Fic: 'on the banks of the Wabash, far away' [part seven]
It had been a couple of days since the accident, and things had mostly settled down at home.
Dad had yelled plenty when they’d gotten home from the hospital - given Sam a lecture about going off without telling anyone, given Dean a lecture for not keeping an eye on Sam.
Dean said Dad was mad because he’d been scared, but Sam didn’t know. Seemed like Dad was pretty much just mad. Besides, Dean was always saying Dad never got scared.
Dean said a lot of things, and Sam was starting to wonder if he should believe them, wondered sometimes if even Dean believed them.
Dean had been mad too, at first, but Sam knew that was because he had been worried. Besides, Sam knew he deserved it. Dean had been more mad about Mrs Wesley coming to their home and everything. “Do you want to have to move again, Sam?” Dean had shouted. “Is that what you want?” And Sam shook his head, because no, that wasn’t what he wanted, not at all, and tears were prickling at his eyes.
He blinked them away so Dean wouldn’t see, but somehow Dean knew anyway, because Dean gave him a pat on the back and left him for a few minutes, until Sam started to feel a bit better, and then Dean came back armed with a black marker, and spent the next half hour drawing all over Sam’s cast, until every inch of it was covered - he wrote everything he could think of - his signature, stick figures, song lyrics, random shapes and designs. He’d even scribbled something on Sam’s elbow that Sam couldn’t see, no matter how much he craned his neck around.
He’d asked Nate what it said, but after Nate read it, he just sniggered and refused to explain what he was laughing at.
Sam had tried looking with a mirror, but the writing was tiny and it was angled in just the wrong position for him to read.
After Nate had stopped laughing, he had sighed. “Your brother didn’t leave any room for me to write on your cast,” he said.
Sam wondered what Nate would have written. He’d never know, though, because Nate was right. Dean hadn’t left room for anyone else.
*
Carl was out back in the workshop, so John was manning the front counter when a woman walked in. She looked around a bit uncertainly - the way she was dressed, it was pretty obvious she didn’t come to a garage very often.
“Can I help you, M’am?” asked John.
“Yes,” she said. “My name’s Elizabeth Myers, I’m here to collect my car.”
“You’re Nate’s mom,” John said, as it suddenly clicked.
“Yes,” she said, a bit wary, and then, with sudden realisation - “Oh, of course. You must be Sammy’s father. He did tell me you worked at the garage, I’m sorry, it just slipped my mind.”
She held out her hand, and John shook it, feeling clumsy and awkward. She smiled brightly at him as he handed her the keys.
“There you go,” he said. “Should be good as new.”
“Thank you,” she beamed. “I’m so glad you had it ready - Nate’s birthday party is this afternoon, and I was worried I wouldn’t have my car back by then.”
“Not a problem,” John said, awkward in the face of such gratitude.
She picked up a paper bag sitting on the back seat.
“Can you give this to Sam?” she said. “He must have left it in the car after the accident. I’m so sorry about that, by the way, I had to stay at the scene to work out insurance details, and by the time I’d got to the hospital you’d already picked up Sam. I tried to call to explain, but Nate didn’t have Sam’s number,” and she cut herself off with a laugh, “I’m sorry, I’m rambling on, and I’m running late to pick up the boys from school.”
“I’ll give this to Sam,” said John.
She honked the horn as she waved goodbye.
“Was that Elizabeth Myers?” Carl asked, emerging from the workshop at the sound of the horn.
“Yeah,” said John. “She seems a nice lady. Real grateful you got the car fixed in time for her kid’s party.”
Carl grinned. “Nate’s a great kid,” he said. “They’re such a happy family. Bit of a miracle that he’s still alive as well, considering how sick he was as a tyke.”
“What do you mean?” asked John, absently feeling the paper bag Elizabeth Myers had left for Sam. Without even opening it, he knew what was in it. John had been the one to help Sam start his collection, years ago - another little tradition to try and help Sam adjust to the idea of life on the road - but like most of John’s good intentions he’d left it by the wayside years ago, and it had been Dean who had continued reminding him to get a postcard, even (John had his suspicions) pocketing them himself from unsuspecting newsagents when money was tight.
“Kid was born with a hole in his heart, or something. Got real sick just before his first birthday, in hospital in the Intensive Care Unit. Local church was having prayer vigils every night, Elizabeth was a wreck - we all knew it was just a matter of time. But then he was suddenly better - doctors said they’d never seen anything like it.”
John shrugged uncomfortably. Stories of miracles always made him nervous, because he’d seen a lot of things he couldn’t explain, but they were very rarely good things.
*
“Please, Dean,” Sam begged, and Dean knew he’d kick himself for it later, and Dad would probably yell at him, but all he could see was the cast on Sam’s arm, and at least the kid had learnt his lesson and was asking now, instead of just taking off. Besides, surely a broken arm was enough punishment - and Dad had been really hard on Sam.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
*
Something was digging into John’s hip as he sat down in the driver’s seat. He reached a hand around and realised he’d left Sam’s postcard in his jacket pocket. He wondered what picture Sam had chosen this time, and curious, found himself sliding it out of the bag, glossy beneath his fingertips.
It was a photo of the Indiana state flag, with the motto scrawled underneath. “Indiana: Crossroads of America,” it read, and John’s hand was shaking as he pulled out the map and started searching, because the pieces were falling into place, but he didn’t like the picture that was forming, not at all.
He drove to the nearest crossroads as quickly as he could. He wasn’t even sure if this would work - Bobby would know, but although he’d been dialling Bobby’s number the whole way there, it just rang out. Hell of a time for the stubborn coot to take a holiday.
It didn’t matter though, because no sooner than he got out of the car, she spoke.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” she said.
John turned around to see a blonde woman in a black dress. She didn’t look exactly like Mary, but the resemblance was still close enough to make John uncomfortable.
“Please John, be polite. I’m doing you a favour, showing up like this. Normally, people have to jump through hoops to see me- the bones of a black cat, graveyard dirt - a bit primitive, perhaps, but effective nonetheless.”
“I didn’t come here to chat,” John interrupted, and she glared at him.
“I know exactly why you came here, John Winchester,” and he shouldn’t be surprised that she knew his name, because he had already guessed what he was dealing with here, but it still came as a shock to hear his name spat with such vehemence from a complete stranger. “You probably came here with some chivalrous notion of getting Elizabeth Myers out of her deal. And I bet you don’t even have a clue how to go about it, but you’re going to try anyway. Sound about right, John?”
When she put it like that, it did sound pretty stupid - but considering she’d pretty much read his mind, John couldn’t really argue.
“You’re too late,” she said. “Elizabeth Myers was released from her deal the day you moved to Indiana.”
“What?” asked John, genuinely bewildered - because he hadn’t had much to do with crossroads demons before, but he knew that they never willingly reneged on a deal - they had to be well and truly trapped before they would even begin negotiations, and even then they were cunning, always looking for loopholes and double-crosses and ways to screw you over.
“You heard me. Let me make this clear for you before we go any further, alright, John? I don’t like hunters, and I don’t like you.”
“Then why are you helping me?” John asked, between gritted teeth.
“Because there’s someone I hate more than you,” she hissed. “Someone who ruined everything. Snatched that tasty soul right out from under us, isn’t that right, sweetums?”
She laughed as she saw the expression on John’s face. “Relax, John, I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to them. Can’t you see them?”
And John suddenly could, watching in horror as the shadows at his feet coalesced into inky black shapes, slinking and prowling in predatory circles around his legs. They were lean, leaner than any black dog; and there was fire in their eyes and death in their razor-sharp teeth. “Yes,” she said. “These are what killed that cop - he hit his wife, you know. They were getting hungry, waiting for Elizabeth's time to be up, so I thought I'd give them a little snack. But that all changed a few weeks ago, when Elizabeth Myers sold her soul to a higher bidder, even though she knew her soul wasn't hers to sell. Of course, the new deal was conditional on luring you here to Indiana, but you were so predictable, chasing rumours of cold spells and omens all the way here. He's smart, you know. And he knows you. Unfortunately, he really messed with my plans, because Elizabeth Myers soul was mine. And now everything is out of control. You see, they were supposed to get a gourmet feast on Elizabeth Myers soul, and instead they've had to settle for scraps of souls destined for hell anyway - but just a bite, never the whole thing. This is personal now. He ruined my deal? I'm going to ruin his. That's where you come in, John.”
These were hell hounds. By all the lore he has read, they are only ever visible to those about to die, so maybe he should be more scared than he was - because John was not afraid. If she wanted to kill him, he would be dead already. Besides, this was a game, really - there are rules, and he’s followed them all, so far. She wanted to use him, he knew that now, and he’s of far more use to her dead than alive.
“A war is coming, John,” she sing-songed. “You can taste it, can’t you; you can feel it in your bones. You know, but you don’t know enough, you don’t know it all. You need to find Sam, John. He’s in danger.”
As soon as she mentioned Sam, John was already making for the car, before she had even finished talking, turning his back and striding away with sure and steady footsteps, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots. She started to sing softly as he walked away. Her voice was clear and sweet, but her words were sharp and deadly - “She’s sleeping there, my angel, Mary dear, I loved her, but she thought I didn’t mean it, still I’d give my future were she only here…”
The words, the tune, were familiar somehow, although he couldn’t quite place it; and her words were calculated to hurt, and John whirled around - because how dare she say Mary’s name, how dare she - but the crossroads were deserted once again, lit only by a pale sliver of moonlight escaping from behind the clouds.
*
“Where’s Sam?” demanded John, as soon as he walked through the doorway.
Dean glanced up from where he was seated in front of the television. “I told him he could sleep over at Nate’s house.”
“You told him what?” John barked.
Dean switched off the tv, and stood to face John. “I told him he could sleep over at Nate’s house after the party. So what? He’s been talking about it all week, asking you if he could, and you never said yes, but you never said no, either. Besides, its Nate’s birthday and Mrs Myers came by to pick them up from school specially. Apparently that’s all Nate wanted for his birthday - for Sam to sleep over. Besides, how was I to even know you were going to come home tonight, huh?”
John unconsciously curled his hands into fists, because he thought perhaps he understood now, but he had to be sure. “Dean,” he said slowly. “Nate… how old is he?”
“He just turned eleven,” replied Dean automatically. “He’s a few months older than Sammy. And - wait, Dad what’s going on?”
John was already grabbing the rifle, making plans and backups in case the plans went wrong, calculating how cold it was and how small Sammy was, and he was so caught up in that that he didn’t even realise Dean was yelling at him until he felt him grab his arm, slowing him down.
John shrugged out of Dean’s grip because he needed to get going, needed to be on the road to find Sam, but the words Dean had been yelling finally sunk in, as Dean repeated “Dad, Dad, just tell me what the hell is going on,” and Dean’s face was so worried that John had to say something, so he said it as bluntly as possible.
“It’s Nate’s mom, son. She’s going to hurt Sam.”
“Dad… I didn’t know. I swear - I didn’t know!”
And John cut him off with a curt hand gesture, because they didn’t have time for guilt - and of course John didn’t think Dean had sent Sam into danger on purpose. But that didn’t change the fact that Sam was off somewhere with a woman who a decade ago had done whatever it took to keep her son alive - and John knew all about keeping sons alive, he’d been doing it for the past fifteen years and he didn’t plan on stopping now.
*
Dad was humming something under his breath - which was so unlike Dad - and Dean recognised the tune, and despite the circumstances, he had to bite back a laugh. “Hell of a time to get patriotic, Dad,” he said.
“What?” asked Dad, distracted.
“That song. We had to listen to it in school. C’mon, you must have heard it on tv or something- state song of Indiana? ‘On the banks of the Wabash, far away’?”
Dad freezes, and then unfreezes, and he’s halfway to the Impala before Dean realised he was even moving. Dean raced to catch up, jumping in and shutting the door just as Dad peeled away from the curb with an almighty screech.
“Where are we going, Dad?” asked Dean, as they drove, the car thrumming like a mad thing beneath them. Dean was tense, uptight and jumpy, responding to the tension he could feel pouring off Dad in waves.
“To the river,” answered Dad grimly, “the Wabash river,” and he pushed the accelerator down even further as the Impala sped forward into the night, headlights piercing the fathomless darkness.
*
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