FIC: Detour [SPN x Millennium]
Okay, I meant to be posting the next chapter of Gathering Gloom here, but Mistral's Kiss has created a few...problems for me. I'll sort it out eventually, but in the mean time, here's a bit of old school meets new school ficcage to tide you over! I don't know how many of you are familiar with Millennium, but it was one of my favorite series. You don't have to know that series to follow the fic, however, as it is told from Dean Winchester's POV.
Enjoy!
Title: Detour
Fandom: Supernatural x Millennium
Disc: Kripke owns SPN, Chris Carter owns MIL
Characters: Sam, Dean, Ellen, Frank, Jordan
Timeline: Post Millennium finale, mid season two Supernatural
Word Count: 2738
Summary: Ellen points the Winchester boys to an unusual source for help.
Damn demons, they never make things easy.
Which, if Dean thought about it, he’d decide was sort of the definition of demons-and drivers license office employees, though that was a whole new level of hell involving polyester. At least demons generally avoided bad fashion. Bad fashion victims may make tasty lunch, but the creepy crawlies were usually well dressed.
Which wasn’t really the point.
They had gone around and around about their current project, but with no resolution. All of Sam’s smarts were no good when not a single one of Dad’s contacts could even guess what they were after. Dean hated the stillness between hunts, the boredom mixed with an unbearable to itch to go do something, anything, to pretend they weren’t alone.
Since their hunt appeared to be dead in the water, the Winchester boys retreated to the familiar over a pint of beer and a good brood at the Roadhouse.
Well, Sam brooded and Dean didn’t watch the way Jo’s hair swung down over her shoulder when she cleaned tables. Why not, he thought, it’s not like they were out doing anything. Better to sit there and drive Ellen up the wall by pretending to ogle her daughter. Which he was totally not doing. At all. Dean took another swig over the rim of his glass and watched Jo bend over to take another swipe.
He could hear his brother nattering on about the case to Ellen, as if she cared, in that earnest puppy dog way of his, all fluttery eyelashes and hints of bashfulness. Sammy should be ashamed of himself, if he was doing it on purpose, but Sam never did. It was just the way he was, just like Dean would always be watching for the next pretty girl to walk through that door.
The door Jo just walked out of, swishing her hips like she knew he was watching. Which he totally wasn’t.
He swirled the beer, long gone stale, and plunked the glass down as he stood.
“Well, this is a barrel of laughs, folks. How about we find something to kill?”
“It’s not like we’re not trying, Dean. We’ve searched and looked and read and called and nothing.” Sam scrunched up his nose the way he did when he thought Dean was being annoying and said, “Doing nothing sucks.”
“Tell me about it,” Dean grumbled and sat back down to the fresh beer Ellen slid across the counter.
“Are we even sure this is a demon we’re hunting? It could be like those whack jobs that hunted people for sport. They were plenty evil without the black arts.” Dean tried not to look at Sam, tried not to remember the awful panic he’d felt when Sam disappeared.
Sam didn’t seem to notice and responded, “Could be. With seven deaths in seven different states, whatever it is, it moves. Only thing in common is that symbol and the way the victims are arranged. It could be a serial killer, the normal human kind.”
“But you don’t think so, do you?” Ellen said, washing a glass. “If you thought it was a normal human serial killer then why are you here drinking my beer and checking out my daughter?”
Dean had the grace to at least smile winningly. “Because we can’t live without your charming company?”
Sam ignored him and said, “Because something feels wrong. There’s something else motivating this. I can’t explain it, it just is.”
Which was good enough reason for Dean, who was long past freaking out over visionary-possibly-telekinetic brothers.
Ellen raised a hand to trace her lip, fine lines showing at the corners of her eyes. “You know, I might have someone you should talk to.”
“Another hunter?” Sam asked, leaning forward. Dean thought if Sam was any more eager he’d actually sprout a tail and start wagging it.
“Actually, no.” Ellen looked to make sure Jo was still in the parking lot before she continued. “He was married to a friend of mine. Brilliant guy, haven’t seen him in years, but the way Catherine talked about him, he could possibly help.”
“Divorced?” Dean asked, watching Sam fish out their father’s notebook.
“No. Catherine died in that viral outbreak in the Pacific Northwest a few years ago and I sort of lost track with the family. Had a cute little girl, a few years younger than Jo.” That hard smile she always wore broke for a minute and a younger, softer Ellen looked back at them. “We knew each other when we were kids. Christmas card stuff, back when that was the thing to do. I didn’t know her husband except for seeing him at their wedding, but there’s just something about him.”
“What did he do?” Sam asked, pen poised over paper.
“He worked for the FBI.” Ellen’s dry delivery did nothing to help the flip in Dean’s stomach.
Police were not generally helpful in any meaningful way, other than declaring him dead or trying to arrest him. Sometimes both. “How can the FBI help? You know their bottom line on the things that go bump in the night,” Dean grumbled, picking at a rough splinter on the bar top.
“I said ‘worked’. He’s…retired.” Ellen paused before pulling a battered notebook from a shelf below the cash register. “Can’t hurt, can it? Here’s his number.”
“What’s his name?” Sam said, scribbling down the phone number.
“Black. His name is Frank Black.”
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
The house was neat, orderly, and cheery. A normal house on a normal street in an entirely too normal for its own good middle American town. It gave Dean the creeps. He idled the car up to the drive and looked over at Sam.
“This wig you out at all, man? I mean, how…cute.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Just be nice to the guy and try not to freak him out. He knew Ellen so maybe he’s not as clueless as most cops.”
Dean rolled his shoulders and slammed the door behind him, slowly walking up the path behind his brother. The garden was overflowing with wildflowers. It was like some woman’s jewelry had burst into life and decided to attract bees. Which is totally not a thing Dean would ever think and certainly wasn’t thinking now.
As he passed some brightly waving poppies he decided his brother was being a bad influence. Too much chic flick in his diet. He needed to go kill something quick before he started emoting.
As if Sam could hear his thoughts, his younger brother laughed. “Come on, Dean, you think it’s pretty.”
Dean just glared.
They were almost to the door when a movement from the corner of the porch caught their attention. A girl stood up from a low, stuffed couch, book in hand. She was pale and thin, with very curly dark hair. She looked at them with eyes as sad as the end of the world and twisted the book behind her back.
“He’s waiting inside.” She stepped forward, all gangly legs and almost woman, and Dean realized with a pang one day she would be gorgeous. Which is not what he was thinking at all right now, because that would make him a pervert which wasn’t cool, not to mention gross.
Sam held out his hand. “I’m Sam, and this is Dean.”
The girl took it firmly, all trace of shyness gone. “I’m Jordan. And if you hurt him I’ll make sure those ghosts that follow you will rip out your entrails. Even the pretty blonde one-Jess, is it? Her too.”
Her smile was as brilliant as the flowers on the walk as she turned to Dean. “Have a nice talk!”
Both brothers stared at her retreating back as Dean said, “So, not normal FBI then.”
Sam closed his eyes for a moment before knocking. “No, probably not.”
The man who opened the door was not what Dean was expecting. For one thing, he looked awfully old to have a fifteen year old daughter, and something in the way he stood reminded him of the way Dad walked. Like there was a great weight on him that he could not escape, and wasn’t sure if he wanted to.
“I see you’ve met my daughter, Jordan.” Frank Black smiled a little. “She has that effect on people, particularly ones who trail ghosts into my house without asking and aren’t terribly surprised at what she has to say.”
He opened the door and waved the brothers in, turning to sit in the front room overlooking the yard. “You tell me you’re friends with Ellen.”
Sam sat on the other end of the sofa. “Yes. We know her from our…work.”
Dean mentally cringed, wondering what Sam would say. The fact that Jordan seemed to know Sam collected spirits like lint fuzz on a licked lollypop was disconcerting, not to mention depressingly accurate. He gathered himself up to start spinning his story when Frank shook his head.
“I’m retired, you know. I can’t live the way I used to, not with Jordan, and it is very difficult to unsee when you have seen. So please do not come into my house and weave lies to manipulate me." In the silence, Frank Black's gaze fell on the brothers like a dead thing, heavy and brutally bleak. "You want to know of evil, and I have known evil. I have hunted it and it has left me, albeit reluctantly, to my fate. It is only because you come with Ellen’s blessing that I listen to you at all. What was precious to Catherine is precious to me, so do not waste my time.”
The man’s voice was like the rumble of the Impala at dusk, something alive on its own. Dean failed to pretend that every hair on his body hadn’t stood straight up and tried to run away, but was comforted in the fact that Sam looked just as uncomfortable.
Sam cleared his throat and fished the notebook from his pocket. “Yes, sir. We, um, hunt things.”
Frank arched an eyebrow and settled back into the couch. “I had figured that much. Even the little consulting I still do for the FBI is all about hunting something or another.”
Flustered, Sam tried again. “We’re trying to find this…thing…that we think is killing people, but we’ve run out of options. None of our usual…contacts…seem to know anything about it and some aren’t even sure it’s our usual…line of work.”
Closing his eyes, Frank nodded. “And you think that I may have some insight to your suspect? Some way to find him for you?”
“Do you?” Dean asked.
“That all depends.” Frank blinked. “Show me what you have and I’ll take a look.”
Sam spread out the newspaper clippings, copies of the symbol etched into each body, and the few police reports they’d managed to con out of the local precincts. Frank looked at each one carefully, paying particular attention to the symbol, before sighing.
“One of these people was killed about an hour away from here. Let me get my coat and we’ll go for a drive.” He stood and called, “Jordan!”
The girl appeared around the doorway, still holding her book. “Yeah, Dad?”
“I have to go out for a bit. Will you be okay at home alone?” The look he gave her made Dean miss his father like a hot poker to the shoulder. Which is something he had unfortunate experience with, he thought as he rubbed his chest.
“I’m not five, you know. I’ll be fine until you get back.” Jordan turned to Sam and said, “I didn’t mean it, the entrails thing. Jess would never hurt you.”
Sam was still sputtering as the girl walked down the hall toward the kitchen. They followed Frank out into the bright sun, and for some inexplicable reason Dean opened the door for him to sit in the backseat of the Impala. Maybe this girlie stuff was contagious, after all.
The hour’s ride passed slowly, with little conversation from their back seat rider. Frank seemed content to watch the road ride by until they were nearly at their destination.
“So why do you boys do what you do? This is an unusual line of work.”
“Family business,” Sam said, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.
Frank gave a soft snort, “It usually is. I try everything to keep Jordan out of it, but with some children there is nothing you can do. Gifts and curses aren’t all that far apart.”
Dean saw Sam’s hands clench on the notebook, a brief spasm, before his brother said, “Sometimes you get sucked back in even when you try to leave, but there’s nothing you can really do about it.”
“No,” Frank said, “There isn’t. There is no out clause for people like us.”
“What do you mean,” Dean said. “People like you?”
But Frank just smiled.
The site of the fifth murder was well picked over by the time they arrived, just an abandoned lot once again, all trace of death and destruction gone. Windswept and ragged, the small field looked like a battlefield of commercialism, with toilets vying for the best locations with refrigerators and old tires.
Frank got out of the car, slowly, and paced around the edge of the clearing. Sometimes he would stop, staring at nothing like he saw something only he could see, moving carefully so not to disturb whatever it was. Dean leaned on the hood of the car, bored, but Sam watched the older man with rapt attention.
“You’re seeing things, aren’t you? Things that happened?”
Frank looked mildly surprised, “I am. My particular…talent…comes in very handy in criminal investigations of a particular type.”
He paced back to the car, his face serious. “He is human, but he’s having help. The symbol, here and here,” he pointed on the photographs of the original crime scene, “are marks of calling. He’s timing something, a countdown, and he has two more to go. Nine, you see.”
Dean didn’t, but Sam nodded along like everything made sense.
“You’ll find his next victim in Tennessee or northern Alabama, and she’ll be about thirty years old. Probably not a mother, but married. The grief, it makes things more palatable. You have until the next new moon, and you can bind the spirit assisting him through any of the traditional Latin binding spells.”
Dean just stared, “How do you know that?”
“I see with his eyes, become what he wants to be.” Frank looked very tired for a moment, bent and aged. “It is not a comfortable gift, and thankfully Jordan’s is easier on her soul. You, however, probably have a hard time.”
Sam flinched as if struck. “How-“
“I have my ways.” Frank rested his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “In a way, you’re lucky; you have him.”
With a nod at Dean, Frank slid into the Impala, silent and still.
Dean looked at his brother and said, “What’d I tell you, Sam, the creeps.”
But Sam just gave him a sad smile and shook his head. The ride back rocked along to Black Sabbath and Poison, Dean resolutely pretending that a freaky vision-seeing dude was not sitting in the back seat having a freaky bonding moment with his not-quite-as-freaky vision-seeing brother.
He sort of managed not to obsess over the idea the whole way back, heaving a huge sigh of relief, literally, when they pulled up in front of the Black house.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Black,” Sam said, rolling down the window to talk to the other man as he stepped from the car.
“I do what I can. If you ever need help, with a case or just in general, call. Those of us in this line of work have to stick together.”
“I will,” Sam said, earnest down to his toenails. Dean just waved from the driver’s seat.
“Please give my regards to Ellen. She meant a great deal to Catherine.” Frank nodded his head. “I have to get back to my daughter. Teenagers, you know.”
The brothers nodded back and watched Frank climb the stairs to his perfect little house with the beautiful wildflowers and said nothing. Dean could just barely see Jordan watching them from the window as they drove away, her fingers wrapped around a white lace curtain. Somehow she was only slightly less frightening than her father. Figures, thought Dean. There was no doubt that they would see the Blacks again.
After all, it was a very, very small demon-filled world.
The End.
For the sequel to this story, please see Renegade [spoilers for 2x12]
Enjoy!
Title: Detour
Fandom: Supernatural x Millennium
Disc: Kripke owns SPN, Chris Carter owns MIL
Characters: Sam, Dean, Ellen, Frank, Jordan
Timeline: Post Millennium finale, mid season two Supernatural
Word Count: 2738
Summary: Ellen points the Winchester boys to an unusual source for help.
Damn demons, they never make things easy.
Which, if Dean thought about it, he’d decide was sort of the definition of demons-and drivers license office employees, though that was a whole new level of hell involving polyester. At least demons generally avoided bad fashion. Bad fashion victims may make tasty lunch, but the creepy crawlies were usually well dressed.
Which wasn’t really the point.
They had gone around and around about their current project, but with no resolution. All of Sam’s smarts were no good when not a single one of Dad’s contacts could even guess what they were after. Dean hated the stillness between hunts, the boredom mixed with an unbearable to itch to go do something, anything, to pretend they weren’t alone.
Since their hunt appeared to be dead in the water, the Winchester boys retreated to the familiar over a pint of beer and a good brood at the Roadhouse.
Well, Sam brooded and Dean didn’t watch the way Jo’s hair swung down over her shoulder when she cleaned tables. Why not, he thought, it’s not like they were out doing anything. Better to sit there and drive Ellen up the wall by pretending to ogle her daughter. Which he was totally not doing. At all. Dean took another swig over the rim of his glass and watched Jo bend over to take another swipe.
He could hear his brother nattering on about the case to Ellen, as if she cared, in that earnest puppy dog way of his, all fluttery eyelashes and hints of bashfulness. Sammy should be ashamed of himself, if he was doing it on purpose, but Sam never did. It was just the way he was, just like Dean would always be watching for the next pretty girl to walk through that door.
The door Jo just walked out of, swishing her hips like she knew he was watching. Which he totally wasn’t.
He swirled the beer, long gone stale, and plunked the glass down as he stood.
“Well, this is a barrel of laughs, folks. How about we find something to kill?”
“It’s not like we’re not trying, Dean. We’ve searched and looked and read and called and nothing.” Sam scrunched up his nose the way he did when he thought Dean was being annoying and said, “Doing nothing sucks.”
“Tell me about it,” Dean grumbled and sat back down to the fresh beer Ellen slid across the counter.
“Are we even sure this is a demon we’re hunting? It could be like those whack jobs that hunted people for sport. They were plenty evil without the black arts.” Dean tried not to look at Sam, tried not to remember the awful panic he’d felt when Sam disappeared.
Sam didn’t seem to notice and responded, “Could be. With seven deaths in seven different states, whatever it is, it moves. Only thing in common is that symbol and the way the victims are arranged. It could be a serial killer, the normal human kind.”
“But you don’t think so, do you?” Ellen said, washing a glass. “If you thought it was a normal human serial killer then why are you here drinking my beer and checking out my daughter?”
Dean had the grace to at least smile winningly. “Because we can’t live without your charming company?”
Sam ignored him and said, “Because something feels wrong. There’s something else motivating this. I can’t explain it, it just is.”
Which was good enough reason for Dean, who was long past freaking out over visionary-possibly-telekinetic brothers.
Ellen raised a hand to trace her lip, fine lines showing at the corners of her eyes. “You know, I might have someone you should talk to.”
“Another hunter?” Sam asked, leaning forward. Dean thought if Sam was any more eager he’d actually sprout a tail and start wagging it.
“Actually, no.” Ellen looked to make sure Jo was still in the parking lot before she continued. “He was married to a friend of mine. Brilliant guy, haven’t seen him in years, but the way Catherine talked about him, he could possibly help.”
“Divorced?” Dean asked, watching Sam fish out their father’s notebook.
“No. Catherine died in that viral outbreak in the Pacific Northwest a few years ago and I sort of lost track with the family. Had a cute little girl, a few years younger than Jo.” That hard smile she always wore broke for a minute and a younger, softer Ellen looked back at them. “We knew each other when we were kids. Christmas card stuff, back when that was the thing to do. I didn’t know her husband except for seeing him at their wedding, but there’s just something about him.”
“What did he do?” Sam asked, pen poised over paper.
“He worked for the FBI.” Ellen’s dry delivery did nothing to help the flip in Dean’s stomach.
Police were not generally helpful in any meaningful way, other than declaring him dead or trying to arrest him. Sometimes both. “How can the FBI help? You know their bottom line on the things that go bump in the night,” Dean grumbled, picking at a rough splinter on the bar top.
“I said ‘worked’. He’s…retired.” Ellen paused before pulling a battered notebook from a shelf below the cash register. “Can’t hurt, can it? Here’s his number.”
“What’s his name?” Sam said, scribbling down the phone number.
“Black. His name is Frank Black.”
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
The house was neat, orderly, and cheery. A normal house on a normal street in an entirely too normal for its own good middle American town. It gave Dean the creeps. He idled the car up to the drive and looked over at Sam.
“This wig you out at all, man? I mean, how…cute.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Just be nice to the guy and try not to freak him out. He knew Ellen so maybe he’s not as clueless as most cops.”
Dean rolled his shoulders and slammed the door behind him, slowly walking up the path behind his brother. The garden was overflowing with wildflowers. It was like some woman’s jewelry had burst into life and decided to attract bees. Which is totally not a thing Dean would ever think and certainly wasn’t thinking now.
As he passed some brightly waving poppies he decided his brother was being a bad influence. Too much chic flick in his diet. He needed to go kill something quick before he started emoting.
As if Sam could hear his thoughts, his younger brother laughed. “Come on, Dean, you think it’s pretty.”
Dean just glared.
They were almost to the door when a movement from the corner of the porch caught their attention. A girl stood up from a low, stuffed couch, book in hand. She was pale and thin, with very curly dark hair. She looked at them with eyes as sad as the end of the world and twisted the book behind her back.
“He’s waiting inside.” She stepped forward, all gangly legs and almost woman, and Dean realized with a pang one day she would be gorgeous. Which is not what he was thinking at all right now, because that would make him a pervert which wasn’t cool, not to mention gross.
Sam held out his hand. “I’m Sam, and this is Dean.”
The girl took it firmly, all trace of shyness gone. “I’m Jordan. And if you hurt him I’ll make sure those ghosts that follow you will rip out your entrails. Even the pretty blonde one-Jess, is it? Her too.”
Her smile was as brilliant as the flowers on the walk as she turned to Dean. “Have a nice talk!”
Both brothers stared at her retreating back as Dean said, “So, not normal FBI then.”
Sam closed his eyes for a moment before knocking. “No, probably not.”
The man who opened the door was not what Dean was expecting. For one thing, he looked awfully old to have a fifteen year old daughter, and something in the way he stood reminded him of the way Dad walked. Like there was a great weight on him that he could not escape, and wasn’t sure if he wanted to.
“I see you’ve met my daughter, Jordan.” Frank Black smiled a little. “She has that effect on people, particularly ones who trail ghosts into my house without asking and aren’t terribly surprised at what she has to say.”
He opened the door and waved the brothers in, turning to sit in the front room overlooking the yard. “You tell me you’re friends with Ellen.”
Sam sat on the other end of the sofa. “Yes. We know her from our…work.”
Dean mentally cringed, wondering what Sam would say. The fact that Jordan seemed to know Sam collected spirits like lint fuzz on a licked lollypop was disconcerting, not to mention depressingly accurate. He gathered himself up to start spinning his story when Frank shook his head.
“I’m retired, you know. I can’t live the way I used to, not with Jordan, and it is very difficult to unsee when you have seen. So please do not come into my house and weave lies to manipulate me." In the silence, Frank Black's gaze fell on the brothers like a dead thing, heavy and brutally bleak. "You want to know of evil, and I have known evil. I have hunted it and it has left me, albeit reluctantly, to my fate. It is only because you come with Ellen’s blessing that I listen to you at all. What was precious to Catherine is precious to me, so do not waste my time.”
The man’s voice was like the rumble of the Impala at dusk, something alive on its own. Dean failed to pretend that every hair on his body hadn’t stood straight up and tried to run away, but was comforted in the fact that Sam looked just as uncomfortable.
Sam cleared his throat and fished the notebook from his pocket. “Yes, sir. We, um, hunt things.”
Frank arched an eyebrow and settled back into the couch. “I had figured that much. Even the little consulting I still do for the FBI is all about hunting something or another.”
Flustered, Sam tried again. “We’re trying to find this…thing…that we think is killing people, but we’ve run out of options. None of our usual…contacts…seem to know anything about it and some aren’t even sure it’s our usual…line of work.”
Closing his eyes, Frank nodded. “And you think that I may have some insight to your suspect? Some way to find him for you?”
“Do you?” Dean asked.
“That all depends.” Frank blinked. “Show me what you have and I’ll take a look.”
Sam spread out the newspaper clippings, copies of the symbol etched into each body, and the few police reports they’d managed to con out of the local precincts. Frank looked at each one carefully, paying particular attention to the symbol, before sighing.
“One of these people was killed about an hour away from here. Let me get my coat and we’ll go for a drive.” He stood and called, “Jordan!”
The girl appeared around the doorway, still holding her book. “Yeah, Dad?”
“I have to go out for a bit. Will you be okay at home alone?” The look he gave her made Dean miss his father like a hot poker to the shoulder. Which is something he had unfortunate experience with, he thought as he rubbed his chest.
“I’m not five, you know. I’ll be fine until you get back.” Jordan turned to Sam and said, “I didn’t mean it, the entrails thing. Jess would never hurt you.”
Sam was still sputtering as the girl walked down the hall toward the kitchen. They followed Frank out into the bright sun, and for some inexplicable reason Dean opened the door for him to sit in the backseat of the Impala. Maybe this girlie stuff was contagious, after all.
The hour’s ride passed slowly, with little conversation from their back seat rider. Frank seemed content to watch the road ride by until they were nearly at their destination.
“So why do you boys do what you do? This is an unusual line of work.”
“Family business,” Sam said, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.
Frank gave a soft snort, “It usually is. I try everything to keep Jordan out of it, but with some children there is nothing you can do. Gifts and curses aren’t all that far apart.”
Dean saw Sam’s hands clench on the notebook, a brief spasm, before his brother said, “Sometimes you get sucked back in even when you try to leave, but there’s nothing you can really do about it.”
“No,” Frank said, “There isn’t. There is no out clause for people like us.”
“What do you mean,” Dean said. “People like you?”
But Frank just smiled.
The site of the fifth murder was well picked over by the time they arrived, just an abandoned lot once again, all trace of death and destruction gone. Windswept and ragged, the small field looked like a battlefield of commercialism, with toilets vying for the best locations with refrigerators and old tires.
Frank got out of the car, slowly, and paced around the edge of the clearing. Sometimes he would stop, staring at nothing like he saw something only he could see, moving carefully so not to disturb whatever it was. Dean leaned on the hood of the car, bored, but Sam watched the older man with rapt attention.
“You’re seeing things, aren’t you? Things that happened?”
Frank looked mildly surprised, “I am. My particular…talent…comes in very handy in criminal investigations of a particular type.”
He paced back to the car, his face serious. “He is human, but he’s having help. The symbol, here and here,” he pointed on the photographs of the original crime scene, “are marks of calling. He’s timing something, a countdown, and he has two more to go. Nine, you see.”
Dean didn’t, but Sam nodded along like everything made sense.
“You’ll find his next victim in Tennessee or northern Alabama, and she’ll be about thirty years old. Probably not a mother, but married. The grief, it makes things more palatable. You have until the next new moon, and you can bind the spirit assisting him through any of the traditional Latin binding spells.”
Dean just stared, “How do you know that?”
“I see with his eyes, become what he wants to be.” Frank looked very tired for a moment, bent and aged. “It is not a comfortable gift, and thankfully Jordan’s is easier on her soul. You, however, probably have a hard time.”
Sam flinched as if struck. “How-“
“I have my ways.” Frank rested his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “In a way, you’re lucky; you have him.”
With a nod at Dean, Frank slid into the Impala, silent and still.
Dean looked at his brother and said, “What’d I tell you, Sam, the creeps.”
But Sam just gave him a sad smile and shook his head. The ride back rocked along to Black Sabbath and Poison, Dean resolutely pretending that a freaky vision-seeing dude was not sitting in the back seat having a freaky bonding moment with his not-quite-as-freaky vision-seeing brother.
He sort of managed not to obsess over the idea the whole way back, heaving a huge sigh of relief, literally, when they pulled up in front of the Black house.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Black,” Sam said, rolling down the window to talk to the other man as he stepped from the car.
“I do what I can. If you ever need help, with a case or just in general, call. Those of us in this line of work have to stick together.”
“I will,” Sam said, earnest down to his toenails. Dean just waved from the driver’s seat.
“Please give my regards to Ellen. She meant a great deal to Catherine.” Frank nodded his head. “I have to get back to my daughter. Teenagers, you know.”
The brothers nodded back and watched Frank climb the stairs to his perfect little house with the beautiful wildflowers and said nothing. Dean could just barely see Jordan watching them from the window as they drove away, her fingers wrapped around a white lace curtain. Somehow she was only slightly less frightening than her father. Figures, thought Dean. There was no doubt that they would see the Blacks again.
After all, it was a very, very small demon-filled world.
The End.
For the sequel to this story, please see Renegade [spoilers for 2x12]