No Place to Grow Old 2/2
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Masterpost
The post office box in North Platte was stuffed with junk and three new credit cards, but there was no sign Dad had been there. Dean grabbed a room two towns further on and started gambling, trying to build their stock of cash back up.
Sam taped up the blisters that their miserable old shovel had left on his hand, found the local gym, and spent almost three hours there, trying to work the stiffness out of his back. It really didn't work.
The fact was, Sam's condition had nearly gotten both of them killed back at the cemetery, when he couldn't hold up his end of the fight. Between the digging and the research, he still had no feeling in two fingers on his right hand, and the left hand tingled and ached constantly. The only drugs that might help him at all made him sleep so deeply he couldn't wake from the nightmares. By the time Sam walked back to their latest motel, he'd made up his mind. He would tell Dean what was going on, just as soon as Dean returned from the bar.
Sam's eyes shut, just for a moment, and when he opened them again, Dean was already asleep in his own bed. They'd talk first thing in the morning, Sam decided, and switched on the TV without any sound. But just after Sam returned from a coffee run the next morning, Dean's phone rang, drawing them halfway across the country to an airport in eastern Pennsylvania. And Sam didn't particularly feel like explaining in a moving car. Or maybe you just don't want to hear what Dean has to say about your stupid problem.
Once they had talked to Jerry Panowski, any thought of explaining things to Dean was shoved on to the back burner. Sam had been asked to protect civilians from a frighteningly early age, but he had never worked a case with so many lives at stake. Between the airplane-crashing demon, the desperate race to stop another plane crash, and Dean's unexpected fear of flying, they were back in Jerry's office before Sam had time to think.
Which was when they found Dad's voicemail and realized what he'd done. Just picked up and left. Ran away of his own accord, left his sons to fend for themselves, like he always did.
Fuck Dad. Fuck 'em all. He'd find Jessica's killer his own damned self.
*********************************
Sam's fresh anger carried him all the way to their next stop, in Fort Ashby, West Virginia. They grabbed a motel room, bought dinner, and Dean crashed for the night at about three in the afternoon. Dean's body had always taken well to the rhythms, or anti-rhythms, of hunting. Once a case picked up, he might have to work for days on end with sleep coming only in brief naps and snatches, but, like any good Marine, he could go to sleep immediately, anywhere, once the bodies were burned.
Sam was still too keyed up to rest, and with all the driving, he'd probably gotten more sleep the past few days than Dean had. He booted his laptop to take down some notes on their latest case and began studying the exorcism. Just a few words at a time, and soon enough he'd have the whole thing memorized. He'd gotten through his biology final just that way.
Not that he really wanted an exorcism cluttering up his brain forever, but he supposed it was more useful than the stages of the Krebs cycle, which had apparently taken root up there.
To Sam's surprise, he managed to sleep solidly from midnight to about six in the morning, when Jessica's blood and the ceiling bursting into flame woke him again. Sam lay there, gasping, trying to ground himself. Motel ceiling. Not on fire. No Jess. Other bed mussed, water noises. Dean had finally climbed out of his traditional post-case coma and was showering.
And Sam's back was on fire.
Well, at least it waited until after we saved the plane.
Slowly, he drew one knee up to his chest. It got stuck halfway there, when the muscles completely seized. Five minutes of stretching got his knee almost all the way to his chest, but the moment he released it, the muscles tightened back up, leaving him as stiff as ever and even more sore.
He hadn't felt so badly since … well, since before he started on medication in the first place. When the stretching didn't help at all, it was usually a sign that he needed to rest until his nerves and muscles settled down.
I'm sorry, Mr. Werewolf, I'm having a flare today. I know it's a full moon, but do you think you could put off your next attack until I'm feeling better? He actually snickered at that thought, then sighed and threw an arm across his eyes, just as Dean left the bathroom.
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," Sam offered, without moving his arm. His voice crackled.
"Up before you," Dean retorted cheerfully. "How you doing today?"
Sam finally looked at his brother, who was wriggling into a t-shirt.
"Great. Got a lot of sleep, actually."
Dean squinted at him. "You know, you look like crap."
Sam could take an opening when he was given one. "I am a little sore. Think it was the airplane, I kinda got thrown down when the plane dived."
"Where?"
"Back, mostly." Sam rolled his shoulders and winced.
"Can you feel all your toes?"
"Yes, Dean," Sam replied, rolling his eyes.
"Roll over."
Dean pushed up his brother's t-shirt and looked him over. "Don't see any bruising." Gently Dean ran a hand up each side of his spine, checking for anything cracked or displaced. Sam gasped a few times, but fortunately, the sorest spots were actually an inch or two away from the backbone, so he could bear the examination without screaming loud enough to make Dean think he'd cracked a vertebra.
Finally Dean stopped and pushed Sam's shirt back down. "Probably just a muscle or something. You'll be fine." Dean waved a hand, then began setting up the coffee maker.
Right. Just a muscle. No big deal.
"Still," Dean went on, lacing his boots and reaching for a jacket, "you might as well take it easy today. I need to do some work on the car, and there's a shop around here that will usually let me borrow a bay. They might have some parts I need, too. I'm going to get us some breakfast, then head over."
"I think the motel has free muffins," Sam called.
Dean fetched a selection of mini-muffins, mini-bagels, and packets of cream cheese, along with some ice for Sam's back. Sam nibbled at a lemon poppy muffin while Dean scarfed half the pile, then headed out the door. The minute he was gone, Sam slid the ice over to the other side of the bed.
A few minutes later, Sam's phone buzzed, announcing a text message.
*Fixing impala. Fixing other cars later. See u 2nite.*
Dean frequently borrowed a bay in a repair shop in exchange for sharing his expertise with older cars. Most of the time, the Impala herself, almost forty years old and still running sweet, was the only recommendation Dean needed. The time alone with wrenches and carburetors would relax him, as it always did, and with him out all day, Sam wouldn't have to hide the extent of his pain.
Matter of fact, Sam might not bother getting up that day at all. Except, of course, for his pressing need for a bathroom.
Which meant he'd have to get up.
The bed he was laying in was reasonably comfortable, but it was low to the ground, and it took entirely too long for Sam to roll onto his side, sit up, drop his legs off the bed and stand. He drew a bolt of pain from both knees as he pushed to his feet and shuffled toward the bathroom. His heels protested as he straightened his legs, the tight muscles in his calves stretching reluctantly.
A few minutes later, he faced his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He really did look like crap, Sam realized. And he'd have to pull himself together soon, because once Dean was finished at the garage, they'd be hitting the road again. It's just pain. I can deal, I can't just walk away. Jess deserves better than that.
So, time for Operation Get Functional. A hot bath or shower might be a decent first step, but, as usual, the tub was too small, and Sam was in no mood to deal with a showerhead banging into his ear. Food should be possible, breakfast was still on the table, although he'd need protein eventually. Water, easy. He downed a cupful. Medicines. Did he dare? He'd just had a decent night's sleep, he should be able to stay awake until the muscle relaxant wore off, even if he lay back down.
A cramp ran down his back, warning him that he'd better sit down soon if he didn't want to explore the mysteries of the bathroom floor. He refilled the glass and carried it back to the nightstand, adding coffee, muffins, TV remote, and his bottle of muscle relaxants. He was tempted to add the laptop, but knew that would just make his back worse. He swallowed a single pill, then slipped the bottle under the blankets for later.
To Sam's delight, the drugs worked, and he managed to stay awake. Out of habit, he turned on the local news. Apparently, the police were concerned over a Midnight Hacker, which drew Sam's attention for a moment, until the newscaster explained that Hacker was targeting trees on the streets downtown. Police were unsure whether they were looking for a serial vandal or just someone who'd taken it upon himself to prune them and did a poor job. Sam nearly laughed out loud. It was good to know there were still towns with no bigger problems than badly pruned trees.
By the time the morning news was replaced with a soap opera, he'd finished his muffins and was considering getting up to find some real food. Dean pre-empted him, however, bringing back lunch, and announcing that he'd be working at the garage at least one more day.
*********************************
Dean had never seen his brother so passive except when he was really ill or injured. Sam didn't even work on his laptop, just stared at the TV, stretched, and ate what was put in front of him. Dean was beginning to wonder if something was really wrong. When Dean returned to the room the second evening, Sam was in the shower.
"Finally decided to get your ass out of bed, Princess?" Dean yelled through the bathroom door.
"How's the car?" Sam yelled back.
"Car's great. Keep the water cold so you don't swell up."
Sam didn't acknowledge that.
The blankets on his brother's bed were far more disheveled than they usually were after he'd slept in them, suggesting he'd been lying down all day. Which, if he'd finally begun to catch up on his rest, was all to the good, but it only increased Dean's worry.
Right there, sticking out of the blankets, was a prescription bottle. Curious, Dean picked it up. It was a drug he'd never heard of before, "Baclofen". The bottle had Sam's real name, his Stanford address, and several refills remaining, suggesting something taken for a chronic problem. It had been dispensed over a month earlier, but it was still almost full, suggesting Sam wasn't taking it.
Rapidly, Dean tore off a piece of motel stationary and wrote down the name and dose. He stuffed the pills back under the edge of the sheet, then paused. He'd suspected for weeks that there were things Sam wasn't telling him. Sam was always sore, or not feeling well, and though he always had an explanation, it was happening way too often.
Yes. It was time to violate Sam's privacy. He bent down and opened his brother's bag.
When the water shut off, he'd found one additional clue: a second prescription bottle. This one said "amitriptyline," and it had apparently come from the same place as the first. He wrote down the drug, along with the prescribing doctor's name: Rodez, same as the first bottle.
He folded the note into his pocket. "Hey, how do you feel about dinner," Dean called. "They actually paid me a few bucks at the garage today."
"Dinner with money you earned honestly? How can I turn that down?" Sam replied snippily.
"Steak and veggies," Dean said enticingly, and, despite his sarcastic comments, Sam finished dressing as quickly as his stiff back would allow, and lost no time in heading for the car.
It was almost two hours before Dean could return his brother to the motel room and go to the library alone to look up those medicines.
"Baclofen" was apparently for cerebral palsy, which was something people were born with. Which made no sense. The other was an antidepressant, sometimes used for insomnia. Well, it's working great, then.
Dean chewed his pen, then tried searching both drugs together. The result was a laundry list of conditions he'd never heard of. But he worked his way down the list, and a common element emerged: Chronic pain.
Next, Dean looked up the prescribing doctor, and found he worked in Stanford's student health clinic. Dead end. Finally, he pushed back in his chair and thought. Short of stealing Sam's medical files from Stanford, the only way he was going to get more information about his brother's health was to ask him.
When he got back to the room, however, Sam had actually fallen asleep, and by the time Dean woke in the morning, Sam was gone, leaving a note, "Out walking."
Dean really wasn't in the mood for a confrontation before coffee, so he slipped off to the garage again. They'd said they could use his help all week. Sure, a day at a garage paid less than an hour at a pool table, but, with his head under a hood, he could think straight.
When Dean returned to the room, dinner in a bag, he found his brother upside-down on the floor. Both legs were extended straight overhead, and his lower back hung in the air, supported only by his shoulders and elbows.
"Hey," Dean greeted.
Sam dropped his legs slowly. "Just stretching. Back feels a lot better today, and I think I found us a job. What do you say we hit the road tomorrow morning?"
"Sam, what's really going on?"
"What? You mean with Dad?"
"No, I mean with you, and your back, and your shoulder, and everything."
"Hunting's rough, Dean. You know that."
"Yeah, but this isn't a hunting injury."
Sam just stared.
"I found the prescription bottles. You going to tell me, or should I just assume the worst?"
Sam sighed. "It all started about two years ago, right at the beginning of summer break…" Sam held nothing back in his explanation, winding up with, "So, there it is. I don't have as much endurance as I should, I have pain most of the time, but, you know, it doesn't really mean anything. I can handle the hunt, Dean. I have to." Finally Sam wound to a halt. Through the whole sorry tale, Dean had just listened, one hand in front of his face.
"And that's all the doctors could come up with. They just stop looking."
"Yes."
"Did you try different doctors?"
"Dean, I went to a couple doctors who taught at Stanford Medical School. They did tests for six months. We stopped looking because there was nothing to find."
"That's crap."
"Our lives are crap. Or hadn't you noticed?"
"There's got to be a better option out there."
"Yeah. It's called 'living with it'. Anyway, I think I found us another job."
"Sam--"
"Three disappearances in six months, all within a few hundred feet of each other. The police have nothing--"
"SAM!"
"I told you, I can do this, and I'm going to do this."
Dean dropped his hands and drew in a breath. "Where is it?"
"Rome, Georgia."
*********************************
Dressed neatly in their new suits, the Winchesters pulled up outside a police station.
"The FBI is probably already involved in this one, so what's our cover?" Sam asked.
"I'm thinking private investigators. One of the victims was from Akron, Ohio, staying at the Holiday Inn on business, and, because the police have done jack squat, we were hired by her family."
Sam frowned thoughtfully. "That works."
Dean presented a reasonably convincing Ohio PI license at the desk, and they soon met with the detective responsible for the case.
"Anna Lee. That was a strange one."
"Just tell us what you know so far," Sam smiled invitingly.
"Anna was in town on business, a small conference over at the University, on, ah, bio-informatics. She didn't rent a car. On Thursday September fifteenth, she arrived by airport shuttle and picked up her badge at the desk. Colleagues said she was at the conference all day, then went out to dinner with several other attendees. I have a list of names, but they live all over the country, some of them all over the world. She knew some of them, but none well.
"After dinner, a guy named Manuel Silva drove her back to the hotel where the conference attendees were staying. According to the hotel's computer records and security cameras, she checked in and picked up her key at 7:56. At 7:59, the card was used to open her room. At 8:04, cameras found her leaving the hotel, carrying only her pocketbook. She hasn't been seen since, and all her luggage, including her laptop, cellphone, and medication, was still in the room.
"The hotel's in a little commercial strip out by US-411. There are a couple stores within easy walking distance. No sign she entered any of them, and her credit cards haven't been used. She was reported missing by her colleagues the next day. Apparently she was scheduled to present a talk at the conference on Friday, and failing to show up was unlike her."
"So, she walked out of the hotel, looking like she was going out to buy a toothbrush or something, and she never came back, and never showed up at home." Dean summarized.
"Exactly. We questioned the hotel staff, the other guests, nothing. At this point, anyone who actually knew her is hundreds of miles from here, and we didn't have any reason to hold any of them. Local police and federal investigators in Akron looked into her friends up there. I have copies here, but none of them panned out. No boyfriend. Most of her family lived in San Francisco, but they found nothing there either."
The detective sighed and rested his chin on a fist. "You know, in a case like this, when an adult disappears and there's no evidence of foul play, we have to consider the possibility that she left of her own accord."
"Do you think that's what happened here?" Dean asked neutrally.
The detective shifted. "I can't rule it out," was all he would say on the matter.
"By the way," Dean asked, "Have there been any other disappearances from that neighborhood recently?"
They left with all three case files.
Over lunch, they sat down to read them. "So, one out-of-towner, two locals. Back in June, Angela Franklin, age fifty-six, apparently went out to buy groceries. A neighbor saw her go out, thought it was about 7:45 when she left. The car was found in the parking lot of a supermarket, but as far as police could tell, she never entered the store. In August, Mike Greenbriar, age twenty-five, gassed up his car, paid by credit card at 8:02, then walked away, leaving the door open and the keys in the ignition. The only things they have in common is that the hotel, gas station, and supermarket are all within a few hundred feet of each other, and they all disappeared right around eight PM."
"And they walked off like they were following a will 'o 'the wisp."
"But in June, eight PM, that's broad daylight."
"Could the police be wrong about the time of Angela's disappearance?"
"Maybe, but Anna and Mike were pinned down pretty precisely, and even in winter it's still pretty early for most creatures of the night."
"Okay, I don't know too many creatures that read clocks to decide when to attack. I think we're looking at a spirit."
"Violent death, near US-411, at around eight at night."
"Did you check for earlier incidents?"
"These were the only three disappearances I could find online, and there haven't been any violent deaths reported in that neighborhood in the last three years."
"None at all?"
"Well, other than one guy last year who wrapped his car around a tree at two AM with a blood alcohol level three times the legal limit."
"No, that doesn't sound too related. Why don't I drop you at the library, you can check the local news archives while I scope out that interchange."
"Why don't I go with you, and then we both work on the library later? Faster that way."
"Well, with your thing, you know…"
"What thing?" Sam asked, rubbing his shoulder absently.
"That thing, with your neck."
"You know, spending eight hours a day in a library or driving around in the car doesn't help."
"I thought it'd be easier for you…"
"You thought it'd be easier for me, if I do all the work and you take all the risks, huh? That's NOT how we're going to play this."
"Fort Ashby," was all Dean said. Sam winced at the reminder of the two days the previous week he'd spent unable to function from pain.
"I'm not going to let that happen again. And, trust me, walking around talking to people hurts less than sitting at the computer all afternoon."
Dean blinked. "Really?"
"Really."
Scoping out the scene of the crimes was a bust. The commercial strip looked exactly like hundreds of others, with four fast-food joints, five restaurant, three gas stations, two hotels, and a nail salon next to a supermarket. The EMF meter found nothing at the sight of any of the disappearances.
"Let's see what happens around eight," Dean announced.
"Well, then, we've got five hours in the library," Sam pointed out.
Dean drooped.
"With any luck, it won't take nearly that long. You look into past deaths in that neighborhood, I'll keep digging around our three victims."
Fifteen minutes into their search, Dean announced, "I've got good news and bad news."
"Oh?"
"They did a major renovation of the interchange last spring and summer. Construction disturbs spirits, which is probably why the attacks started up out of nowhere this year."
"So, the good news is we know why now, the bad news is, we might have to look a long way back to figure out how this started."
Another hour passed. Sam badly wanted to get up and stretch, but didn't want to draw attention to himself. He had to prove to Dean that he could still hunt. Still, there was no reason to be a total moron about it, so he ducked into the men's room and did his best to stretch there.
Finally Dean announced, "No one has EVER died within a mile of that spot except in traffic accidents. No one's gone missing except these three people. You find anything?"
"Ah, nothing yet, but I'm still looking."
"Take what you've found so far. It's dinnertime."
They grabbed a meal near the interchange and parked the car at the back of the lot that Angela had disappeared from. Radio on, they watched people come and go from the shops. None of them seemed inclined to march off to oblivion.
At 8:05, a strange crackle came over the previously clear station. Sam grabbed his laptop and started recording. Less than a minute later, the radio cleared up again.
"Get anything?" Dean asked.
"I think I caught the end of it. Lemme clean it up, see what's under there. You watch for people walking off."
A moment later, Sam raised a hand. "Listen."
Dean shut off the radio, and Sam turned on the recording. A distorted voice called, "Alone, alone."
"That's all?" Dean asked.
"That's all I got. We could come back tomorrow, try to record the whole thing, but it might just be more of the same."
"Well, all three of our victims were alone when they disappeared, but that's not much of a profile."
"Wait a minute." Sam put the laptop down and reached for his notepad. "Angela was a widow, her husband died just a couple years ago. I should check if the others had lost somebody."
"Okay, let's go back to the room and check through our case files," Dean replied.
It took only a few minutes to confirm that Anna's sister and Mike's girlfriend had both died recently.
"Which means," Dean grinned, "We've got a victim profile."
"Okay. I think I should go out myself tomorrow night."
"Sam, what are you talking about?"
"We've got a profile that I fit, Dean."
"Exactly, so you aren't going out there alone!"
"You know it's the best way to get info."
"We'll do it another way."
"Would you have let me be bait last week?" Sam stood up and loomed over his brother.
"That's got nothing to do with it!"
"You're just protecting me because you think I'm a cripple."
"Sam…"
"You can't even say the word. It's called 'fibromyalgia'."
"Look. Let's see if we can solve this another way. If we can't, you being bait is the backup plan."
Sam took a step back and breathed out. "Fine. Let's look again at possible origins. Any of those traffic fatalities, or, ah, a wider radius of missing persons. Maybe someone disappeared from somewhere else and died there."
"A body that was never found, that's prime material for a vengeful spirit. Look, it's too late to go back to the library. Maybe we should call it a night."
"It's nine o' clock."
"Yeah, well."
"Seriously? You gonna treat me like I'm twelve now? This is exactly why I didn't want to tell you."
"Yeah, well, you don't hide shit like that from your partner," Dean replied, now equally angry. "Can we not do this now?"
"Fine. I'm going to go for a walk. Assuming I don't get kidnapped by vengeful spirits, it'll be good for me."
"Bring a… Good." Dean interrupted himself as he saw Sam slip a pistol under his jacket, rolling his eyes at Dean's maternalism.
"I'll be back in half an hour at the most." Sam ground out. No matter how angry, they never lied about when they'd be back. It was one negative lesson from Dad they'd both taken to heart.
Sam felt reasonably well the next morning. Forcing Dean to share in the research had been the right move, as had walking and stretching before bed, and he'd managed almost four full hours of sleep. Deciding to be more civil to his brother, he went out for coffee and bagels before Dean woke.
"I broadened the search to the whole town, found a few unsolved missing persons cases," Sam announced, handing over breakfast. "Made a list."
"Anything you think is related?"
"Don't know. Still, nothing jumped out at me."
"How about car accidents at that interchange?"
"Nothing that occurred at 8:05 pm, but one had no witnesses and might have happened around that time. Pedestrian, victim of a hit-and-run."
"Hit-and-run? That could be something."
"I'll check it out," Dean offered. It didn't take long.
"We might have something here."
Sam looked up expectantly.
"In 1990, a fifteen year old girl named Mandy Richardson was killed out there, probably between seven PM and midnight, her body found on the shoulder of the Interstate. Still unsolved. No one could explain what she was doing on the side of a highway, alone, three miles from her home."
"Well. Let's look into Mandy."
*********************************
"I don't understand. Why are you guys looking into my sister's death NOW?"
"We're looking into a number of cold cases. Right now, I just want to get some idea of your sister's state of mind."
"I told the police-"
"I know, but is there anything else you can remember? Anything about where she might have been going that night? I know you were pretty young then, and it was a long time ago."
She looked down, then met Sam's eyes. "Bill. She was dating a guy named Bill. She never told our parents."
"Why not?" Sam asked neutrally.
"Because he was older. I don't know how old, but he wasn't in high school. I don't know his last name, just that she used to meet him at the pizza place after school."
"What pizza place?"
"Um, the one a few blocks north of the high school. Rosa's. I think it's still there."
"Did you ever see Bill?"
"No, never. A few days before, I think she had a fight with Dad, and he grounded her. Came home from school still angry. We got in a fight about something dumb, and I…I refused to talk to her, after.
"She left right after dinner. Told Mom she was going to her friend Karen's house next door, to work on homework, but I really didn't think so. And she took all her money out of the desk drawer. Might have been almost a hundred dollars. When she wasn't home by 9:30, Mom called Karen's house. And when Karen's mom said she'd never gotten there, Mom called the cops. They didn't find the body until morning.
"I always wondered, if I'd told them earlier…"
"Told them what?" Sam asked gently. "That she was upset? What good would that have done? Did you know where she was going?"
"No. I had no idea."
Sam placed a hand on hers. "The autopsy found that she was probably dead before your mother even called the police. There's nothing you could have done. She decided to run off somewhere, and some thoughtless person hit her with a car and couldn't be bothered even to call it in. That's all it was."
She nodded rapidly, tears shining in her eyes. "You'll let me know, if…"
"I'll let you know if we turn anything up."
"Oh, one small matter, missing from our records. Where was she buried?"
"She was cremated."
"Dammit," Dean muttered, walking out the door, "Can't we ever have an easy salt-and-burn?"
Sam ignored him. "I think we need to look into this Bill guy. I'd really like to talk to Mandy's dad, but he's dead."
"Ah. No-last-name Bill, last seen hanging around a pizza joint fifteen years ago. Yeah, I'll get right on that."
"Look. We can at least check the news reports for a few days before and after Mandy's death, see if there are any men named Bill mentioned."
Sam was no less surprised than Dean when they found it. "Check this out. Don't know how I missed it before. William Silver, aged 22, was reported missing three days before Mandy died."
"And?"
"And no one ever found him, dead or alive."
Dean leaned back in his chair and pushed out a breath. "So we've got one missing person, possibly connected to one incinerated body. And no actual proof that either of them are involved."
"That pretty much sums it up, yeah." Sam's chin dropped into his hand, and he scowled. "I think it's like Princess Ronkonkoma."
"Who?"
"Ah, classic urban legend derived from Native American legend. There are variations on it from all over the country. The one from Long Island is about Ronkonkoma. It said she fell in love with someone from a tribe her people were at war with, but they were forbidden to see one another. They lived on opposite sides of a big lake, so they swam out to meet one another. Supposedly they did meet, but both drowned. In her rage, she'd take a young man every year. There were dozens of mysterious drownings there."
"How do you know this stuff?"
"Um, Dad told both of us, back xwhen some hunter Caleb knew set her to rest?"
"Oh. Right."
"And you said star-crossed lovers were dumb. You were like, fourteen years old."
"Well, if they're killing people…"
"They're not dumb anymore?"
"Oh, they're still dumb all right, but we gotta stop them."
Sam straightened. "We could go on a scavenger hunt through Mandy's stuff, but that's always a pain, and we don't even have any real proof she's causing this. I think it's time for Plan B."
"And what if you just vanish like all the rest?"
"Well, that's not going to happen, because you're going to be watching."
*********************************
"This is the worst freaking plan I've ever heard."
"Yeah, Dean, I heard you the first five times. Now, I'm going grocery shopping. Don't wait up."
"Don't wait up my ass, kid's freaking asking to get kidnapped by a freaking spirit." Dean muttered irritably as he watched Sam walk down the highway toward the supermarket that one of the victims had vanished from. An eighteen-wheeler passed between them, followed by a fuel tanker, and when Dean's line of sight cleared, he couldn't find see his brother at all.
Frantically he dialed Sam's cell. There was no answer, and no chance of hearing the ringer over the highway noises. Dean set out at a jog, weapons bag over one shoulder, moving in the direction he'd last seen Sam go. Over and over again he called, still with no answer.
"I'm putting a damned cow bell on that kid. He is never doing this to me again," Dean muttered. He drew in a breath and thought. He has to be close. Everything happened within half a mile of this one spot. "Grid search pattern," he finished aloud. "Which I should have done before turning him loose."
The victims must have left the street when they vanished, gone in, under or behind something. They hadn't vanished in the public part of a store, either, which left… actually not that much. Basements, empty buildings, or the scrub brush behind the strip mall. Dean chose the third option, as it would probably be the easiest to search so early in the evening.
On the eighth dial, amazingly, Dean could hear the distant tinny ring of Sam's cellphone, off to his left. He sprinted through the weeds after it, finally catching up to Sam's broad frame.
Dean grabbed his brother's arm, stopping him. Sam struggled faintly, but didn't pull free. His eyes were glazed. "I have to find her."
"Find who?" Dean asked carefully.
"Jess. She's out here, all alone. I can't let her die alone."
Sam didn't seem to really be possessed, just altered. Dean could keep restraining his brother, maybe try to snap him out of it, but perhaps he should just let Sam finish the job. "Okay. We'll find her together." As a precaution, Dean closed his hand firmly around Sam's belt.
Whatever had taken over Sam's brain had an unerring sense of direction. He walked in a straight line, detouring only to avoid obstacles to big to push aside. Dean almost lost his grip when Sam ducked too closely around a young maple tree. They walked down an embankment to the shoulder of the highway, quite close to the place where Mandy had died. To Dean's surprise, Sam kept going another few hundred feet, until they reached a creek running through a culvert under the highway. When Sam started to climb into the culvert, Dean decided he'd seen enough, and stuffed a packet of salt into his brother's mouth.
Sam struggled harder at first, then blinked. "What are we doing here?"
"It was your idea, sleepwalker-boy."
"Oh." Sam puckered his lips, spitting out the salt. Dean wordlessly handed him some holy water to rinse it out with.
"What exactly did I do?"
"You took off, I almost lost you, I caught up, you said," Dean hesitated, "You said Jess was out here alone and you needed to find her. Then you started heading for that pipe down there."
Dean figured they were more or less out of sight of traffic, so he passed his brother a shotgun. Then he leaned down toward the pipe and sniffed and sniffed. "Something died down there. How much you wanna bet it's our three vics?" The water was running high through the culvert. If he hadn't caught up to Sam when he did…
Sam nodded tightly. "Okay, now what?"
As if in answer, the skies opened up with a boom of thunder.
"Now we get wet," Dean shouted back.
"I don't understand," Sam went on. "This isn't where Mandy's accident happened."
"Maybe this isn't about Mandy."
"Of course it's about Mandy," said a third voice.
The brothers jumped.
"Why else would you be talking to me? Mr. Richardson, I love your daughter very much. I want to marry her once she graduates."
A young man with spiked blond hair stood a short distance away. He was turned slightly away from them, but they could recognize the face of the long-missing William Silver. The rain did not wet his clothing or flatten his hair.
"No, I'm not going to stay away from her. She's got a mind of her own, and she's chosen me." His voice was proud and wondering.
"She's not a baby, and-- What the hell are you doing?" His voice rose to a shriek.
Dean had heard enough. "Come on, Bill, why're you still hanging around?"
For the first time, the spirit seemed to see them. "Mandy. I have to find her. I can't let her think that I abandoned her. Where is she?" The question came fast and desperate, and he moved toward Sam. Sam tried to raise his weapon, but fumbled it, and Bill moved in before he was ready. Sam flew back and slammed into a tree, and Bill glided in on top of him.
Of course, Dean had just given Sam the only weapon loaded with salt. Desperately he ran towards Bill and smacked him with the tire iron. Bill melted away, but Sam didn't move. Dean picked up the shotgun and stood over him, back to the tree.
Bill was surprisingly slow to re-form, but then, his spirit seemed more confused than angry. "Where is she?" He asked again, plaintively.
Finally Sam raised his head. Softly he answered Bill's question. "Mandy's dead. The guy who killed you is dead. You've been waiting here a very long time." Please don't ask how long, or when Mandy died.
The shade blinked. "Gone?"
"They're all gone now. Don't you think it's time you left, too?"
"But what do I do?"
"Just let go."
Lightning flashed, dazzling the hunters' eyes, and when they could see again, Bill was gone.
*********************************
"Look, I hate to say this, but we can't keep hunting this way with you..."
"Say the word, Dean."
"Fine. With you having this fibro- thing."
"So, what, now you want me to drop out of the life? Go back to Stanford? Get my apartment burned down again, maybe somebody else dies this time? Just sit back and let Dad and the thing he's hunting kill each other?"
You gladly would have before. Dean didn't say it, but the words hung in the air between them nonetheless.
Dean spread his hands, trying to ease the tension that had sprung up as soon as he started the viciously uncomfortable conversation. "I'm not saying we give up. I'm saying we cut back. Pass along most of the stuff we find to other hunters, maybe do more of the research and less of the getting ourselves beaten bloody. Take some time, get you the treatment you need."
"Well, maybe I want to work. Maybe it takes my mind off of things."
"Yeah, well maybe you can't."
Sam stared at his brother, betrayed.
"How many times have you dropped something this morning? Five, six? You think I'm blind or just stupid? I know why Bill got the jump on you the other day. Next time, it could get us both killed."
Sam pressed his lips together tightly, but held on to his temper.
"And if we get a lead on Jessica's killer?"
"I won't hold you back. But until then, you've got to start taking better care of yourself." Dean stood up and rubbed his hands together. "How often are you supposed to do your exercises?" he asked.
"Um, weight training three times a week, long stretching routine morning and night, short stretch break after every hour of sitting in one place."
"So, those 30-hour drives, where we stop only for gas and food, probably not so good for you?"
"No, not really."
"And you're supposed to take pills, you said. Anything else you need to do?"
"Um, sometimes I get injections."
"Injections with what?"
"Empty needle, actually. The doctor sticks it in a spasmed muscle, and the muscle lets go."
Dean blinked, trying to figure that one out. "And? How about sleeping?"
"That's not my damned fault, Dean."
"I get it. But you still gotta sleep sometimes."
"And when my back is so tight I can't sleep? I can't lie in a friggin' bed?" Sam hadn't meant to let that slip out.
"Actually, I had an idea about that. There's a decent chain hotel not too far from here. They've got a mini-gym and a hot tub and stuff. Figure we can check in there for a few days, get you to the point where you don't squeak louder than the car door hinges every time you move. Then we'll see what to do next."
Just like that, apparently, their fates were decided. They would slow down, and Sam would learn to take care of himself.
Sam had to admit, having a roomful of exercise machines to play with was damned useful. The stretching was good, but when his whole back locked up, the best way to release it was strength training, and his hands usually weren't up to gripping free weights. Of course, Dean was right about the hot tub, too. Very few ordinary bathtubs were big enough to soak more than about a third of Sam's body, and half the dives they stayed in, even the shower head was set too low for him to use comfortably. Being able to sit neck-deep in hot water, surrounded by jets, relaxed just about everything that the workout had missed.
Maybe Dean was right. Back at Stanford, when he was a real person, he'd slept in a decent bed, kept decent hours, and it had made a real difference to the way he felt. Maybe he wasn't fit to hunt any more. Still, he was enjoying the absence of pain too much to worry over it right then. After dinner, he took a muscle relaxant and fell into the deepest sleep he'd had in at least a week.
It was a nightmare that woke him, but this one wasn't about Jess. It had the same vivid realism that the nightmares from before her death had held, however, so as he lay there panting in the dark, he committed to memory as much as possible. A view from outside of a house at night. A woman's face at an upper story window, beating on the glass and silently screaming for help. Desperately Sam reached for anything that might help him find her, and saw only the silhouette of a bare-limbed tree next to the house.
Ready or not, the hunt had come back for him.