fic: the sharpness of the outline (7/9)
Title: The Sharpness of the Outline
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: R - for strong language and content
Pairing: none (gen) Dean, Sam, John
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
SPOILERS: through 3X07
Summary: There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic. - Anaïs Nin
A/N: This story serves as my Sweet Charity fic for a_starfish Thanks to quellefromage for eyes and ears on this - I didn’t give her much time with it, so typos, grammar crap, or flying plot-holes still remaining are all my fault. Those interested can read Their Appointed Rounds which serves as a companion to this fic, though it's not necessary to do so. Special tip of the hat to smilla02 for the wonderful icons.
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there. - Jalal ad-Din Rumi
Outside Phoenix, Arizona - 2002
He was elbows up to a plate of carnitas and chili rellenos, thick homemade tortillas, beans and beans and beans, Cyrus was across from him, licking a line of salsa up the side of his hand. “Dude. Have some manners,” Dean chided around his mouthful of skirt steak. Now he knew how Sam probably felt all those years, not that it was any great crown to be king of etiquette in a bar full of dusty cowhands who stank like manure.
Cyrus chuckled, took a slug of beer to wash down the food. “You been in a foul, pissy little spot lately, hey, Crip?” the man drawled.
The moniker had stuck, even though Dean was no longer sporting a cast; when a bull man tells you to get your hand outta the chute, you get your hand outta the chute. His left wrist was bound with an ACE wrap that crossed his palm and climbed back up his forearm, an inch of sun-starved skin extending past the reach of the bandage on either end. The white ridge of knuckles on the back of his hand stood in sharp contrast to his tanned fingers.
“You going sensitive cowboy on me?” Cy asked with a chuckle.
Dean glanced up, gave him a small smile. He’d liked the man straight away. Cyrus was a few years older, funny and tough. Didn’t pull any punches. He was the one who’d taught Dean the ropes - literally and figuratively - when he’d started at the ranch, and he found a comfort in the man’s guidance.
Most nights, Dean’d take a ride for a beer with anybody who had room in their truck, play the part of the cocky drinking pal with a few good stories to tell. But Cyrus’s company didn’t require the show, and the two had made a sort of tradition of paycheck night: an easy quiet dinner at Anita’s Cantina, and enough beer and tequila to make them forget the fortnight.
Dean shifted in the vinyl booth, dragged a tear of tortilla through the mud of his refried beans. “I dunno, man. I just feel…antsy.” He folded the bite into his mouth, chased it with a swallow of lime-tinged brew.
Cyrus nodded, shrugged, worked a paper napkin through his fingers. “Happens,” he said.
They chewed and swallowed, moved things around their plates.
“Guys do the work we do? Special breed,” Cyrus said, like it was apropos of nothing. “Got the wanderlust in our genes. Maybe even writ onna inside part of us. When the wind blows, you gotta trust it’s blowin’ in the right direction.”
Dean stared at him for a beat. “Who’s goin’ sensitive cowboy on who?”
Cyrus blushed, snorted a laugh and a “Fuck you,” just as Dean’s cell rang.
It was rare he got a call; he carried the phone more out of habit than hope these days. So it was a bit of a surprise on all fronts when he saw the caller ID. “Shit.”
The corners of Cy’s mouth pulled down in a grimace, and the weathered skin around his eyes crinkled. “‘S it little Suzy Fuckpants, from the rodeo last week?”
“It’s my dad,” Dean said softly, Cy’s jibe falling short by a country mile.
“Oh, shit…” the cowboy said.
They’d shared a number of John Winchester v. Cyrus Breakstone, Sr. stories. The weight of the air around both men grew heavy, and the phone continued its tinny anthem.
“You gonna answer it?” Cy asked nervously.
“I dunno,” Dean said.
The ringtone cut out, making the decision for him. He stared at the phone for a second, then set it on the table. He slid his half-finished plate to the side; the food wouldn’t taste like anything anymore.
“How long since you talked to ‘im?” Cyrus asked.
Dean’s hand buffed absently across his left cheekbone, vision on that side becoming milky and fluid for a moment. He shrugged and blew out a long, slow breath. “Better parta seven months.”
The phone double chirped, indicating a message, and Dean startled at the sound. He hated himself for the tiny anxious wheel set to spinning in his stomach - all to hear his dad’s voice, a possibility to connect.
Cy poured tequila into one of the empty shot glasses, slid the liquid courage across the table top. Dean performed the shot by rote, sucked back the agave without a grimace. He palmed the cell phone and slid from the booth. His feet were steadier than he’d anticipated.
“Be right back,” he said, and headed for the door, dialing his message box as he wound his way through smoke and juke noise, tables full with chowing, laughing cowhands.
The night was cool and clear, breeze lifting drifts of orange dirt across the hardpack lot of the Cantina. Dean punched his way past the menu and lifted the cell to his ear.
‘Dean. I need you on a job. Call me.’ There was a long beat of silence - a pause that made Dean’s heart stutter - before a muffled scuff of beard and a click.
‘You have no more messages,’ an automated voice informed him.
His first instinct was to fling the phone across the width of the parking lot, land it on the two-lane where a parade of Chevy pick-ups might crush it into oblivion. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he yelled across the dark lot. “Motherfucker! Fuck me.”
He fisted his left hand and squeezed so hard he thought his fresh-healed wrist might snap again. He pounded a heel against the dirt and took a quick pace, jaw clamped down like a weasel on a snake.
A couple of hands from the ranch dusted past him; one tipped his hat and grinned. “Girl trouble, Crip?” he teased.
Dean served him a smirk, and the other cowboy chuckled and cooed like a love bird. When they slapped through the screen door, Dean cruised to the quieter side of the building and hit the call return on his cell. His dad answered before the first ring could finish.
‘Dean.’
“Yeah,” he replied, tight and clipped.
‘I need you in Washington. How soon can you get here?’
He could make a million excuses, but none of them would pass muster. When John Winchester said jump, Dean - goddamnit! - was programmed to ask how high, even when he was standing at the edge of a cliff.
‘Dean? You there?’
“Yeah. I’m here.”
‘Look, I-- There’s no other go-to on this, son.’
Which meant Dean was at the top of a very short list, or at rock bottom of another.
‘I need you here.’
The phrase strummed a bass string deep in his belly. Dean needed things himself - wanted even more - but he’d learned to live miserly. A skein of brush tumbled past in the parking lot, pinballing off the dusty rims and wheels of half a dozen pick-ups, and he scrubbed his left hand down his face. “It’s payday. I’ve had a few drinks,” he said, and tried to not make it sound like an apology.
John responded with a slow, dangling ‘All right…’
Dean was going to have another drink - maybe two - as soon as he hung up, but he didn’t tell his dad that. “I need a few hours to pack. Sober up.”
‘The sooner the better. Call me when you’re halfway, I’ll text you my coordinates.’
There was a sharp disconnect on his dad’s end, but the cell stayed at Dean’s ear a few seconds longer. He was chewing the inside of his cheek, boggling at how rapidly the decision had been made.
Again.
Guys do the work we do? Special breed… Maybe even writ onna inside part of us.
Seven months, not a word from his dad, and in the span of a minute, Dean had fallen into step like a foot soldier. No matter how far he roamed, the inroads of Sam and John were deep-rutted paths inside him no amount of time or savage weed could overgrow. He rubbed a blow of grit from his eye, and walked slowly back to the entrance of Anita’s, cell still warm in his palm. He got to the table just as Cyrus was pouring himself some tequila. “I’ll take one of those.”
Cy glanced up, gave a nod, and let the liquid flow into a second glass. “So?” he asked, once Dean had settled back into the booth.
Dean quick-cocked his chin to the left and back, neck popping lock, stock, and barrel. “Like you said, Cyrus. The wanderlust is in our genes.” He knocked back the shot of tequila. “I guess the wind’s blowin’.”
* * *
Bellingham, Washington - 2007
Dean was working a lump of cheese from the pizza box when Sam’s laptop pinged. “‘Bout time,” he grumbled, shoving a wad of half dairy product/half cardboard into his mouth. He grabbed for the computer before Sam could wipe the grease from his own fingers.
“Dude!”
Dean mashed at the keyboard. “Whadju, change your password?” he asked around his cheese cud. “Whatsit? Somethin’ like pretty princess pony, now?”
Jimmy chuckled into his napkin and Cheryl rolled her eyes, clinking together a few of the empty beer bottles and making a pass to the kitchen recycle bin.
“Dude, just--” Sam slapped at Dean’s hands and pulled away the laptop. “I got it, okay?”
Jimmy scrubbed at his chin, leaned back in his chair. “So, this Bobby? You think he can help?”
Dean watched Sam click-clack into his email. “If anybody can, at this point, it’s him. Saved our bacon more than a few times. Guy’s got a library that rivals the Vatican.”
“Yeah, it’s from Bobby,” Sam said, fingers swirling on the thumb pad. “Um, lemme see…”
Dean rubbed absently at his left brow; he had a hell of a headache brewing, chalked it up to stress. He really hoped Bobby’d come through. He didn’t know how to move forward until they’d unraveled what they had: the bones and the symbol, Lummi and Callham, Sammy and the special kids.
“Okay,” Sam said, rubbing his hands together. “There’s, like, fifty attachments here. Jesus, Bobby. Um…he says he thinks he found the symbol, if not something really close. Native American, First Nations.” He glanced up at Dean. “Underworld stuff. Could be dealing with some serious hoodoo…”
Dean gave him a curt nod, rolled his hand.
Sam’s eyes went back to the email, head cocking left as he scrolled. “Some history on the island, looks like some legal documents attached to Callham…and a Dilbert cartoon he evidently found amusing,” Sam said with a quirk of his lips.
“So, what’s the plan? What happens next?” Jimmy asked.
Dean’s beer bottle popped off his lips with a wet smack, and he swallowed. “I’m thinkin’ you brainiacs start in on the stuff Bobby sent, try to figure out what fits where, and I’ll head back to Lummi in the morning, talk to the locals, get a better lay of that land.”
“No,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You’re not going back alone.”
“I’m not talkin’ about the dig site. I’m just gonna cruise around town, buy a beer or two, and see if anybody’s lips loosen up. Try to find out what’s goin’ on.”
Cheryl sat back down, scooting close to Jimmy. “You think that’s wise?”
“I think that’s a really bad idea,” said Sam, eyes ignoring the laptop in favor of Dean.
“Yeah, I dunno,” Jimmy started.
Dean held up his hand, quieting everyone. “Listen. What happened out there today? That was-- That’s not gonna happen again.”
“How do you know?” Sam asked pointedly.
“I don’t. But I have a pretty good sense it won’t.” He gave his brother a look that said what his mouth refused to say, what they’d both been thinking just under the surface; it was about Sam.
It was always about Sam.
“You wanna share with the class?” Jimmy asked, leaning in. Cheryl’s hand slipped forward and covered his, fingers working nervously.
Dean glanced quick between the entwined couple and Sam. His brother gave him a pained, almost imperceptible shake of the head, and Dean answered it with a tip of his chin. His eyes still on Sam, he asked, “Before Tabby-- Before. Did Tabby ever…”
Sam’s eyes dipped to the table, and he shifted in his chair.
Dean turned his attention to Jimmy and Cheryl on the other side of the table. “Did she have dreams? Especially vivid ones?” he finished.
Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Headaches, maybe, that she complained about? Trouble sleeping?” Dean watched as Jimmy’s confusion gave way to wariness. “What are you drivin’ at?” he asked.
Dean’s jaw tightened. He addressed Jimmy squarely, hands palm-up in an open gesture. “You said we should be honest, right?” His brows rose. “Said it’s gonna work out better for everyone - safer for everyone - if we lay it all out.”
Jimmy nodded slightly, lips sealed tight.
Sam was straight as a board in his chair, face clouded with hurt and guilt and despair. “Dean, I don’t think you should--”
“When your wife died, Tabby’s mom, you called our dad.”
Jimmy stared a while at the table, sniffed deep, then lifted his head and cast his focus on the wall behind Dean. “When I told you before your dad saved my life, more than once, I wasn’t lyin’. After the fire, after Carey--” Jimmy’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling - a split-second of movement that spoke volumes to Dean and Sam. “Seein’ her like that? I didn’t know what else to do. I felt crazy. Dead inside. So, yeah. I called your dad,” he finished, and his eyes finally came to rest on Dean.
“And he came out here,” Dean supplied.
“Yeah.”
“What’d he tell you, Jimmy?”
Jimmy’s eyes drifted between the brothers, made cursory contact, then wandered into the shadows of the cabin again. “First thing he told me was, I wasn’t crazy. Said he believed me, because he’d seen the same thing when Mary died.” Cheryl’s hand gripped Jimmy’s tighter, and he rocked in his chair, shuffled his feet. “I thought he was crazy himself for a bit, there, when he told me what he thought was goin’ on.”
“Which was?” Dean asked, bitter edge of the question apparent. Who knew what else their dad had withheld, considering what had come to light since they arrived in Bellingham? Sam shot him a look, but Dean ignored it.
Jimmy blew out a breath, shook his head lightly. “You gotta understand, I’d just lost my wife. Tabby was a little baby. Our home was destroyed… When your dad started babbling about some dark figure, and these other nursery fires--”
Dean’s posture went stiff. “He knew about other fires?”
His angry fluster was hampering his math abilities, but Dean powered through; by his figuring - with what Jimmy was saying? - their dad was on to something other than blind revenge as early as two years after the YED had killed their mom. Maybe he’d even known something about Sam, then, too.
“He had all this research. Seemed like a mess to me at the time, but, yeah,” Jimmy gave a slow, bobbing nod, “three or four other fires, all when the babies were six months old.”
“What else?” Dean asked, reins straining against the storm brewing inside.
When they’d first encountered Max and Andy and Ava, and Sam had started piecing together the information about the special kids, Dean had tried to deny it. He’d shut out his memories of the Maltby vision and told his brother he was crazy - that there was no design to the lines being drawn and connected - but it didn’t seem as easy to dismiss anymore.
Jimmy’s mouth screwed up, like the words he was preparing were distasteful. “John said that something so…deliberate and specific…” He looked up, sorrow plain on his face. “He said, ‘Evil draws up outlines, too, Jimmy.’ He said the random fires - the moms all sacrificed, the children saved - he said it had to mean something, had to be some part of a bigger plan.”
“Did he ever…mention a demon?” Sam asked quietly, and the question shot a surge of hot electricity up Dean’s spine.
Cheryl took in an audible breath, and Jimmy shook his head.
“No,” he said plainly.
Sam pulled at his bottom lip, and Dean leaned forward. Planted his forearms on the table, hands in tight fists. “Dad traced everything to a…a yellow-eyed demon,” he said apologetically. No matter the facts, it was always a little surreal to say things like that to people who weren’t actual hunters. “His name was Azazel. A high ranker in Hell’s upper echelon. He was hand-picking kids - special kids - for an army to--”
Jimmy shoved back violently from the table and rose, face piqued, pointing at Dean. “What are you sayin’ about my little girl? You sayin’ Tabby was some kind of freak? Some…monster?”
It was a belligerent - though understandable - mix of anger and fear, and Dean watched as Sam folded in on himself a little.
“No. No, I’m not sayin’ that at all, Jimmy. None of these kids had a say in bein’ chosen. None of them.” The reassurance was as much for himself and his brother as it was for Jimmy and Cheryl.
“Oh, Sam…” Cheryl breathed with quick, sorrowful clarity, and her hand went to her mouth.
It clicked with Jimmy then, too. “Oh, shit. Jesus. Sam, I didn’t--”
Sam shook his head, whispered “It’s okay…”
They were all silent for a few moments, collectively sieving the information newly dumped in their laps. Dean worked furiously; his only hope at plowing forward lay in straight and organized furrows of fact, minus emotion.
“You said ‘was,’” Cheryl chirped suddenly.
“Huh?”
She glanced at Jimmy, then back to Dean. “When you were talking about the…demon. You said ‘was.’”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “He’s, uh, outta the picture.”
“Dead?” Jimmy asked them, clearly unsure if that was the right term.
Dean tipped his temple in confirmation.
“But you think all this…” Jimmy waved his hand absently at the scatter of research on the table, “You think this is connected to…it, somehow?”
“Yeah,” said Sam. “Maybe.”
“This demon was assembling an army. Choosing kids with…abilities,” Dean said with a glance at his brother, “Psychics, telekenetics--”
“Our research--” Sam started, then stopped abruptly, hands fisting on the tabletop. “I-- Tabby might have been aware that…she was different,” he finished, eyes pinned down, and face red.
Dean’s jaw clenched with guilt and shame when Cheryl rose and crossed to Sam. Her hand brushed over his brother’s hair and landed on his ruddy cheeks; a tear breached his pinched lids. Dean envied the attention from Cheryl - the motherly care and caress - but envied most the ease with which it was offered. He wished he knew how to soothe so freely and so well.
Instead, he and Jimmy stared awkwardly at their hands while Cheryl worked her maternal magic on Sam. She held him as he sucked in, then heaved out, a huge breath. She cooed and whispered words Dean couldn’t make out, until Sam’s breathing evened, and he twitched self-consciously. He could see plainly why Jimmy loved her; Cheryl was good, pulled away from Sam and straightened, one hand lingering to ghost comfort across his shoulders.
Haltingly at first, Dean laid most of their remaining cards on the table. Like the best of sharps, he played the gruesome and personal close to the vest: he told about how Sam’s visions had started; meager details of their first meeting with the YED, and how that had shaken out; he skirted around the wreckage of losing their dad; completely avoided Sam’s temporary demise; didn’t go near the Crossroads. Jimmy and Cheryl got the gyst just fine, he figured, without all the painful details.
At the onset of a much deserved lull in the information unload, Cheryl slapped her hands on her thighs, blew out a breath, and shook her head through a long, tight blink. “Okay. Well,” she said on an exhale, “I think that’s enough revelation for me for one night.” She looked at her watch. “I’m to that point where I either go to bed, or start drinking heavily, and I’ve got a 5:30am call at the volunteer clinic tomorrow, so that decides it.”
“Aw, shit, sweetie,” Jimmy blushed. “I totally forgot.”
“That’s all right,” she said. She stood, then pushed in her chair. “I don’t think I’ll be much help at this point. My head’s in a bit of a spin.”
“You’ve helped a lot. More than you know,” Sam said, and she blushed.
Dean nodded, but kept silent.
Cheryl crossed to Jimmy, gave him a long, strong hug and a kiss on his neck, just below his scruffy beard. “If you do that heavy drinking,” she warned, hand resting on his chest, “you stay here with the boys. I don’t want you out on the road.”
“We’ll make sure he doesn’t get in any trouble,” Dean promised, and found he really meant it.
“I know you will,” Cheryl replied, with just as much conviction.
The trust made Dean shiver.
“You keep yourself and your brother safe, too. No more bullfighting or chair tipping,” she said with a wink.
“Yes, ma’am,” all three men delivered in unison.
Once she was out the door - proper goodbyes, hugs, repeated admonitions and teasing - they got out a bottle of Jack and got down to business.
“So, what’s Bobby say about the symbol?” Dean asked, pouring a rich inch of bourbon into each of three jelly jars. “What’s it supposed to mean?”
Sam’s face flashed blue when he rewoke the laptap with a caress of the thumbpad. “Okay, well, best as he can guess, the two parallel horizontal lines? Those represent the plains of Heaven and Hell, or whatever the dogmatic First Nations equivalency is. And the lightning bolt going through both is, like, a joining, the lightning bolt being a symbol for great power, or great magic.”
“Okay,” Dean said with a roll of his hand. Jimmy nodded to show he was following so far.
Sam blew out a breath, then continued. “The circle above could be man, and the hoof shape below could be the devil,” he shook his head, “but in a polytheistic society - I mean, if the symbol’s Chinook- that’d be a pretty literal translation on our part, not to mention being flat out xenocentric.”
Dean cleared his throat and shot an annoyed look at Sam. “Yeah, so, setting aside your word-of-the-day calendar, what’s another interpretation?”
Jimmy sniggered, and Sam shot Dean a slightly annoyed look. “You wanna be research monkey on this?”
“Just…get your geek on, dude. With a less-Ivy League vocabulary, okay?”
Sam ran his hands through his hair and blew out a breath. “I dunno, I’m just thinkin’… I mean, okay. If the symbol is First Nations - Chinook - maybe we should be looking at it literally, but from a different view point, you know? Like,” Sam shuffled through the stack of research on the table, pulled out a sketch of the symbol, “like, these lines could maybe be plains,” Sam said, tracing the two parallel lines with a fingertip, “our world and the underworld.”
“Okay,” Dean said, and Jimmy nodded along.
“The jagged line, the lightning bolt? Could represent a bridge between them.” Sam tapped the paper. “Up above, here, the circle represents man, and the hoof shape underneath might mean animal…beast.”
“All right,” said Dean, rubbing his chin, “I see what you did there…”
“So then, what’s the significance of it being carved on the skulls? What would it mean?” Jimmy asked.
“Well, if Einstein here is right,” Dean said and leaned back in his chair, “a symbol like this wouldn’t be a ward, but a…like, a binding link. Somethin’ to connect a soul or an entity to a vessel. Maybe even trap it.”
Sam nodded and blew out a breath. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”
“But…who--? Why would--?” Jimmy shook his head, hand running over his scalp.
“If we go by the legend, the stories about Callham… The guy was making a ton of money in real estate and construction, right? Doing well when just a handful of other guys were,” Sam said, figuring aloud. “Maybe he had a little otherworldly career assistance.”
Dean’s lips duck-billed, and he tipped his temple.
“Like…a deal with the devil?” Jimmy asked.
“Or a demon,” said Sam.
Dean chimed quietly, “It happens.”
Jimmy shook his head, took a slug of whiskey.
“Okay. So. Callham makes some kind of deal,” Sam continued. “He gets power and wealth--”
“And in return, has to gank a few souls for Hell’s piggy bank,” Dean finished. He knocked back the remaining Jack in his glass and poured himself another.
“The skulls,” Sam said. “Callham’s wife and daughters--” He lifted a hand and fluttered fingers at this forehead, “did they have the symbol, too?”
Dean shook his head. “I got no idea what dad saw. I never got a real look.”
Sam’s hand traveled to his mouth, thumb and index back to pinching at his lower lip.
“I’m guessin’ their murders were just a bonus. You know, family: make ‘em useful,” Dean said with a coat of sarcasm. “My run-in with ‘em? They seemed pretty pissed. I don’t think they were bound to anything but revenge.”
Jimmy scratched at his chin. “So we need to figure out why--”
“Nope,” Dean interrupted, “just who and how. And we need to find Callham’s bones.”
“Yeah,” agreed Sam, sounding tired and defeated.
“You’re kidding, right?” Jimmy asked, jelly glass stopping midway to his mouth. He set his drink back on the table. “Even if we knew for sure he died on Lummi, what’re we gonna do, dig up the whole island?”
“Life’s hilarious like that sometimes, isn’t it?” Dean grumbled. He stretched his arms above his head and jutted his chin at Sam. “Bobby find anything else we can use?”
Sam tapped and scrolled behind the laptop, scratched the back of his head and scrolled and tapped again. “Hang on…”
“What?” Dean asked.
“Callham’s house.”
“Oh, shit…” Jimmy said like a whistle.
“What?” Dean repeated.
“It’s still around.” Sam pointed to the laptop, twirled his finger. “Bobby attached a scan of an old bank lein, some deeds, probate papers. If this info’s right,” he said, looking up, “the place may have been untouched since Callham left it.”
“That’s as good a lead as any,” Dean responded.
Jimmy rubbed a hand through his hair. “Jesus, guys. I’m sorry. I completely forgot about the old Callham place.”
“You’re gettin’ awful forgetful in your old age,” Dean teased.
“Yeah, well, I still remember how to kill a man forty-seven different ways with nothin’ but a Bic pen, so watch yourself,” Jimmy fired back with a put-on smirk.
Dean knocked back the remaining half-inch of Jack in his glass, scrubbed a hand down his face. “Okay, here’s what I’m thinkin’… You two head to Callham’s place tomorrow, sift through the stuff Bobby’s sent, and I hit the high seas, see what Lummi has to give up.”
Sam blew out a breath. “I still don’t like the idea of you going there alone.”
“Well, I don’t like any of this, so I guess that makes us even,” he said, and pushed back from the table. He was suddenly exhausted - all the lies and deception, the backstage planning and scheming, demons and deals and death. He felt raw. Used. He wondered if Sam and Jimmy felt duped, like he did; all John Winchester’s affection and trust, applied as a means to an end. “I’m feelin’ about as creaky as the Tin Man right now, so I’m callin’ it a night. Nine-thirty an okay time for you tomorrow, Jimmy?”
The man looked sheepishly between Sam and Dean. “Sure. Nine-thirty…”
“Sam?” Dean asked, gruff challenge in his voice. “Or do you need more beauty sleep than that?”
“No. Fine,” Sam said, tight-lipped. “Nine-thirty.”
* * *
“It looks like shit out there,” Sam said from the cabin’s small front window when Dean finally wrenched himself from the warmth of the covers.
His shoulders ached from the prior evening’s wood-chopping frenzy, and Dean let out a low moan as he pushed himself off the couch and free of the tangle of blankets. He could smell coffee, just couldn’t find it in the mess of last night’s strategy session. “Looks like shit in here. Where’s the joe?”
“Percolator’s full,” Sam said, pointing with a steaming mug.
Dean stumble-thudded toward the kitchen, and Sam closed the distance.
“I’m thinkin’ we should maybe reassess the plan for today.”
Dean was feeling numb and thick-headed; maybe he’d rapped his cheek on the table a little harder than he thought, maybe it was the beer, or just the fucking weight of every lie and truth uncovered last night. The last thing he needed was his brother over-thinking things. “Dude. You gotta gimme five minutes.”
“I’m just saying,” Sam said, an anxious jig-of-sorts bringing him to the counter across from Dean, “the weather’s for shit, and so’s the forecast. The bay was choppy before, it’s gonna be a lot worse today. Hold off on Lummi until tomorrow, come to Callham’s place with me and Jimmy.”
Dean blew once across the steaming brew in his cup, then took a painful, eye-opening gulp that burned all the way down. He let out a guttural ‘hhhhhhhhhhhhheh…’ as he shuffled toward the bathroom.
“Dude, what-- Where’re you going?” Sam stuttered.
“Has it been five minutes?” he asked without turning. “I don’t think it’s been five minutes.”
Dean closed the door and took a piss, a long first-of-the-morning stream that gave him time to knock back half his coffee. He shook off, flushed, and balanced his mug on the back of the small sink. His cheek was still puffy, skin around Jimmy’s tight stitches pink and raised. There were bullhorns of bruise spreading from each end of the laceration, following the hard line of his eye socket.
He washed his hands and sent a cool splash of water over his face. He wanted things solved, wanted everyone safe, and wanted to kill whatever lingering connection between Washington and Winchester and Callham that remained.
Dean came out of the bathroom, hairline dripping water around his ears and at his nape. The radio was tuned to the local public station, drone of news low under the pat of occasional rain on the cabin’s slapdash roof. He topped off his coffee, taking in Sam’s stiff outline at the window. He shook his head and took a mouthful of brew, chased the bitter off his tongue with a sigh. “All right. Let’s hear it, Chicken Little.”
Sam turned, tilting his head toward the radio. “National Weather Center’s predicting severe rain and high winds. Coast Guard’s got a small craft warning out, too. I just don’t like the idea of you heading to the island alone.”
“What? You got the power to calm the seas now, too?” Dean clipped. “I can handle steerin’ a boat through some waves, Sammy.”
Sam’s eyes darted quickly left, rolling back to Dean. “It’s not just that, man…”
Dean set his mug on the counter, raked his tongue down his upper lip. “You want me to say it? Is that it?”
Sam’s mouth pinched tight as a purse string.
“You want me to say I’ll be safer goin’ without you, because of whatever Evil Superman vibes you’re givin’ off?”
His brother twitched out a combination head shake and shrug. “You think it’s true?”
Dean rubbed through the tangle on top of his head. “I dunno, Sam. Honestly? Yeah, there might be somethin’ connectin’ Maltby and special kids and fuckin’ demonic deer. And, yeah, it might be less risky if I check things out without a possible homing beacon.”
Sam nodded - tight little jerks of his head - through a long inhale, exhale.
“How’s your arm, by the way?” Dean asked, and felt like a traitor. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Sam’s answer, but he was steering the conversation as quickly as possible away from the admission he’d just made; Sam might already be something they both feared.
“We never should have come here,” Sam said quietly.
Dean drank to that, warm acid burn of coffee filling the pit in his gut.
* * *
Bellingham Bay - Bellingham, Washington
Dean hated when Sam was right. The deep-seated burn of annoyance that grew with every wind gust, wave, and spray of bay did nothing to stave off the chill, though; the weather was down-right ugly.
The sky was smudged dark grey, and fat clouds greased low along the black water. The wind whipped peaks and valleys of angry meringue, port and starboard, the sloop tossing Dean like the buckingest of broncs. His hands were tight and white on the boat’s wheel, only occasionally jumping to his face to wipe water from his eyes.
The few boats not yet put up for winter - far sturdier things than the S. S. Minnow Dean was piloting - jumped and slopped against the docks, pulling violently at their moorings. He cursed when he realized he’d have to steer down to the end of the small marina to the one unoccupied dock, but no way was he dying at sea, smeared to the bow of a larger, nicer boat. He cursed again when he nosed past a small yacht and saw the last dock wasn’t deserted. There was a Coast Guard skiff there, tugged up tight and shiny.
He managed to make it damn close to the dock without being crushed to smithereens. He figured the Coast Guard guys must be on shore, because there’d been no “Freeze!” or “All hands on deck where I can see them!” or whatever Coast Guard guys yelled through bullhorns.
Dean cursed a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh time trying first to get out of the boat, and then tie it off. He was freezing, tired, and slightly nauseous. His jacket was soaked through, leather taking on the weight of the rain and sea.
He should have taken the plastic rain poncho Sam’d offered him this morning: one of those magical garbage bags, all neon orange and folded up the size of a deck of cards. “I hate it when he’s right,” he grumbled as he found his footing.
The boat rose and sank like an angry bull, Dean riding the bow, one hand looped in the mooring ropes. At the bottom of the boat’s next dip - that massfree energy split second before it popped back up - he tossed the duffle onto the dock, then caught himself on his elbows on the way back down. He kept his knees loose, and when the boat hopped again, he took the nautical leg-up and launched himself onto the wet, warped planks. He skittered around on his belly and got his arm over the side before the drop action on the nylon rope could rip his shoulder from its socket. His red fingers ached, but Dean didn’t stop until the vessel was secured.
He hitched the duffle and was halfway up the dock when he spotted two Guardsmen on their way down. One raised an arm in greeting, and Dean added another curse to his tally, raising his own arm in return.
“Sir,” the taller man called as they approached, “can we help you?”
Dean raised his hand again, waved it back and forth. “Nope. I’m good,” he yelled.
They continued forward, stopping a few feet from him. The big guy’s jacket - a nice water-proof Gore-Tex number - said Demeyer over the pocket, and Dean nodded at him congenially.
“Sir,” Demeyer asked, pointing over Dean’s shoulder, “did you just land that craft here?”
Dean smirked and cocked an eyebrow, threw a look behind him. “Pretty impressive, huh?”
“Pretty asinine,” the one with the jacket marked Cooley said. His partner shot him a look, and Cooley folded his arms over his chest.
“Sir,” Demeyer addressed him again, “are you a resident of the island?”
They’d have a list, Dean knew, if they didn’t already know the people on Lummi personally. The wind whipped hard off the bay, snapped the cold wet collar of his jacket against his neck. “I’m doin’ some survey work for an artist puttin’ in an installation. Local guy. Jimmy Height.”
The Guardsmen exchanged a look.
“Yeah, we know Jimmy,” Demeyer said. “But I’m sure whatever…surveying you need to do for him can wait. I strongly advise you to come back to the mainland with us, sir.”
A crack of lightning split the gray sky, accompanied by a thunderous clap that made all three men flinch. Dean’s mind rolled, fast as the storm clouds.
He put on his best sheepish act, tossed his head from side to side and leaned in toward the men. “Look,” he smoothed, hands spreading before him like a display of contrition, “I fucked up. Jimmy hired me to do this job quick, and when I got into town a couple nights ago, I went out for dinner and had a couple beers.” His shoulder bobbed and he put on half a smirk. “I met this chick, one thing led to another--” He shrugged and smirked. “I just spent the last two days in my motel room having some of the hottest sex I’ve had in a while, so I’m not gonna pretend that was a mistake. But now I gotta do this job.”
Cooley sneered at him, and Dean watched Demeyer fight an epic eye roll.
“Sir,” Demeyer said calmly, “I’m going to once again strongly advise you return to the mainland with us. Lummi’s been evacuated.”
“Everybody?” Dean asked, shooting a look over the Guardsmen’s shoulders.
“Everyone who’d come, sir,” Demeyer answered.
“So, it’s not a mandatory evacuation,” Dean reasoned, eyes squinting against a sudden whip of wind.
“Look, sir. The storm’s supposed to die down by morning. Come with us, we’ll get you back here at first light to finish your work. I’m sure it can wait--”
Dean raised a hand to stop Demeyer, stepped in close again. “Look. I hear ya. Normally - you’re right - it could wait, but I got a call this morning. Family emergency. And I’m gonna have to hit that before my next gig, with about a day of overlap between now and then.”
It wasn’t a lie, the family emergency. Not really. Dean’s resolve wasn’t any debt owed Jimmy and his daughter, any real reason the gig wouldn’t wait a day. The reason he chose to stay put - despite knowing no one was going to be talking with him, and the storm was going to make for one hell of a ball-sucking night - was the bone field on the other side of the island.
Demeyer sighed and shook his head, raised a hand to beg the end of excuses. “All right, fine, sir. Stay. I get you’re going to, no matter what. But I’m begging you: stay. Don’t attempt to head back out onto the water. This storm’s going to get a lot uglier before it gets better, and a Chinook wind’ll rip your little skiff in two,” the Guardsman said, gesturing to the dock where Dean’s ride was moored.
Demeyer reached into the big pocket of his jacket, pulled out a folded orange rectangle the size of a deck of cards, and handed it to him. “At least take this.”
It was a poncho, like the one Sam had tried to foist on him this morning.
“It’s not much, but it’ll provide some protection while you do your…work.”
Dean cringed internally. Demeyer was trying to be a nice guy, and Dean was being a total dick.
Cooley leaned around his partner to pay his two cents. “Dude? If we have to risk our asses by headin’ into the water to save yours? The U.S. Coast Guard, the city of Bellingham, and the United States Government will charge you with rescue fees. And it won’t come cheap.”
Dean shot him a mock salute and a sneer. “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
The disgusted shake of Demeyer’s head dropped his hood over his eyes, and he pushed it back with one hand, while the other unzipped the top inches of his jacket. He fished out a laminated index card, fixed to the end of a lanyard hung around his neck. He leaned in. “We’re here,” he said.
The card was printed with a simple map of Lummi Island. Demeyer’s finger was planted on the southeast shore.
“This way’s most of the residents who are stickin’ around,” the Guardsman continued, finger traveling north, “though I don’t know that any of them are gonna be all that welcoming to a stranger.”
“Especially one who’s clearly such an idiot,” Cooley grumbled like low thunder.
The nail on Demeyer’s index finger traveled west, and clicked on a small black rectangle north of the field where the buck had gone darkside on them.
“Worse comes to worse? This is a ranger cabin. It’s locked up pretty tight this time of year, but you look like a guy who knows how to kick in a door, if need be.”
Dean didn’t acknowledge the remark with a nod, but gave Demeyer an extra long beat of eye contact and an affirming blink. “Ranger cabin. Got it.”
The guy wasn’t just nice, he was smart, too. But what was Dean supposed to do? Slap him on the back and tell him he needed to know for sure if his little brother was some kind of demonic lightning rod? That Dean was staying because he needed all the pieces to the nightmare machine that’d slowly begun building itself in his mind? Lies his father told him, oath sworn in a hospital bed, Callham, demons, and Sammy - drenched in blood - atop a hill of bones in Maltby Cemetery.
Cutlasses of lightning slash across the sky, and thunder clapped at the tail of the display.
Demeyer squinted up at the looming canopy of gray. “That’s our exit cue,” he said, stepping back from Dean. “Last chance.”
Dean extended his hand, gave the man as genuine an assuring nod as possible. “Thanks for the poncho and the cabin info. I appreciate it.”
Demeyer gave him a firm shake. “Good luck.” He turned, shouldering Cooley to come along as he headed down to the dock.
“You’re gonna need it,” Cooley added with a disgusted sneer, and followed after his partner.
Dean watched with admiration as the men untied and boarded their tossed vessel with a practiced ease. In few seconds, the rescue cutter eased away from the dock, listed toward the marina breaker, then into the bay. He stood there, blinking through the rain, until the boat was nothing but a bobbing black seed on the writhing horizon. He hoisted his duffle and headed for the dig site on island’s west side.
click for a missing scene/companion fic one-shot, if you please
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: R - for strong language and content
Pairing: none (gen) Dean, Sam, John
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
SPOILERS: through 3X07
Summary: There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic. - Anaïs Nin
A/N: This story serves as my Sweet Charity fic for a_starfish Thanks to quellefromage for eyes and ears on this - I didn’t give her much time with it, so typos, grammar crap, or flying plot-holes still remaining are all my fault. Those interested can read Their Appointed Rounds which serves as a companion to this fic, though it's not necessary to do so. Special tip of the hat to smilla02 for the wonderful icons.
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there. - Jalal ad-Din Rumi
Outside Phoenix, Arizona - 2002
He was elbows up to a plate of carnitas and chili rellenos, thick homemade tortillas, beans and beans and beans, Cyrus was across from him, licking a line of salsa up the side of his hand. “Dude. Have some manners,” Dean chided around his mouthful of skirt steak. Now he knew how Sam probably felt all those years, not that it was any great crown to be king of etiquette in a bar full of dusty cowhands who stank like manure.
Cyrus chuckled, took a slug of beer to wash down the food. “You been in a foul, pissy little spot lately, hey, Crip?” the man drawled.
The moniker had stuck, even though Dean was no longer sporting a cast; when a bull man tells you to get your hand outta the chute, you get your hand outta the chute. His left wrist was bound with an ACE wrap that crossed his palm and climbed back up his forearm, an inch of sun-starved skin extending past the reach of the bandage on either end. The white ridge of knuckles on the back of his hand stood in sharp contrast to his tanned fingers.
“You going sensitive cowboy on me?” Cy asked with a chuckle.
Dean glanced up, gave him a small smile. He’d liked the man straight away. Cyrus was a few years older, funny and tough. Didn’t pull any punches. He was the one who’d taught Dean the ropes - literally and figuratively - when he’d started at the ranch, and he found a comfort in the man’s guidance.
Most nights, Dean’d take a ride for a beer with anybody who had room in their truck, play the part of the cocky drinking pal with a few good stories to tell. But Cyrus’s company didn’t require the show, and the two had made a sort of tradition of paycheck night: an easy quiet dinner at Anita’s Cantina, and enough beer and tequila to make them forget the fortnight.
Dean shifted in the vinyl booth, dragged a tear of tortilla through the mud of his refried beans. “I dunno, man. I just feel…antsy.” He folded the bite into his mouth, chased it with a swallow of lime-tinged brew.
Cyrus nodded, shrugged, worked a paper napkin through his fingers. “Happens,” he said.
They chewed and swallowed, moved things around their plates.
“Guys do the work we do? Special breed,” Cyrus said, like it was apropos of nothing. “Got the wanderlust in our genes. Maybe even writ onna inside part of us. When the wind blows, you gotta trust it’s blowin’ in the right direction.”
Dean stared at him for a beat. “Who’s goin’ sensitive cowboy on who?”
Cyrus blushed, snorted a laugh and a “Fuck you,” just as Dean’s cell rang.
It was rare he got a call; he carried the phone more out of habit than hope these days. So it was a bit of a surprise on all fronts when he saw the caller ID. “Shit.”
The corners of Cy’s mouth pulled down in a grimace, and the weathered skin around his eyes crinkled. “‘S it little Suzy Fuckpants, from the rodeo last week?”
“It’s my dad,” Dean said softly, Cy’s jibe falling short by a country mile.
“Oh, shit…” the cowboy said.
They’d shared a number of John Winchester v. Cyrus Breakstone, Sr. stories. The weight of the air around both men grew heavy, and the phone continued its tinny anthem.
“You gonna answer it?” Cy asked nervously.
“I dunno,” Dean said.
The ringtone cut out, making the decision for him. He stared at the phone for a second, then set it on the table. He slid his half-finished plate to the side; the food wouldn’t taste like anything anymore.
“How long since you talked to ‘im?” Cyrus asked.
Dean’s hand buffed absently across his left cheekbone, vision on that side becoming milky and fluid for a moment. He shrugged and blew out a long, slow breath. “Better parta seven months.”
The phone double chirped, indicating a message, and Dean startled at the sound. He hated himself for the tiny anxious wheel set to spinning in his stomach - all to hear his dad’s voice, a possibility to connect.
Cy poured tequila into one of the empty shot glasses, slid the liquid courage across the table top. Dean performed the shot by rote, sucked back the agave without a grimace. He palmed the cell phone and slid from the booth. His feet were steadier than he’d anticipated.
“Be right back,” he said, and headed for the door, dialing his message box as he wound his way through smoke and juke noise, tables full with chowing, laughing cowhands.
The night was cool and clear, breeze lifting drifts of orange dirt across the hardpack lot of the Cantina. Dean punched his way past the menu and lifted the cell to his ear.
‘Dean. I need you on a job. Call me.’ There was a long beat of silence - a pause that made Dean’s heart stutter - before a muffled scuff of beard and a click.
‘You have no more messages,’ an automated voice informed him.
His first instinct was to fling the phone across the width of the parking lot, land it on the two-lane where a parade of Chevy pick-ups might crush it into oblivion. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” he yelled across the dark lot. “Motherfucker! Fuck me.”
He fisted his left hand and squeezed so hard he thought his fresh-healed wrist might snap again. He pounded a heel against the dirt and took a quick pace, jaw clamped down like a weasel on a snake.
A couple of hands from the ranch dusted past him; one tipped his hat and grinned. “Girl trouble, Crip?” he teased.
Dean served him a smirk, and the other cowboy chuckled and cooed like a love bird. When they slapped through the screen door, Dean cruised to the quieter side of the building and hit the call return on his cell. His dad answered before the first ring could finish.
‘Dean.’
“Yeah,” he replied, tight and clipped.
‘I need you in Washington. How soon can you get here?’
He could make a million excuses, but none of them would pass muster. When John Winchester said jump, Dean - goddamnit! - was programmed to ask how high, even when he was standing at the edge of a cliff.
‘Dean? You there?’
“Yeah. I’m here.”
‘Look, I-- There’s no other go-to on this, son.’
Which meant Dean was at the top of a very short list, or at rock bottom of another.
‘I need you here.’
The phrase strummed a bass string deep in his belly. Dean needed things himself - wanted even more - but he’d learned to live miserly. A skein of brush tumbled past in the parking lot, pinballing off the dusty rims and wheels of half a dozen pick-ups, and he scrubbed his left hand down his face. “It’s payday. I’ve had a few drinks,” he said, and tried to not make it sound like an apology.
John responded with a slow, dangling ‘All right…’
Dean was going to have another drink - maybe two - as soon as he hung up, but he didn’t tell his dad that. “I need a few hours to pack. Sober up.”
‘The sooner the better. Call me when you’re halfway, I’ll text you my coordinates.’
There was a sharp disconnect on his dad’s end, but the cell stayed at Dean’s ear a few seconds longer. He was chewing the inside of his cheek, boggling at how rapidly the decision had been made.
Again.
Guys do the work we do? Special breed… Maybe even writ onna inside part of us.
Seven months, not a word from his dad, and in the span of a minute, Dean had fallen into step like a foot soldier. No matter how far he roamed, the inroads of Sam and John were deep-rutted paths inside him no amount of time or savage weed could overgrow. He rubbed a blow of grit from his eye, and walked slowly back to the entrance of Anita’s, cell still warm in his palm. He got to the table just as Cyrus was pouring himself some tequila. “I’ll take one of those.”
Cy glanced up, gave a nod, and let the liquid flow into a second glass. “So?” he asked, once Dean had settled back into the booth.
Dean quick-cocked his chin to the left and back, neck popping lock, stock, and barrel. “Like you said, Cyrus. The wanderlust is in our genes.” He knocked back the shot of tequila. “I guess the wind’s blowin’.”
* * *
Bellingham, Washington - 2007
Dean was working a lump of cheese from the pizza box when Sam’s laptop pinged. “‘Bout time,” he grumbled, shoving a wad of half dairy product/half cardboard into his mouth. He grabbed for the computer before Sam could wipe the grease from his own fingers.
“Dude!”
Dean mashed at the keyboard. “Whadju, change your password?” he asked around his cheese cud. “Whatsit? Somethin’ like pretty princess pony, now?”
Jimmy chuckled into his napkin and Cheryl rolled her eyes, clinking together a few of the empty beer bottles and making a pass to the kitchen recycle bin.
“Dude, just--” Sam slapped at Dean’s hands and pulled away the laptop. “I got it, okay?”
Jimmy scrubbed at his chin, leaned back in his chair. “So, this Bobby? You think he can help?”
Dean watched Sam click-clack into his email. “If anybody can, at this point, it’s him. Saved our bacon more than a few times. Guy’s got a library that rivals the Vatican.”
“Yeah, it’s from Bobby,” Sam said, fingers swirling on the thumb pad. “Um, lemme see…”
Dean rubbed absently at his left brow; he had a hell of a headache brewing, chalked it up to stress. He really hoped Bobby’d come through. He didn’t know how to move forward until they’d unraveled what they had: the bones and the symbol, Lummi and Callham, Sammy and the special kids.
“Okay,” Sam said, rubbing his hands together. “There’s, like, fifty attachments here. Jesus, Bobby. Um…he says he thinks he found the symbol, if not something really close. Native American, First Nations.” He glanced up at Dean. “Underworld stuff. Could be dealing with some serious hoodoo…”
Dean gave him a curt nod, rolled his hand.
Sam’s eyes went back to the email, head cocking left as he scrolled. “Some history on the island, looks like some legal documents attached to Callham…and a Dilbert cartoon he evidently found amusing,” Sam said with a quirk of his lips.
“So, what’s the plan? What happens next?” Jimmy asked.
Dean’s beer bottle popped off his lips with a wet smack, and he swallowed. “I’m thinkin’ you brainiacs start in on the stuff Bobby sent, try to figure out what fits where, and I’ll head back to Lummi in the morning, talk to the locals, get a better lay of that land.”
“No,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You’re not going back alone.”
“I’m not talkin’ about the dig site. I’m just gonna cruise around town, buy a beer or two, and see if anybody’s lips loosen up. Try to find out what’s goin’ on.”
Cheryl sat back down, scooting close to Jimmy. “You think that’s wise?”
“I think that’s a really bad idea,” said Sam, eyes ignoring the laptop in favor of Dean.
“Yeah, I dunno,” Jimmy started.
Dean held up his hand, quieting everyone. “Listen. What happened out there today? That was-- That’s not gonna happen again.”
“How do you know?” Sam asked pointedly.
“I don’t. But I have a pretty good sense it won’t.” He gave his brother a look that said what his mouth refused to say, what they’d both been thinking just under the surface; it was about Sam.
It was always about Sam.
“You wanna share with the class?” Jimmy asked, leaning in. Cheryl’s hand slipped forward and covered his, fingers working nervously.
Dean glanced quick between the entwined couple and Sam. His brother gave him a pained, almost imperceptible shake of the head, and Dean answered it with a tip of his chin. His eyes still on Sam, he asked, “Before Tabby-- Before. Did Tabby ever…”
Sam’s eyes dipped to the table, and he shifted in his chair.
Dean turned his attention to Jimmy and Cheryl on the other side of the table. “Did she have dreams? Especially vivid ones?” he finished.
Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Headaches, maybe, that she complained about? Trouble sleeping?” Dean watched as Jimmy’s confusion gave way to wariness. “What are you drivin’ at?” he asked.
Dean’s jaw tightened. He addressed Jimmy squarely, hands palm-up in an open gesture. “You said we should be honest, right?” His brows rose. “Said it’s gonna work out better for everyone - safer for everyone - if we lay it all out.”
Jimmy nodded slightly, lips sealed tight.
Sam was straight as a board in his chair, face clouded with hurt and guilt and despair. “Dean, I don’t think you should--”
“When your wife died, Tabby’s mom, you called our dad.”
Jimmy stared a while at the table, sniffed deep, then lifted his head and cast his focus on the wall behind Dean. “When I told you before your dad saved my life, more than once, I wasn’t lyin’. After the fire, after Carey--” Jimmy’s eyes flicked up to the ceiling - a split-second of movement that spoke volumes to Dean and Sam. “Seein’ her like that? I didn’t know what else to do. I felt crazy. Dead inside. So, yeah. I called your dad,” he finished, and his eyes finally came to rest on Dean.
“And he came out here,” Dean supplied.
“Yeah.”
“What’d he tell you, Jimmy?”
Jimmy’s eyes drifted between the brothers, made cursory contact, then wandered into the shadows of the cabin again. “First thing he told me was, I wasn’t crazy. Said he believed me, because he’d seen the same thing when Mary died.” Cheryl’s hand gripped Jimmy’s tighter, and he rocked in his chair, shuffled his feet. “I thought he was crazy himself for a bit, there, when he told me what he thought was goin’ on.”
“Which was?” Dean asked, bitter edge of the question apparent. Who knew what else their dad had withheld, considering what had come to light since they arrived in Bellingham? Sam shot him a look, but Dean ignored it.
Jimmy blew out a breath, shook his head lightly. “You gotta understand, I’d just lost my wife. Tabby was a little baby. Our home was destroyed… When your dad started babbling about some dark figure, and these other nursery fires--”
Dean’s posture went stiff. “He knew about other fires?”
His angry fluster was hampering his math abilities, but Dean powered through; by his figuring - with what Jimmy was saying? - their dad was on to something other than blind revenge as early as two years after the YED had killed their mom. Maybe he’d even known something about Sam, then, too.
“He had all this research. Seemed like a mess to me at the time, but, yeah,” Jimmy gave a slow, bobbing nod, “three or four other fires, all when the babies were six months old.”
“What else?” Dean asked, reins straining against the storm brewing inside.
When they’d first encountered Max and Andy and Ava, and Sam had started piecing together the information about the special kids, Dean had tried to deny it. He’d shut out his memories of the Maltby vision and told his brother he was crazy - that there was no design to the lines being drawn and connected - but it didn’t seem as easy to dismiss anymore.
Jimmy’s mouth screwed up, like the words he was preparing were distasteful. “John said that something so…deliberate and specific…” He looked up, sorrow plain on his face. “He said, ‘Evil draws up outlines, too, Jimmy.’ He said the random fires - the moms all sacrificed, the children saved - he said it had to mean something, had to be some part of a bigger plan.”
“Did he ever…mention a demon?” Sam asked quietly, and the question shot a surge of hot electricity up Dean’s spine.
Cheryl took in an audible breath, and Jimmy shook his head.
“No,” he said plainly.
Sam pulled at his bottom lip, and Dean leaned forward. Planted his forearms on the table, hands in tight fists. “Dad traced everything to a…a yellow-eyed demon,” he said apologetically. No matter the facts, it was always a little surreal to say things like that to people who weren’t actual hunters. “His name was Azazel. A high ranker in Hell’s upper echelon. He was hand-picking kids - special kids - for an army to--”
Jimmy shoved back violently from the table and rose, face piqued, pointing at Dean. “What are you sayin’ about my little girl? You sayin’ Tabby was some kind of freak? Some…monster?”
It was a belligerent - though understandable - mix of anger and fear, and Dean watched as Sam folded in on himself a little.
“No. No, I’m not sayin’ that at all, Jimmy. None of these kids had a say in bein’ chosen. None of them.” The reassurance was as much for himself and his brother as it was for Jimmy and Cheryl.
“Oh, Sam…” Cheryl breathed with quick, sorrowful clarity, and her hand went to her mouth.
It clicked with Jimmy then, too. “Oh, shit. Jesus. Sam, I didn’t--”
Sam shook his head, whispered “It’s okay…”
They were all silent for a few moments, collectively sieving the information newly dumped in their laps. Dean worked furiously; his only hope at plowing forward lay in straight and organized furrows of fact, minus emotion.
“You said ‘was,’” Cheryl chirped suddenly.
“Huh?”
She glanced at Jimmy, then back to Dean. “When you were talking about the…demon. You said ‘was.’”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “He’s, uh, outta the picture.”
“Dead?” Jimmy asked them, clearly unsure if that was the right term.
Dean tipped his temple in confirmation.
“But you think all this…” Jimmy waved his hand absently at the scatter of research on the table, “You think this is connected to…it, somehow?”
“Yeah,” said Sam. “Maybe.”
“This demon was assembling an army. Choosing kids with…abilities,” Dean said with a glance at his brother, “Psychics, telekenetics--”
“Our research--” Sam started, then stopped abruptly, hands fisting on the tabletop. “I-- Tabby might have been aware that…she was different,” he finished, eyes pinned down, and face red.
Dean’s jaw clenched with guilt and shame when Cheryl rose and crossed to Sam. Her hand brushed over his brother’s hair and landed on his ruddy cheeks; a tear breached his pinched lids. Dean envied the attention from Cheryl - the motherly care and caress - but envied most the ease with which it was offered. He wished he knew how to soothe so freely and so well.
Instead, he and Jimmy stared awkwardly at their hands while Cheryl worked her maternal magic on Sam. She held him as he sucked in, then heaved out, a huge breath. She cooed and whispered words Dean couldn’t make out, until Sam’s breathing evened, and he twitched self-consciously. He could see plainly why Jimmy loved her; Cheryl was good, pulled away from Sam and straightened, one hand lingering to ghost comfort across his shoulders.
Haltingly at first, Dean laid most of their remaining cards on the table. Like the best of sharps, he played the gruesome and personal close to the vest: he told about how Sam’s visions had started; meager details of their first meeting with the YED, and how that had shaken out; he skirted around the wreckage of losing their dad; completely avoided Sam’s temporary demise; didn’t go near the Crossroads. Jimmy and Cheryl got the gyst just fine, he figured, without all the painful details.
At the onset of a much deserved lull in the information unload, Cheryl slapped her hands on her thighs, blew out a breath, and shook her head through a long, tight blink. “Okay. Well,” she said on an exhale, “I think that’s enough revelation for me for one night.” She looked at her watch. “I’m to that point where I either go to bed, or start drinking heavily, and I’ve got a 5:30am call at the volunteer clinic tomorrow, so that decides it.”
“Aw, shit, sweetie,” Jimmy blushed. “I totally forgot.”
“That’s all right,” she said. She stood, then pushed in her chair. “I don’t think I’ll be much help at this point. My head’s in a bit of a spin.”
“You’ve helped a lot. More than you know,” Sam said, and she blushed.
Dean nodded, but kept silent.
Cheryl crossed to Jimmy, gave him a long, strong hug and a kiss on his neck, just below his scruffy beard. “If you do that heavy drinking,” she warned, hand resting on his chest, “you stay here with the boys. I don’t want you out on the road.”
“We’ll make sure he doesn’t get in any trouble,” Dean promised, and found he really meant it.
“I know you will,” Cheryl replied, with just as much conviction.
The trust made Dean shiver.
“You keep yourself and your brother safe, too. No more bullfighting or chair tipping,” she said with a wink.
“Yes, ma’am,” all three men delivered in unison.
Once she was out the door - proper goodbyes, hugs, repeated admonitions and teasing - they got out a bottle of Jack and got down to business.
“So, what’s Bobby say about the symbol?” Dean asked, pouring a rich inch of bourbon into each of three jelly jars. “What’s it supposed to mean?”
Sam’s face flashed blue when he rewoke the laptap with a caress of the thumbpad. “Okay, well, best as he can guess, the two parallel horizontal lines? Those represent the plains of Heaven and Hell, or whatever the dogmatic First Nations equivalency is. And the lightning bolt going through both is, like, a joining, the lightning bolt being a symbol for great power, or great magic.”
“Okay,” Dean said with a roll of his hand. Jimmy nodded to show he was following so far.
Sam blew out a breath, then continued. “The circle above could be man, and the hoof shape below could be the devil,” he shook his head, “but in a polytheistic society - I mean, if the symbol’s Chinook- that’d be a pretty literal translation on our part, not to mention being flat out xenocentric.”
Dean cleared his throat and shot an annoyed look at Sam. “Yeah, so, setting aside your word-of-the-day calendar, what’s another interpretation?”
Jimmy sniggered, and Sam shot Dean a slightly annoyed look. “You wanna be research monkey on this?”
“Just…get your geek on, dude. With a less-Ivy League vocabulary, okay?”
Sam ran his hands through his hair and blew out a breath. “I dunno, I’m just thinkin’… I mean, okay. If the symbol is First Nations - Chinook - maybe we should be looking at it literally, but from a different view point, you know? Like,” Sam shuffled through the stack of research on the table, pulled out a sketch of the symbol, “like, these lines could maybe be plains,” Sam said, tracing the two parallel lines with a fingertip, “our world and the underworld.”
“Okay,” Dean said, and Jimmy nodded along.
“The jagged line, the lightning bolt? Could represent a bridge between them.” Sam tapped the paper. “Up above, here, the circle represents man, and the hoof shape underneath might mean animal…beast.”
“All right,” said Dean, rubbing his chin, “I see what you did there…”
“So then, what’s the significance of it being carved on the skulls? What would it mean?” Jimmy asked.
“Well, if Einstein here is right,” Dean said and leaned back in his chair, “a symbol like this wouldn’t be a ward, but a…like, a binding link. Somethin’ to connect a soul or an entity to a vessel. Maybe even trap it.”
Sam nodded and blew out a breath. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”
“But…who--? Why would--?” Jimmy shook his head, hand running over his scalp.
“If we go by the legend, the stories about Callham… The guy was making a ton of money in real estate and construction, right? Doing well when just a handful of other guys were,” Sam said, figuring aloud. “Maybe he had a little otherworldly career assistance.”
Dean’s lips duck-billed, and he tipped his temple.
“Like…a deal with the devil?” Jimmy asked.
“Or a demon,” said Sam.
Dean chimed quietly, “It happens.”
Jimmy shook his head, took a slug of whiskey.
“Okay. So. Callham makes some kind of deal,” Sam continued. “He gets power and wealth--”
“And in return, has to gank a few souls for Hell’s piggy bank,” Dean finished. He knocked back the remaining Jack in his glass and poured himself another.
“The skulls,” Sam said. “Callham’s wife and daughters--” He lifted a hand and fluttered fingers at this forehead, “did they have the symbol, too?”
Dean shook his head. “I got no idea what dad saw. I never got a real look.”
Sam’s hand traveled to his mouth, thumb and index back to pinching at his lower lip.
“I’m guessin’ their murders were just a bonus. You know, family: make ‘em useful,” Dean said with a coat of sarcasm. “My run-in with ‘em? They seemed pretty pissed. I don’t think they were bound to anything but revenge.”
Jimmy scratched at his chin. “So we need to figure out why--”
“Nope,” Dean interrupted, “just who and how. And we need to find Callham’s bones.”
“Yeah,” agreed Sam, sounding tired and defeated.
“You’re kidding, right?” Jimmy asked, jelly glass stopping midway to his mouth. He set his drink back on the table. “Even if we knew for sure he died on Lummi, what’re we gonna do, dig up the whole island?”
“Life’s hilarious like that sometimes, isn’t it?” Dean grumbled. He stretched his arms above his head and jutted his chin at Sam. “Bobby find anything else we can use?”
Sam tapped and scrolled behind the laptop, scratched the back of his head and scrolled and tapped again. “Hang on…”
“What?” Dean asked.
“Callham’s house.”
“Oh, shit…” Jimmy said like a whistle.
“What?” Dean repeated.
“It’s still around.” Sam pointed to the laptop, twirled his finger. “Bobby attached a scan of an old bank lein, some deeds, probate papers. If this info’s right,” he said, looking up, “the place may have been untouched since Callham left it.”
“That’s as good a lead as any,” Dean responded.
Jimmy rubbed a hand through his hair. “Jesus, guys. I’m sorry. I completely forgot about the old Callham place.”
“You’re gettin’ awful forgetful in your old age,” Dean teased.
“Yeah, well, I still remember how to kill a man forty-seven different ways with nothin’ but a Bic pen, so watch yourself,” Jimmy fired back with a put-on smirk.
Dean knocked back the remaining half-inch of Jack in his glass, scrubbed a hand down his face. “Okay, here’s what I’m thinkin’… You two head to Callham’s place tomorrow, sift through the stuff Bobby’s sent, and I hit the high seas, see what Lummi has to give up.”
Sam blew out a breath. “I still don’t like the idea of you going there alone.”
“Well, I don’t like any of this, so I guess that makes us even,” he said, and pushed back from the table. He was suddenly exhausted - all the lies and deception, the backstage planning and scheming, demons and deals and death. He felt raw. Used. He wondered if Sam and Jimmy felt duped, like he did; all John Winchester’s affection and trust, applied as a means to an end. “I’m feelin’ about as creaky as the Tin Man right now, so I’m callin’ it a night. Nine-thirty an okay time for you tomorrow, Jimmy?”
The man looked sheepishly between Sam and Dean. “Sure. Nine-thirty…”
“Sam?” Dean asked, gruff challenge in his voice. “Or do you need more beauty sleep than that?”
“No. Fine,” Sam said, tight-lipped. “Nine-thirty.”
* * *
“It looks like shit out there,” Sam said from the cabin’s small front window when Dean finally wrenched himself from the warmth of the covers.
His shoulders ached from the prior evening’s wood-chopping frenzy, and Dean let out a low moan as he pushed himself off the couch and free of the tangle of blankets. He could smell coffee, just couldn’t find it in the mess of last night’s strategy session. “Looks like shit in here. Where’s the joe?”
“Percolator’s full,” Sam said, pointing with a steaming mug.
Dean stumble-thudded toward the kitchen, and Sam closed the distance.
“I’m thinkin’ we should maybe reassess the plan for today.”
Dean was feeling numb and thick-headed; maybe he’d rapped his cheek on the table a little harder than he thought, maybe it was the beer, or just the fucking weight of every lie and truth uncovered last night. The last thing he needed was his brother over-thinking things. “Dude. You gotta gimme five minutes.”
“I’m just saying,” Sam said, an anxious jig-of-sorts bringing him to the counter across from Dean, “the weather’s for shit, and so’s the forecast. The bay was choppy before, it’s gonna be a lot worse today. Hold off on Lummi until tomorrow, come to Callham’s place with me and Jimmy.”
Dean blew once across the steaming brew in his cup, then took a painful, eye-opening gulp that burned all the way down. He let out a guttural ‘hhhhhhhhhhhhheh…’ as he shuffled toward the bathroom.
“Dude, what-- Where’re you going?” Sam stuttered.
“Has it been five minutes?” he asked without turning. “I don’t think it’s been five minutes.”
Dean closed the door and took a piss, a long first-of-the-morning stream that gave him time to knock back half his coffee. He shook off, flushed, and balanced his mug on the back of the small sink. His cheek was still puffy, skin around Jimmy’s tight stitches pink and raised. There were bullhorns of bruise spreading from each end of the laceration, following the hard line of his eye socket.
He washed his hands and sent a cool splash of water over his face. He wanted things solved, wanted everyone safe, and wanted to kill whatever lingering connection between Washington and Winchester and Callham that remained.
Dean came out of the bathroom, hairline dripping water around his ears and at his nape. The radio was tuned to the local public station, drone of news low under the pat of occasional rain on the cabin’s slapdash roof. He topped off his coffee, taking in Sam’s stiff outline at the window. He shook his head and took a mouthful of brew, chased the bitter off his tongue with a sigh. “All right. Let’s hear it, Chicken Little.”
Sam turned, tilting his head toward the radio. “National Weather Center’s predicting severe rain and high winds. Coast Guard’s got a small craft warning out, too. I just don’t like the idea of you heading to the island alone.”
“What? You got the power to calm the seas now, too?” Dean clipped. “I can handle steerin’ a boat through some waves, Sammy.”
Sam’s eyes darted quickly left, rolling back to Dean. “It’s not just that, man…”
Dean set his mug on the counter, raked his tongue down his upper lip. “You want me to say it? Is that it?”
Sam’s mouth pinched tight as a purse string.
“You want me to say I’ll be safer goin’ without you, because of whatever Evil Superman vibes you’re givin’ off?”
His brother twitched out a combination head shake and shrug. “You think it’s true?”
Dean rubbed through the tangle on top of his head. “I dunno, Sam. Honestly? Yeah, there might be somethin’ connectin’ Maltby and special kids and fuckin’ demonic deer. And, yeah, it might be less risky if I check things out without a possible homing beacon.”
Sam nodded - tight little jerks of his head - through a long inhale, exhale.
“How’s your arm, by the way?” Dean asked, and felt like a traitor. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Sam’s answer, but he was steering the conversation as quickly as possible away from the admission he’d just made; Sam might already be something they both feared.
“We never should have come here,” Sam said quietly.
Dean drank to that, warm acid burn of coffee filling the pit in his gut.
* * *
Bellingham Bay - Bellingham, Washington
Dean hated when Sam was right. The deep-seated burn of annoyance that grew with every wind gust, wave, and spray of bay did nothing to stave off the chill, though; the weather was down-right ugly.
The sky was smudged dark grey, and fat clouds greased low along the black water. The wind whipped peaks and valleys of angry meringue, port and starboard, the sloop tossing Dean like the buckingest of broncs. His hands were tight and white on the boat’s wheel, only occasionally jumping to his face to wipe water from his eyes.
The few boats not yet put up for winter - far sturdier things than the S. S. Minnow Dean was piloting - jumped and slopped against the docks, pulling violently at their moorings. He cursed when he realized he’d have to steer down to the end of the small marina to the one unoccupied dock, but no way was he dying at sea, smeared to the bow of a larger, nicer boat. He cursed again when he nosed past a small yacht and saw the last dock wasn’t deserted. There was a Coast Guard skiff there, tugged up tight and shiny.
He managed to make it damn close to the dock without being crushed to smithereens. He figured the Coast Guard guys must be on shore, because there’d been no “Freeze!” or “All hands on deck where I can see them!” or whatever Coast Guard guys yelled through bullhorns.
Dean cursed a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh time trying first to get out of the boat, and then tie it off. He was freezing, tired, and slightly nauseous. His jacket was soaked through, leather taking on the weight of the rain and sea.
He should have taken the plastic rain poncho Sam’d offered him this morning: one of those magical garbage bags, all neon orange and folded up the size of a deck of cards. “I hate it when he’s right,” he grumbled as he found his footing.
The boat rose and sank like an angry bull, Dean riding the bow, one hand looped in the mooring ropes. At the bottom of the boat’s next dip - that massfree energy split second before it popped back up - he tossed the duffle onto the dock, then caught himself on his elbows on the way back down. He kept his knees loose, and when the boat hopped again, he took the nautical leg-up and launched himself onto the wet, warped planks. He skittered around on his belly and got his arm over the side before the drop action on the nylon rope could rip his shoulder from its socket. His red fingers ached, but Dean didn’t stop until the vessel was secured.
He hitched the duffle and was halfway up the dock when he spotted two Guardsmen on their way down. One raised an arm in greeting, and Dean added another curse to his tally, raising his own arm in return.
“Sir,” the taller man called as they approached, “can we help you?”
Dean raised his hand again, waved it back and forth. “Nope. I’m good,” he yelled.
They continued forward, stopping a few feet from him. The big guy’s jacket - a nice water-proof Gore-Tex number - said Demeyer over the pocket, and Dean nodded at him congenially.
“Sir,” Demeyer asked, pointing over Dean’s shoulder, “did you just land that craft here?”
Dean smirked and cocked an eyebrow, threw a look behind him. “Pretty impressive, huh?”
“Pretty asinine,” the one with the jacket marked Cooley said. His partner shot him a look, and Cooley folded his arms over his chest.
“Sir,” Demeyer addressed him again, “are you a resident of the island?”
They’d have a list, Dean knew, if they didn’t already know the people on Lummi personally. The wind whipped hard off the bay, snapped the cold wet collar of his jacket against his neck. “I’m doin’ some survey work for an artist puttin’ in an installation. Local guy. Jimmy Height.”
The Guardsmen exchanged a look.
“Yeah, we know Jimmy,” Demeyer said. “But I’m sure whatever…surveying you need to do for him can wait. I strongly advise you to come back to the mainland with us, sir.”
A crack of lightning split the gray sky, accompanied by a thunderous clap that made all three men flinch. Dean’s mind rolled, fast as the storm clouds.
He put on his best sheepish act, tossed his head from side to side and leaned in toward the men. “Look,” he smoothed, hands spreading before him like a display of contrition, “I fucked up. Jimmy hired me to do this job quick, and when I got into town a couple nights ago, I went out for dinner and had a couple beers.” His shoulder bobbed and he put on half a smirk. “I met this chick, one thing led to another--” He shrugged and smirked. “I just spent the last two days in my motel room having some of the hottest sex I’ve had in a while, so I’m not gonna pretend that was a mistake. But now I gotta do this job.”
Cooley sneered at him, and Dean watched Demeyer fight an epic eye roll.
“Sir,” Demeyer said calmly, “I’m going to once again strongly advise you return to the mainland with us. Lummi’s been evacuated.”
“Everybody?” Dean asked, shooting a look over the Guardsmen’s shoulders.
“Everyone who’d come, sir,” Demeyer answered.
“So, it’s not a mandatory evacuation,” Dean reasoned, eyes squinting against a sudden whip of wind.
“Look, sir. The storm’s supposed to die down by morning. Come with us, we’ll get you back here at first light to finish your work. I’m sure it can wait--”
Dean raised a hand to stop Demeyer, stepped in close again. “Look. I hear ya. Normally - you’re right - it could wait, but I got a call this morning. Family emergency. And I’m gonna have to hit that before my next gig, with about a day of overlap between now and then.”
It wasn’t a lie, the family emergency. Not really. Dean’s resolve wasn’t any debt owed Jimmy and his daughter, any real reason the gig wouldn’t wait a day. The reason he chose to stay put - despite knowing no one was going to be talking with him, and the storm was going to make for one hell of a ball-sucking night - was the bone field on the other side of the island.
Demeyer sighed and shook his head, raised a hand to beg the end of excuses. “All right, fine, sir. Stay. I get you’re going to, no matter what. But I’m begging you: stay. Don’t attempt to head back out onto the water. This storm’s going to get a lot uglier before it gets better, and a Chinook wind’ll rip your little skiff in two,” the Guardsman said, gesturing to the dock where Dean’s ride was moored.
Demeyer reached into the big pocket of his jacket, pulled out a folded orange rectangle the size of a deck of cards, and handed it to him. “At least take this.”
It was a poncho, like the one Sam had tried to foist on him this morning.
“It’s not much, but it’ll provide some protection while you do your…work.”
Dean cringed internally. Demeyer was trying to be a nice guy, and Dean was being a total dick.
Cooley leaned around his partner to pay his two cents. “Dude? If we have to risk our asses by headin’ into the water to save yours? The U.S. Coast Guard, the city of Bellingham, and the United States Government will charge you with rescue fees. And it won’t come cheap.”
Dean shot him a mock salute and a sneer. “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
The disgusted shake of Demeyer’s head dropped his hood over his eyes, and he pushed it back with one hand, while the other unzipped the top inches of his jacket. He fished out a laminated index card, fixed to the end of a lanyard hung around his neck. He leaned in. “We’re here,” he said.
The card was printed with a simple map of Lummi Island. Demeyer’s finger was planted on the southeast shore.
“This way’s most of the residents who are stickin’ around,” the Guardsman continued, finger traveling north, “though I don’t know that any of them are gonna be all that welcoming to a stranger.”
“Especially one who’s clearly such an idiot,” Cooley grumbled like low thunder.
The nail on Demeyer’s index finger traveled west, and clicked on a small black rectangle north of the field where the buck had gone darkside on them.
“Worse comes to worse? This is a ranger cabin. It’s locked up pretty tight this time of year, but you look like a guy who knows how to kick in a door, if need be.”
Dean didn’t acknowledge the remark with a nod, but gave Demeyer an extra long beat of eye contact and an affirming blink. “Ranger cabin. Got it.”
The guy wasn’t just nice, he was smart, too. But what was Dean supposed to do? Slap him on the back and tell him he needed to know for sure if his little brother was some kind of demonic lightning rod? That Dean was staying because he needed all the pieces to the nightmare machine that’d slowly begun building itself in his mind? Lies his father told him, oath sworn in a hospital bed, Callham, demons, and Sammy - drenched in blood - atop a hill of bones in Maltby Cemetery.
Cutlasses of lightning slash across the sky, and thunder clapped at the tail of the display.
Demeyer squinted up at the looming canopy of gray. “That’s our exit cue,” he said, stepping back from Dean. “Last chance.”
Dean extended his hand, gave the man as genuine an assuring nod as possible. “Thanks for the poncho and the cabin info. I appreciate it.”
Demeyer gave him a firm shake. “Good luck.” He turned, shouldering Cooley to come along as he headed down to the dock.
“You’re gonna need it,” Cooley added with a disgusted sneer, and followed after his partner.
Dean watched with admiration as the men untied and boarded their tossed vessel with a practiced ease. In few seconds, the rescue cutter eased away from the dock, listed toward the marina breaker, then into the bay. He stood there, blinking through the rain, until the boat was nothing but a bobbing black seed on the writhing horizon. He hoisted his duffle and headed for the dig site on island’s west side.
click for a missing scene/companion fic one-shot, if you please