"Rush" - Chapter Eleven, Part Two
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Chapter Eleven, Part One here.
In the light of a waning moon just past full, Sam unlocked the front door of The Baron Hotel and slipped quietly into the front lobby.
He had taken Grace back to the North Cedar so she could get her car, then followed her home to make sure she arrived safely. She lived out of town on a narrow, winding road, so it had taken a while to get there.
Then, after he’d seen her inside, Sam had just sat in the Impala for a while, thinking.
About nothing, really, thoughts circling in his head without landing anywhere, like seabirds far from shore, with nowhere to roost. All he knew was that he was left feeling kind of hopeless, kind of sorry for himself, and incredibly beat.
Now, it was just past two o’clock in the morning.
The lamp on the registration desk was on, and Steve Hartson was snoring lustily from the couch in front of the fireplace. The shot-glass and mostly-empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table nearby indicated that the mine-owner probably wasn’t feeling any pain.
“Dean?” Sam called softly, but there was no sign of his brother in either the lobby or the parlor other than a second shot-glass sitting beside the lamp on the front desk. It, too, was mostly empty.
“Wuzza?!” Steve shouted suddenly, floundering up from sleep, staring wildly at Sam with his hair askew. “Who’s there?!”
“Hey, Steve, take it easy! It’s just me-it’s Sam!”
Steve belched once, tiny, then belched again, deeper, from the diaphragm.
“Sam?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Where’s Dean?”
“Went to bed.”
With that, the mine-owner lay back down on the couch and was snoring again in seconds.
Sam quirked a grin, shaking his head, then shuffled down the hallway, his smile falling away almost instantly.
Tell me how I can be all right…
Dean was in the bathroom, and poked his head out immediately when Sam let himself into their suite.
“Hey,” the older man said through a mouthful of toothpaste, measuring his brother quickly, lips tightening briefly around his toothbrush as Sam’s sorrow filled the room.
Aw, Sammy.
“Erica okay?” Dean asked, trying for casual, already knowing the answer to his real question.
“Yeah. I guess,” Sam replied, shrugging out of his jacket and throwing it negligently over the arm of the settee. He really didn’t feel like talking; wanted more than anything just to sink into sleep, forget this day had ever happened, but he’d known Dean would be concerned.
“Grace seems nice,” he offered benignly, sitting in a chair at the dining table and working to get his shoes off. He was so tired, the task was almost beyond him, and he stopped after getting the laces untied.
“She got home okay.” It wasn’t a question, but Dean wasn’t sure Sam had really even heard him. The younger Winchester sat unmoving, shoulders hunched, gaze pinned on some point near the floor.
“Sam?”
After another moment spent waiting, Dean rolled his eyes and threw his toothbrush down on the sink-counter, spitting and rinsing quickly. He’d left the brace off, and now he limped cautiously to the dining table, easing himself into the chair across from his brother.
“Hey, you want a beer?”
Other than a slight shake of Sam’s tousled head, there was no response, and Dean sniffed, scratching at the back of his neck before trying another tack.
“So, when the Markhams get back from their cruise, you think we should tell them that Mitch’s old aunt Aggie was a mass murderer?” he asked, his tone light.
That got through a little. Sam blinked, horizontal lines appearing on his forehead.
“What?”
“Yeah. Seems that, after her daughter died, Agnes Markham killed another little girl and blamed the murder on a Chinese opium dealer, who got hanged for it. Started a race riot. Then Agnes stabbed her own husband right in this room, and told everybody that Delilah Reardon had done it. Delilah-who, by the way, was the second little dead girl’s mother-anyway, she spent the rest of her life in prison for a crime she didn’t commit.”
Sam blinked again, his gaze finally tracking up and over to where Dean sat opposite him.
“What?” he repeated, using a little more energy this time, and Dean snorted a laugh.
“Turns out JT and Delilah had known one another back in the day-and I do mean they’d known one another, in the Biblical sense-and had a daughter together, named Katie. Eventually they all came west and ended up in Rattlesnake, in this hotel. When Agnes lost her own daughter, then found out that Katie was JT’s kid, she kinda freaked. I don’t know, maybe she wasn’t even all there to begin with. Left a lot of blood in her wake, anyway.”
Sam’s gaze had sharpened considerably, and his lips had tightened into a thin line.
“Dean, you know this how, exactly?”
Dean raised his eyebrows innocently. “It’s nothin’ to worry about, Sammy. I’ll fill you in on the details later. Important thing is, one kid and the Chinese guy have moved on, I think, now that we know who the real killer is. Was? Whatever. You were right, by the way, about Agnes being residual.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed and he rolled a hand, so Dean kept talking.
“I thought it was Delilah who stabbed me, at first, because of the story, you know, and because they look so much alike, but it was definitely Agnes. Ol’ gal showed up again tonight with her knife; went through the exact same routine. I just happened to be standing in the sweet-spot that first time-tonight, I wasn’t, and she never batted an eye. Just did her Norman Bates thing, slashin’ away at nothing.”
So what if there were parts of the story he was leaving out. Sammy’d never know, and what were a few little secrets between brothers?
“How come we didn’t know our own room was haunted?” Sam asked, more than a little vexed, and his brother scoffed.
“Because Psychic Wonder-Boy was never here!” Dean said, spreading his arms wide, relieved at the change of topics. “Sam, you’ve spent this whole gig either down in that mine or chasing some tai-uh, talking with your old school buddy, and I've been zoned on fucking painkillers half the time. I shoulda known, 'cause it happened to Dad once back in--I don't know, Ohio, I think, and I caught all kinds of hell for it-but it took me until tonight to figure out that the EMF meter just wasn’t gettin’ any juice. Man, we’ve been playing with so many major friggin’ spirits in this town-I mean, think about it. Bull Clancy, Quon-Jin, Aggie Markham, even little Katie-they were all working some heavy-duty mojo, and they drained every battery we had, even the new ones.”
The younger man nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I had the meter with me in the mine that first morning-I think it went off when the ghost mule showed up and that’s about it. But I put fresh batteries in.”
“Oh, I did, too, more than once. Didn’t matter.”
“Wow.” Sam stared vacantly at nothing in particular across the room. “Think we’re slipping?”
“Hell no. We’re alive, aren’t we? The ghosts are toast, but everybody else survived. Thing is, though, we’d be smart to stop relying so much on equipment and start engaging our thinkers a little more.”
Dean tapped a finger against his temple, but he’d lost Sam’s attention again. He surveyed the marks on his brother’s face and hands and knees critically, deeming them survivable, then ducked his head a little to check the younger man’s downcast eyes. Aw, hell. Looked like they still had a long night ahead of them…
“Anyway,” he concluded, “before you get too settled, we’ve got some digging to do before daylight. A killer, a kid, and a Gold Rush pop-star out at the Founders Cemetery, plus a queue at the Chinese temple down the street.”
Sam frowned slightly, like he was trying to decide whether he smelled something bad.
“We have to dig up a pool cue,” he said in flat disbelief, and Dean chuffed.
“Dude. No. Like a, you know, a mullet for old Chinese guys.” He waggled a couple of fingers vaguely toward the back of his neck, but Sam still didn’t seem to be tracking. Wasn’t looking, anyhow. “We probably don’t really have to, Sammy, but we might as well make sure Katie and Quon-Jin don’t come back, or the Markhams, either. Then, I figure we do a generic cleansing ritual here at the hotel tomorrow morning, and that should take care of it.”
“Melanie said she wanted ghosts.”
“Yeah, well, she can’t have these.”
Sam came suddenly to life, scrubbing a hand over his face in unexpected vexation and meeting his brother’s eyes across the table. “Wait-Agnes’s daughter? I thought the Markhams didn’t have any chi-Dean, could we just set the record straight, here? Since we got to Rattlesnake, you’ve pulled me out of a mine-shaft, been attacked by a psycho Casper, dispelled three ghosts and trashed a museum.”
Dean had been looking pretty pleased, but at that last, he sobered. “Grace mentioned that, huh? C’mon, Sam. I needed those teeth.”
“My point, Dean,” Sam continued, his patience stretched to the limit, “is that you were supposed to be giving your knee a chance to heal.”
“Hey, have I been drivin’ my car? Did I even once get to see the real inside of the mine? Well, at the very end, yeah, but that wasn’t my fault, plus it’s not like I had much chance to look around. And I gotta point out, Sammy, that it was your idea to come to Rattlesnake in the first place.”
Sam’s snort of laughter was dry and mirthless. “Yeah. And that worked out great, didn’t it?”
“For some,” Dean acquiesced instantly.
“Not for Steve.”
“You saved his life, Sam. And you don’t know that things aren’t gonna work out for him with the mine. There was ever a guy who could find the silver lining, he’s it. Clancy’s gone, now, and Erica already wrote the state inspection report, right? She’s not gonna go back and change it-she’s not gonna touch this place or anything to do with it ever again.”
His brother had a point, Sam had to admit. Still, there was an awful lot about Rattlesnake that felt like defeat.
“I liked her,” he said quietly after a moment, and Dean dropped his eyes.
“I know you did. I’m sorry.”
The younger man smiled sadly. “She was smart and funny, and we hit it off pretty well, you know? I kind of felt like I might be ready.”
Dean looked up at him through thick lashes, and Sam heard the unspoken question clearly.
“Ready to move on,” he explained, eyes pinned now to a spot on the table between them. “After all this time, I thought it might be time. You know, time to get past the past with Jessica and get on with my life.”
He took in a deep breath; let it out on a gusting, humorless laugh. “Guess I was wrong. Good thing, too, because Erica sure hates me now.”
Whatever Sam had felt for Erica, Dean was pretty sure she’d just been the warm-up, turning up the flames under the pressure-cooker. When Sam truly fell, finally let go…
“Mount St. Helens,” Dean murmured.
“What?”
Jesus, this kid was hard work.
Dean’s tone was earnest as he thumped a forefinger against the table-top, making sure he had his brother’s attention. “Sam, none of what happened to Erica was your fault. You know that, right? Bull Clancy should’ve been gone, and Steve told me she’s the one who asked him to take her that far down into the mine in the first place. But, man, the real thing is that she just wasn’t right for you. If she had been, then tonight would’ve gone a helluva lot differently. Yeah, she’s bright and you liked hanging out with her. But then, what happened, happened, and she couldn’t deal. That’s not the kind of woman for you, man. And you can’t just rush these things-you know that, Sammy. Not the real ones, anyway. When the time’s right, and when the girl’s right, then it’s gonna go a lot different for you, I swear. You’ll get there. Soon.”
The younger Winchester shook his head, still refusing to meet his brother’s eyes. “I don’t know, man. Maybe.”
“No ‘maybe’ about it, trust me on this. And in the meantime? You got enough things tryin’ to beat up on you without you doin’ it to yourself, so go easy, okay? Cut yourself some slack.”
Sam twitched a skeptical half-smile, but Dean could see he was coming around, especially when the smile turned sheepish and Sam looked up, at last catching his brother’s gaze.
“Yeah. Okay. Hey, Dean-“ Sam reddened slightly. “Um….”
Dean waved a dismissive hand, scoffing magnanimously. “Dude. I’m the oldest. Where else you gonna learn this stuff?”
Sam’s dimples deepened, smile stretching across his face. Now, Dean thought. Now the smile was genuine. Good work, Winchester.
“Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “We’ve got some graves and a temple to desecrate tonight.”
“’We’?” Sam responded wryly. “I’ll be doing the digging, man-you’re not even getting out of the car. You can just boss me around from the back seat.”
All innocence, Dean slapped a hand against his right thigh. Ouch. “Knee’s fine, Sam. You’re the one who’s been doin’ all the heavy lifting, this gig. I’ve just been sittin’ around on my ass, tryin’ to heal.”
As he rose from the table, Sam’s laugh had a bit more strength to it. “Yeah, tell me about it. So, we dig up the cemetery, and then what? We're gonna stay ‘til next Thursday when the Markhams get back, right?”
Dean shrugged, putting the lines back above his brother’s brows. “I think we’re pretty much done with Rattlesnake, don’t you?”
“Dean. What about, you know-Grace?”
There was no need to tell Sammy that Grace had called just after she’d gotten home; had told Dean that Sam was all right, but hurting. He’d thanked her, and she’d thanked him, and before they’d said goodnight, they’d both realized that what they were really saying was goodbye.
“I’m thinking about how I might prove that Quon-Jin and Delilah Reardon were innocent,” she had said. “I mean, after all these years….”
Dean had chuckled. “Not like you’re gonna find any eye-witnesses, right? I don’t know, Grace. You know the truth, now, and I’m not sure there’s anybody left who’s hurtin’ because the town history’s got it wrong. Honestly, sometimes what’s dead should just stay dead.”
There had been a brief pause then, and when Grace had finally asked, “What if it’s something just being born?” Dean had known that she meant them. The two of them, at the beginning of something that maybe had possibilities, maybe had a future.
It was just that this thing with Sam, whatever it was, that’s what Dean had to devote himself to right now. To Sam, and keeping him safe. Until Yellow-Eyes was sent to Hell for good, until this goddamned Winchester darkness was truly and finally over, Dean’s focus had to be on his family. What little was left of it, anyway.
Because his family was Sam, and Sam was the most important thing of all.
“I’m sorry, Grace,” he’d said, and part of him had meant it, and part of him hadn’t. “It’s just that right now-well, I’m sorta lookin’ after my brother right now. We lost our dad not too long ago, and Sam…well, Sammy’s kind of a special case, and I’ve got to watch out for him.”
“Ohhh.” There was sudden realization in the single word, as if she’d heard nothing of what he’d said and yet understood everything clearly now. “It’s about what you do, isn’t it, Dean? Your duty to your brother, what happened today at the joss house, what happened today at the mine-they’re all connected somehow, aren’t they? They’re like your job, or-no. Oh, Dean, no. It’s more than that. They’re like your life.”
Her perception and empathy had shaken him, and this time the pause had been longer.
“Well…” he’d begun, and Grace had taken him off the hook with a sad little laugh.
“It’s too bad you’re not really with the Weather Service,” she’d said quietly. “Then maybe we’d have had a chance.”
“I’m sorry, Grace,” he’d told her again. “I really am.”
“Oh, Junjei. Of all people, I understand responsibility to your family. Really, I do. So, please-take care of your brother, and be well.”
“Yeah. Yeah-you, too, Xiuying. You be well, too.”
Now, lips pursed, the older man shrugged again. “Nice girl, great lookin’, but I’m good to go, Sammy.”
Perplexed, Sam examined his brother for a moment, not quite sure what was happening.
“There’s nothing wrong with taking a break and letting your knee mend, Dean,” he said. “You need some time to really heal. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothin’,” his brother replied uncomfortably, looking away, voice rising in a way that surely meant there was something.
Sam frowned again, crossing his arms over his chest and standing imperviously. He wasn’t going to move until he got an answer, and he knew Dean knew it.
“It’s Grace,” he said certainly, couching his concern with humor, knowing it was his only chance at dragging the truth from his equally stubborn brother. “Something happened with Grace, or didn’t happen with Grace. She turned you down. No-she asked you to move in with her. She’s pregnant and her father hates you. Oh, God, you’ve fallen in love with her, so you’re running!”
Dean rolled his eyes. Freakin' emo little brother thinks he's a comedian. “Ha ha. It’s not Grace. Like I said, she’s a great girl, and I wouldn’t have minded spending some more time with her, but-Sam, don’t you think it’s kind of weird?”
Sam’s brows climbed his forehead.
Okay, that one was out of left field.
“What?”
“What?”
The younger Winchester sighed. It was definitely--well, probably--Grace, and Dean wasn't going to talk about it.
“What’s weird, Dean?”
“Rattlesnake! This tiny little town, it’s got nothin’ goin’ for it, nothin’ goin’ on-“
“Not any more,” Sam cut in, and Dean gave him the point.
“Right, not any more. But all the people, man, the families-they’re all the same! Dead people, living people-they’ve all hung out in Rattlesnake for, like, generations. It’s like this place kinda sucks you in, and then just doesn’t let you go. I mean, look at ‘em all-the Hartsons, the Markhams, the Chins? Been here forever, and they're gonna stay here forever." Dean shook his head. "Rattlesnake’s cursed, man, I’m tellin’ you. People stayin’ in one town for so long? It’s just not natural.”
“Dude, it’s completely natural,” Sam scoffed, reclaiming his seat. “There’s nothing wrong with finding a place you really like and settling down there, Dean. A lot of people do that. A lot of people want that.”
His brother shuddered dramatically. “It’s just too permanent for me, man. I’d feel trapped-like all these people are trapped.”
It was Sam’s turn to shrug. “I don’t think they see it that way. You and me-we just have a different perspective, is all.”
“Yeah, well, my perspective says we get out of here in the mornin’, all right? Tonight we get the ritual done, dig up Katie and the Markhams and the pigtail; come daylight, we wash that friggin’ yellow dust off my baby, and then we got three weeks to kill before we have to be anywhere. Me, I’d just as soon spend it on the road.”
Brows furrowing, Sam shifted in his chair. “No! You need to see someone about your kn-wait. What? Where do we have to be in three weeks?”
“Bobby called right after you left the North Cedar, Sammy,” Dean said at once, leaning forward eagerly and licking his lower lip, green eyes sparkling. “Said that last weekend, a hooker working the waterfront got killed and ended up in the bay. She’s the latest of a handful in the past year or so. Any of this sounding familiar to you?”
Sam let his gaze wander while he thought. “San Francisco?” he said finally, hooked. “The missing hearts thing?”
“Yahtzee! After we pitched Bobby that maybe there was a pattern, he started lookin’, too. Said another vic got ganked on Saturday. He thought, since we were already out here in Cali…”
Dean cocked his head, an enticing grin on his face, and Sam realized that it had been a while since he’d seen his brother so excited about a possible job, almost glowing as he gloated.
With a half-smile, Sam leaned forward, too. “And you think-“
“I think San Francisco might be looking at a werewolf, Sammy, and next full moon, you and me are gonna hunt it down and kill it dead with a silver bullet to the heart. Trust me, little brother-this is just what the doctor ordered, for the both of us!”
fin
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Thank you so much for reading “Rush.” Comments are welcomed.
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A/N: I have apparently spent a ridiculously long time being perturbed by "Heart." Well, not "Heart," really, but by Sam and his whole head-over-heels plunge into--whatever. Lust or love, take your pick and I won't argue. Anyway, as far as I was concerned, Sammy's storyline in that ep lacked sufficient set-up, sufficient motivation. For some reason, it gnawed at me, that lack....
Then, last spring, toward the end of S3 with Dean's clock ticking down and his approaching death too horrific to even consider, I happened to visit the old family homestead in Gold Country. This required driving long stretches of Highway 49 for maybe the millionth or billionth time, and everything was coated in pollen as thick as I'd ever seen. I had Metallica on the iPod and Winchesters on the brain; somewhere along the road's snaky curves through the heart of the Mother Lode, inspiration came in a rush. (But, goodness, it's been a long time reaching fruition!)