasps back, hands on his knees to catch his breath.
Sam walks slowly towards the pair in the pentagram, his hands out-stretched. As he reaches the edge of the markings, he can feel the thrumming of an invisible barrier in his palms. He looks over his shoulder at the miserable young woman. “How do we break through this?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” she chokes out. “She never meant for this to happen. I don’t know what’s gone wrong.”
Dean shifts impatiently, but Sam slowly approaches, standing between the frightened woman and the two figures on the ground. “Listen. I know you’re scared. But we’re here to help. I’m Sam and this is my brother, Dean. What can you tell us?”
She presses her hands to her cheeks, hard, as though to keep herself from flying apart. After two shuddering breaths, she finally says, “I’m Lynnette Singh. That’s my older sister, Lindsay. We both got jobs here for the summer while we’re on break from school at UCF. We thought it would be fun, you know, working here. Disney’s supposed to be fun, right?” Tears well in her eyes, and she begins to cry again.
When Dean loudly clears his throat, Sam gives him a look begging for some restraint. This isn’t the time for Dean’s impatience; they need this witness calm.
“So what’s all this?” Sam gestures toward the tableau behind him.
“A few weeks after we started working here, Lindsay started dating this guy, Jeremiah Woolridge--”
Dean interrupts, “Sam, does that name sound familiar?”
“Yeah. But I don’t know where from.”
“Could he…” Dean’s thinking now. He squeezes his eyes shut and taps a beat on his forehead with two fingers. He looks up quickly. “Could he be one of those fucked up necromancers we tangled with in Boston, that time your almost got your arm cut off?”
“Possibly. I--”
Lynnette stares. “How did you know he was from up north?” She’s calmer now, curiosity overcoming her surprise and apprehension. She knits her brow. “Necromancer?”
Sam says simply, “He deals in black magic.”
She stares. “Well, he was definitely messing around with some very strange stuff: witchcraft, sorcery, stuff like that there.” She gestures toward the circle. “He convinced Lindsay that she could cast some spell or something that would give her everlasting life. He helped her hide this room and taught her about the spell.” Her eyes take on a bleak, faraway look. “But I think she must have made a mistake. She told me it was supposed to be continually charged by her life force, but instead it’s draining her somehow, and it won’t let her go.”
“Like an energy sink?” Sam asks.
Dean adds, “And now she’s trapped.” Then he scowls. “What about the kids? What are you doing with them?”
Lynnette replies, “At first, after she was trapped, Lindsay could still talk to me. She told me that by using the children’s life forces, she taps into enough energy to survive and hopefully break free.”
Even as she says it, her voice falls. She knows it’s a weak excuse, either stupid or evil, or both. She begins to plead, “It doesn’t hurt them. It’s only a few hours. I take them back.” She looks uncertainly over at her sister. “But she’s getting weak. She hasn’t spoken to me since yesterday.”
Sam says coldly, “The children are getting weaker, too. The last two were taken to the hospital.”
Lynnette closes her eyes and says, “Oh god. I just wanted to help her. To save her.”
Dean breaks into her lament. “Where’s Jeremiah now? Can we get him to fix this?”
“He disappeared. I think maybe he left town. Everything of his is gone from their apartment. He left just after the spell went wrong.”
Dean glances at Sam, looking for suggestions, ideas, answers-- anything.
“I don’t know, man.”
Sam gets as close as he can to Lindsay and the girl, looking for inspiration. He notices that each has a hand resting on a flat, triangular object. It is the orange-brown of dull copper, with a slight patina, almost like a large slice of pizza inscribed with runes. “What is that under their hands?”
“Um. I think it’s part of a talisman. Lindsay said it’s supposed to channel the power,” Lynnette responds. She walks across the room and pulls something off of a shelf in one of the closets. “Here’s the book she got from Jeremiah that tells about it.”
Dean strides over and snatches it out of her hands. “Why didn’t you give us this before?”
“Sorry,” she says in a small voice, cowering back.
The book is small, barely larger than Dean’s palm, but it’s thick and bound in soft, weathered leather. “Huh,” he says. “It’s a copy of The Black Pullet.”
“The grimoire?” asks Sam.
“No, the cookbook. Here.” He tosses the book to Sam and turns to examine the rest of the contents of the closet, not trusting Lynnette to have shown him everything.
Sam rapidly scans through the pages. He’s seen copies of The Black Pullet before-it’s pretty much a classic in the world of magical arts. Talismans and the channeling of powerful forces certainly feature prominently in its pages. Dean comes up to stand behind him as the pages flip by. He stays Sam’s hand for a moment.
“What’s that?” There is something handwritten in small, precise script in the margin.
PoC Juliet-14 58
HM Papa-22 102
“It looks like some kind of code.”
“Well, then. You know the drill: you get your geek on, I’ll check the journal. You,” he barks at Lynnette, “stay out of the way.”
***
Dean calls out, “Bingo! Here’s something. It looks like she’s trying to make an Enochian ‘Ensign of Creation.’ It’s a power-generating talisman, like she said.” He glances at Lynnette and then back down at the journal page. “Dad says that the talisman can be separated into parts, which increases its power. It looks like Lindsay--or Woolridge--did something with the other two pieces. Once we have those other pieces, then maybe, we can break into the circle and destroy it.”
Sam stares at the grimoire for a moment, “Yeah, I think this tells us where the other two pieces are, if I could just figure out the code. Who are Juliet and Papa?”
Lynnette, who has been relegated to watching and waiting and sitting as far from Dean as possible, says hesitantly, “I don’t think they’re people. I think maybe it’s referring to rides.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, um. Rides are made up of a series of events or rooms or, you know, parts. We refer to the different parts by Alpha for the first section, then Bravo, and then Charlie and so on.”
“So these are rides here in the park?”
Dean mutters under his breath, “Please not Small World. God, anything but Small World.”
“It looks to me like they’re in the Pirates of the Caribbean and the Haunted Mansion, ” volunteers Lynnette.
“Of course they are.” Dean laughs incredulously. “You’re joking, right?”
Sam agrees, checking his map. “Well, they are equidistant from here. That makes sense in terms of the requirements of the spell.”
“Okay then. Lynnette and I will go talk to some of her buddies and find out about where ‘Juliet’ and ‘Papa’ are located on the rides. You stay here and figure out how we destroy this thing and get Lindsay and the girl out. And see if you can figure out what those other numbers mean.”
***
Sam’s still nose deep in the book when Lynnette draws a rune on the secret door and it slides open.
“Any luck?”
“Well,” Sam says, “I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is I think I know how to break the trap around these two once we have all three pieces in the same place.”
“And the bad news is?”
“Sorry, Dean. Whatever “58” and “102” mean, I can’t work it out.” Sam hates to go into a situation blind. If only he had more time, he thinks. But he knows Dean’s itching to go, and the trapped girls are fading fast.
Dean shrugs. “Well, nothing to it but to do it. Let’s hot foot over to see the Pirates.”
***
Out in front of the Pirates of the Caribbean, a sign on a red and brown shield informs people: “Wait from this point: 40 minutes.”
Dean looks at the long line of tourist with disdain. He pulls Sam’s arm. “C’mon. Let’s jump the line. What are we waiting for?”
Sam digs in his heels. “You know they’ve got this place lined with security cameras. Skipping in line is just going to draw too much attention. We still have another piece to get after this one. We need to be inconspicuous.”
Annoyed but accepting Sam’s rationale, Dean leads the way into the dim interior of the ride. The contrast with the bright sunlight leaves them both blinking until their eyes adjust.
They make their way to the end of the line and settle in for the wait. With careless agility, Dean hops up to sit balanced on the cool metal railing, hands resting lightly on his thighs.
About twenty people ahead of them is a group of teenage girls; it’s hard to tell quite how old they are with their lip gloss and too-short skirts. As the line wends back and forth, the girls pass Dean and Sam, laughing and whispering as they glance in their direction.
“Hey, Sam.” Dean gives a tiny smirk and glances over. “I think they’re checking us out.”
“Charming, Dean. Now you’re picking up high schoolers?”
“Naw, man, gross. I’m just sayin’, it’s nice to be admired.”
Doesn’t matter if they’re 16 or 60, Dean has this way with women, a reckless confidence. Sam watches him do it every day, leaning towards them like he’s listening with his whole body, smiling at them with a look that’s part teasing, part dangerous, There’s something he’s never been able to pinpoint in Dean’s swagger or stride or slouch that communicates with women on an unseen level. Like a secret code, like snake charming, like…
“Hello there, ladies.”
Yeah. Like that.
Almost as one, the girls giggle and close ranks. Then a skinny blonde ringleader in a ponytail and halter top steps forward. She looks up slyly at Sam, back at the group, then over at Dean.
“Hey. Um. Would you mind, you know, taking a picture of all of us with your friend?” She looks sideways at Sam, almost greedily.
Dean’s thrown off his game a bit by this. “You’re kidding, right?”
Sam’s sentiments exactly.
“Naw. We’re collecting shots of us with cute boys we run into around the park. We’ve got some other friends doing the same thing. The ones who get the best collection win.” Again she throws Sam a look. Again the group giggles.
Dean cracks up, too, and sing-songs, “Come on, Sammy. It’s just a quick picture.”
Sam’s internal debate over what is going to bring the most lasting pain: taking the picture or refusing, lasts less than a moment. With a sigh and a disgusted look at Dean, he agrees. He feels absolutely ridiculous as the girls gather around him like a pack of hungry sharks. He’s sure that when it’s Dean’s turn, he’ll throw his arms around them and grin like a superstar.
As soon as the camera clicks, Sam scoots away.
Dean hands the camera to Sam. “Okay, girls, let’s show him how it’s done.”
Blondie looks at him matter-of-factly, holding out her hand for the camera. “No thanks. You’re kinda too old for us.” She turns and they all scurry down the ramp to the ride’s loading zone.
“Shut up.” Dean snaps, before Sam can utter a word. “Shut up or I’ll show you I’m old enough to kick your ass.” And no matter what that girl said, he sounds like a petulant little boy when he scratches his head and mutters to himself, “Old? What the hell?”
Finally, they reach the head of the line and board one of the tiny twelve-person boats that shuttle people through the ride, maneuvering so that they have the hindmost seat to themselves.
Sam’s tense. They know where the ‘Juliet’ section is, but they don’t know the exact location of the talisman piece within it. Lynnette warned them that, once they jump out of the boat, they’ll only have a minute or two before security arrives. Depending how well-hidden the talisman is, they’ll be cutting it close, and it’s unlikely they’ll get a second try.
Along the ride, their boat passes a series of scenes: a half life-size pirate ship trades cannon blasts with an English fort, various animatronic mannequins of drunken pirates chase hapless townspeople. As their little boat rounds a bend in the ride, Sam spies the scene they’re looking for. Five jolly pirates sit on a dock, drinking rum and shouting mild insults across the waterway.
Dean pulls the EMF reader out of the pack. “Here we go.”
They hop out of the boat onto the fake cobblestones of the “shoreline.” Instantly, the line of boats packed with tourists comes to a halt, the cheery soundtrack of “Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me” cuts off. A stern voice blares out over the loud speakers: “Guests must remain in the vehicles at all times. Please return to your boat immediately. Thank you.”
Sam goes right while Dean goes left, sweeping the EMF reader in a wide arc. The indicator lights briefly glow bright. “Hey, man,” he shouts, “over here.”
Dean swiftly reaches down to open a chest rigged up between two of the pirates. Within the chest gleams the coppery piece of talisman. Before Dean can retrieve it, a booted foot comes crashing down on the lid. He ducks, but not fast enough to avoid a glancing blow across the temple from the heavy plastic bottle of rum wielded by a suddenly mobile--and murderous--pirate.
Sam races over, throwing a shoulder into the mannequin attacking Dean. He sends it flying, the collision with hard plastic and metal knocking the air out of him for a moment. Dean grabs the back of his shirt and hauls Sam to his feet. “I guess this is going to be more complicated than we thought.”
The tourists over in the stalled boats start to applaud, thinking this is part of the show.
The other four pirates from the scene converge on them. Dean slams a fist into the first one that reaches them, then curses vividly and jumps back, cradling his abused hand. Sam grapples with the pirate to his right and wrenches a sword from it. “Dean!” he shouts, and tosses the sword to him. It’s just a prop, with a blunt edge and a blunt tip, but it makes a better weapon than bare fists.
Dean swings the sword in a wide arc, driving one of the mannequins back toward Sam, who sends it stumbling down some stairs and into the water, grabbing its sword for himself on the way down.
“Hey, Dean,” he calls out. “I bet this really feeds into your crush on Johnny Depp, huh?”
“Yeah, Sam.” Dean fends off another attack with the flat of the sword. “Sure.” He parries the swing of a bottle. “But don’t think I don’t know about you and Orlando Bloom.”
Sam huffs out a laugh as he partially decapitates his opponent with a cracking blow.
A collective “Ewww!” sounds from the stranded tourists.
Dean slowly maneuvers away from Sam, spreading the defense. It looks like whatever magic is animating the mannequins is limited to this small area, because all of the other characters on the set remain immobile. Sam manages to hold the two facing him at bay, moving sideways in an attempt to keep one of his assailants between himself and the other. He finds himself pressed down toward the waterline and slips on the slick footing there, losing his sword and going down on one knee.
Then Dean is there. He makes a sweeping parry, knocking the lead pirate’s sword aside. He dives forward under the return cut, tucking and rolling to his feet. In one unbroken move he pivots toward the pirate and thrusts his sword half a foot into its back. Although the cut doesn’t seem to faze the machine, Dean uses the sword like a lever to push the pirate into the water.
Sam scrambles away toward a rowboat, grabbing the prop oar out of its rigger and slamming it into the pirate advancing on him.
Dean shoves away the last mannequin in Sam’s path. “Go, Sam, go! Here come the cavalry!” Three real live Disney employees emerge from a hidden door, staring horrified at the chaos of broken pieces of set and ruined animatronics below.
Sam snatches the triangle of metal out of the chest, breaking the spell and draining the pirates of whatever force was controlling them. Thank goodness for fire codes, because the dimly lit red ‘exit’ sign behind the scenery offers them a way out.
They tumble out of the door into the soggy summer heat. Dean leans with his back to the door, breathing heavily. “How’s that for inconspicuous?”
***
Sam leads the way to a nearby bench, partially hidden within the entrance to the Jungle Cruise. Wearily, they both sit. Sam unzips the pack and pulls out the grimoire. “I think I know now what that last bit of code means. Lindsay’s code said “PoC Juliet-14 58,” right? Well, the animation spell-- the one that made the pirates come to life?-- there’s a version of it on page 58. See?” He flips to that page and hands the book over to Dean.
“So let’s check out what’s in store for us behind Door #2 before we hit the Haunted Mansion. I could stand for fewer surprises at my advanced age.”
As Sam pages through the book, he says worriedly, “Dean, this is some serious sorcery. Can you imagine how much power it took to animate those things? To make them that strong?”
Dean frowns briefly, but then conspicuously relaxes back on the bench with a smirk. “Yeah, but we kicked their asses. And next time we’ll have a plan to counter the defenses, right? So, nothing to worry about.” He rubs his hands together. “Let’s get planning.”
He shoots a glance at Sam, who turns back to the book, hiding a tiny, knowing smile.
***
They stand and sweat in the Haunted Mansion preshow area, listening to the wolf cries and assorted boo-spookery from the hidden speakers.
The doors creak open, revealing a girl in a rotting maid’s uniform, her eyes lined with black, her skin powered to a deathly pallor. She gives the crowd a cold, considering glare and then intones, “The Master requests more bodies.”
As the crowd pushes them inside, Sam notices how over-aggressive the air conditioning is, mysterious chills that blow through the rooms to simulate wandering spirits making their presence felt.
“Not bad,” Dean remarks. “Add some ozone and they’d be onto something here.”
A steady stream of cars shaped like great, black half-shells glides by. Dean slows to leave a few empty cars in between them and the family ahead, and they slide in. The car is designed with young children riding with parents in mind, not two large men and their pack full of surprises.
Dean can’t resist a barb. He elbows Sam in the ribs. “You get any closer, Sam, and we’re going to have to get a prenup.”
“Shut up.” Sam bumps his head on the curved roof and then his knees against the safety bar as he slouches down. “Dammit, this thing is tiny.”
The ride is much darker than Sam expected for a kids’ theme park. Hands push up from inside a coffin lid, disembodied heads pop out of baskets. Parts of the ride are pitch black.
When they come to The Mansion’s attic, they squeeze gracelessly from behind the restraining bar, out of the moving car, and onto the set. This time, the ride keeps moving on without them.
Dean drops down onto one knee and mutters, “Huh. Looks like the Powers That Be didn’t notice us.”
“Quick. Let’s find the piece and get out of here.”
Sam begins a search with the EMF reader, while Dean reluctantly takes a bandana out of his pocket.
“I really think I can do this without a blindfold, Sam.”
Sam replies, “This defense spell is based on illusion. Seeing the thing you fear the most, as far as I can tell. It’s designed to completely freak you out. If you can’t see it, you should be immune.”
“So why aren’t you wearing one? Are you the Man Without Fear, Daredevil?”
“No, asshole. But I’m the man who’s going to lead you to where it’s hidden and then let you do the dirty work.”
“The blind leading the blind.”
“Just put it on.”
Dean blindfolds himself and takes Sam by the shoulder. The EMF leads them toward a chest just behind one of the fake ghosts popping up to scare the kiddies.
Sam places Dean’s outstretched hand onto the chest.
“Get back, Sam.”
There’s nagging worry in the back of Sam’s mind that he’s figured wrong, that he might be letting Dean go-- alone and blind-- up against something unexpected, something more dangerous than they planned on.
Ice-water adrenaline dumps into his veins, and his heart starts to pound. As Dean’s hands fumble with the lid, Sam edges closer to Dean’s side. He averts his eyes just as Dean flips it open, but he’s too late.
Something slams into Sam and knocks him backward. He gasps for breath, but it's pressing on his chest. A kaleidoscope of images floods his mind: Dad, much younger, falling though a rotted-out floor; teenage Dean savaged by a Black Dog; Andrea drowning in the bathtub; Dean lying lifeless in a puddle of water; Lori fleeing the Hookman; Dean staring, unseeing at the ceiling, with a bullet hole in his head.
Sam presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets viciously, trying to break the spell’s grip on him. He clings desperately to the knowledge that this is magic, an illusion, not real. But in the next instant, his mind is overwhelmed.
Stunned, he drops to his knees as one image comes to dominate the rest. It’s the moment he's relived in countless nightmares: Jessica, pinned to the ceiling, blood seeping from the gash across her stomach. Again, he sees her eyes open. Again, he hears her anguished gasp. Flames burst through the room. Smoke chokes him and his lungs are charred.
Instead of being pulled from the fire, he finds himself engulfed, burning, the flesh on his arms and face searing, his own screams blending with Jess’s. Then it stops.
“-am! Sammy!” he hears Dean yelling. Dean has ripped the blindfold off and thrown it to the ground. He has Sam’s arm in a crushing grip, the piece of talisman in the other hand.
“It’s gone. It’s done,” Sam gasps. His head swims, and he swallows back the bile rising in his throat.
“Goddamnit, Sam!” Dean gives his arm a quick, rough shake. “What the hell were you thinking? You told me you were going to close your eyes, stupid!”
Sam musters a slight smile. “Sorry, man. Reflexes must be going. Could’ve happened to anyone.”
"No, it really couldn't," Dean says. "Jesus. You're like one of those idiot savants without the savant. I just can’t believe--"
“Can you be done now? ‘Cause I think I’m gonna yak.”
Dean shuts up and hauls him up onto his feet. Nose-to-nose, he peers into Sam's eyes, trying to gauge his condition through the dim light. Satisfied, they stagger back to the rumbling line of cars. They crouch in the dark, waiting for less than a minute before an empty car glides by for the taking.
Dean stows the talisman in their pack while Sam leans his head against the high back of the car. He’s still trembling slightly, silently working to shake off the lingering dread. The end of the ride comes just as Sam pushes the last sounds of Jess's screaming back into that corner of his brain where it stays in the daytime.
He can see that Dean’s wavering somewhere between his third you okay? and a smart remark.
Jaunty theme music follows them off of the ride. “Reminds me of early Metallica,” Sam jokes weakly.
Dean looks relieved and swats his arm. “Dude, don’t blaspheme.”
They walk out of the building, trying to slip away unnoticed, but Dean can’t resist chatting up the cute cast member working the exit door. He glances at her nametag.
“Nice ride, Erin,” Dean remarks, his grin just this side of lewd.
She’s in character and not supposed to be cheerful. But nothing female can resist when that feral light of success is in Dean’s eyes. She attempts an evil stare and ghastly voice, but it comes out more flirtatious than fearsome. “Thank you, sir, we do try to keep it ‘spirited.’”
Both boys groan appreciatively, and Sam taps Dean’s elbow signaling, let’s finish this thing. They set off into the fried-food and disinfectant perfume of the park.
***
Lynnette is waiting for them at the entrance door to the employee tunnels. The three of them make their way back to the hidden room, hurrying, but not enough to draw attention. They hear people gossiping in the halls about a certain fiasco over at the Pirates ride.
Once inside the room, Dean sets their pack down on a table and slides out the two talisman pieces and the grimoire. Sam reaches out, but Dean pauses before handing them over.
“Listen,” he says. “You sure you’re up for this? Because I--” He looks away from Sam, over at the pair in the pentagram. He murmurs, “You want me to do it?”
Sam can’t say he’s not tempted. He’s drained. A part of him wants to rest, to turn responsibility for the job and for himself over to Dean like he did when they were kids. But he’s not a child any longer, whatever Dean may think. He’ll be damned if he’s going to let down his end of the canoe.
“No way,” Sam replies, grinning. “I need you as backup for when I screw this up.”
Sam takes the things from Dean and approaches the top point of the pentagram. He drags over a small table on which to rest the grimoire. Dean stands behind his left shoulder, and Lynnette hesitantly comes up to his right. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Sam begins to read the incantation, holding the two pieces of the talisman out in front of him.
For a few minutes, nothing happens. Then there’s an audible click, and the two pieces in Sam’s hands join seamlessly together. He sweeps the grimoire up off the table with his free hand and holds it eye-level, continuing to chant as he walks slowly toward the edge of the pentagram.
Dean tenses, ready to grab Sam if he’s repelled by the spell. But Sam crosses the perimeter easily and moves steadily toward the final piece of the talisman. Growing more and more confident, he sets his piece in place, maneuvering it gently under the girls’ unresponsive hands. Above the sound of Sam’s voice, another click signals that the talisman is whole. He licks his thumb, and slowly rubs it over the runes drawn on the talisman’s face, smearing them.
The spell holding Lindsay and the girl dissipates. They both slump to the ground.
Dean, Sam, and Lynnette quickly agree that there would be fewer questions asked if Lynnette takes the girl to children’s lost-and-found at City Hall, while Dean and Sam carry an unconscious Lindsay to the employee infirmary. Lynnette offers a brief and embarrassed thanks and rushes out the door clutching the girl.
***
They wander from Liberty Square over the boarder into Fantasyland.
“Why don’t we stick around for awhile,” Sam suggests. “Maybe until the park closes?”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know.” He looks around wistfully. “We’re here already. The job’s done. Maybe it’d be fun. Everyone seems, well, so happy.”
There's a shift in the air. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets and gives Sam his patented glare of withering scorn. “Yeah, just like them.” He jerks his chin toward a family with two sobbing kids and two screaming parents.
Sam stops in the middle of the walkway. He hauls Dean out of the flow of traffic and underneath a scalloped, aqua-striped awning. Dean looks down at an empty soda cup, up at a wayward balloon, at a little girl wearing a Cinderella tiara, anywhere but at Sam.
Like a flipped switch, all Sam’s pleasure morphs into frustration. “What?”
Dean shrugs.
Sam seethes. His hands clench. It's all he can do to keep from shaking the shit out of Dean. "Just say it, man. Say something, anything." Can I just get a tiny goddamn hint, like a crumb, like…
“This is why you’ll leave again.”
Yeah. Like that. Dean’s words rattle around inside of Sam as he tries to get a hold on to them. It’s hard to catch them with his chest all hollowed out. “What?” He repeats quietly.
Dean still doesn’t look at him, but Sam can see his face and his eyes have softened. His hands are unmoving, resting lightly on the railing in front of him.
“You don’t remember those couple months we lived in Florida, do you? It was over on the coast… St. Augustine, I think. You were only three, or maybe four. You begged Dad over and over to take us to Disney. For weeks and weeks you wouldn’t let it go. Of course, Dad couldn’t afford to bring us.” The rush of words peters out.
“Dean, I don’t understand. I was just a little kid.”
“It’s just. It’s always been… this.” He gestures weakly toward the castle, the crowds of trouble-free families, the wide darkening sky. “Ever since the beginning you’ve wanted things, things we could never give you.”
Sam lets this sink in. He reaches up and combs his hands through his hair. Various responses swirl around in his brain. It’s alright and Don’t worry and You idiot. I’ve had to live with your rotten attitude all day, just because you think I’m taking off over Disney World? But none of them is really enough. Every time in the past when he has answered off the top of his head, he’s managed to wound Dean by saying the wrong thing. So now he takes his time.
He wanders a couple of steps away and then comes back to grip the rail, too.
“When I was 18, I left because I thought I had to choose between Dad’s life or… or the Disney life.” He pauses, and then adds quietly, “Now I’m not so sure.” He wants Dean to understand, but the fact that he’s still working it out himself makes it hard to explain. “I’m trying to figure out a way not to have to choose anymore. Because I won’t not choose you.”
Dean’s head hangs a little lower for a second. And then he laughs. It’s the best sound Sam’s heard all day. All year.
“Nice grammar, Sammy. What were they teaching you there at Stanford, anyway?”
Sam can’t help but grin back. “Whatever. Who are you, Strunk or White?” He suddenly feels as light as a feather, like he might drift away on the breeze. He thinks Dean might feel it, too, and suddenly, he wants to show Dean how good the Disney life can be. “Let’s go get a beer.”
Dean quirks a brow. “They serve? In Mickeyland? Doubtful.”
Sam grin grows wider and he pokes Dean in the shoulder tauntingly. “If I find you a beer, you have to agree to go on one ride with me.”
“You’re on.”
When they emerge from the Plaza Restaurant on Main Street, each two Budweisers and a burger fuller thanks to Mr. Campbell and an under-the-table alcohol service Sam had read about on-line, it has rained hard and cleared again. The setting sun gleams off of wet plastic surfaces. People make way as they merge into the crowed sidewalk, side by side.
Dean stretches and says, “I dunno, Sam. If the beer’s not on the actual menu, it might be considered cheating.”
“Don’t try to talk your way out of this now, Dean. The beer is in you and you are going with me on a ride. For fun. You remember fun, don’t you?” Sam lengthens his stride a little. Just enough to leave Dean trailing behind.
“Spare me, Princess. This is the most ridiculous idea you’ve had since…well, yesterday at least.” Dean calls out. “What, you want me to hold your hand while you ride Dumbo?”
“I’ve got an opportunity to kick your ass on that shooting-gallery ride,” Sam calls back, walking backward, arms wide, taunting. “When have you ever known me to pass that up? If I win, you’re wearing Mickey ears, bitch. Race you to Tomorrowland.”
Dean takes a stutter step to catch up, but Sam turns and adds a little more speed. He hears Dean grumble, “This is so on.”
It’s a game, a challenge. Finding the path of least resistance, filling the gaps, dodging the traffic. They dart through the bustling crowd with just a whisper to spare-moving with precision and grace and expedience. Sam laughs. Like birds soaring and diving, like rushing wind, like…
“Wooooo!” Dean yells, throwing a wild grin over his shoulder at Sam as he passes him.
Yeah. Like that.
THE END.