Phantom Load - Part 2

[lovesrain44]

Thursday, January 9th, 1992

The next day Dean found out that homework was definitely a big fat deal at Nevin Platt. The teachers in all his morning classes scowled at him for not having anything to hand in; even in gym, he got yelled at for not having the right footwear or uniform. When he told them he was still new, they tapped their respective pens or pencils on the edge of teacher desks and lectured on responsibility. Told him to stay on top of it or he would fall behind, and then where would that take him? Not very far, young man. Dean shrugged. He didn’t care.

At lunchtime, he felt in his pocket for his dollar and thought about what he would eat. But as he got to the glass windows that looked in on the lunchroom, he stopped. Mr. Gunnarson was over by the head of the line where the kids were waiting to go through and get their trays and food. He was smiling and patted one boy on the head; he looked across the sea of round tables as he did this, like he was checking the place out. Like he was looking for something. Dean slowly backed away and told himself he wasn't hungry.

He waited outside in the sunshine and the brisk wind without his coat, thinking that in a little while Gunnarson would be gone. But by the time the bell rang for his next class, the lunchroom was closed up and a lady janitor was already cleaning the tables. His stomach growled as he walked to geography, where even Mr. Collins, in his purple tie, made a comment over the lack of homework.

But, unlike his other teachers, Mr. Collins was nice about it and smiled at him. “Don’t you want to know where Timbuktu is?” he asked. “That’s where you can find Tasmanian devils. Like on the Road Runner cartoon?” Yeah, Dean wanted to know that. He might have to go there for a hunt some day. When he was big. “Okay,” he said. He'd do his homework. He nodded at Mr. Collins.

When school let out at 3:10, Dean scurried from his art class down the right-hand of the H, and cut across the middle hallway. He stopped at his locker to drop off half of his books. He kept the geography one, the math one, and the English book, and figured he needed a backpack or something, like all the other kids had. Then he locked the locker.

On his way down the left-hand of the H, he passed the little hallway that jigged to the right, where you couldn’t see the dead end. All of a sudden, without even looking, he could see the dark-booted foot and the grey-slacked legs of the janitor coming around the corner. Dean's heart gave a little jump and he made himself not run. He hurried down the hall to the entrance of the school, as fast as he could without running.

Once through the front door, books clasped to his chest, he skirted to the edge of the sidewalk, not quite knowing what he was doing. Going over his books and his homework in his mind. Math, first ten problems. Geography, read the chapter on Russia. English, spelling words. Easy peasy. Sam needed a hat. He needed a backpack. They would have spaghetti for dinner, unless Sam wanted chili and corn chips.

His brain was rattled for things to think of, and then Joel Booth walked up to him, saying something random about kids who were too poor to get the right gear, kids who looked funny in their stupid wool coats, kids who didn’t have proper shoes. Dean ignored him. After all, he knew a real monster when he saw one and Joel was just a creep.

By the time the 3:30 van arrived, he almost ran at Sammy and hustled them both down the street. When they got to the trailer, the clouds had blocked out the sunset and the Impala was in the driveway. Sammy shrieked and ran up the stairs, flinging it open to race in without knocking the snow from his feet. By the time Dean climbed the steps, Dad was helping Sammy off with his coat, brushing his hand over Sammy’s head.

“Where’s his hat?” he asked, looking at Dean.

“Some kid stole it,” said Dean. “Yesterday. And I need shorts for gym. And something for my books.”

For a moment Dad was still, frowning a little, scratching his chin. He looked at Dean, and Dean looked back, staying steady. A Winchester didn’t ask for something he didn’t really need.

“Keep your coat on then. We’ll pick that up, if you need it. McDonalds?”

Sammy did a dance of glee as Dad helped him back on with his coat. Dean put his books on the table and took Sammy’s plastic bag and laid that down too.

“It doesn’t have to be fancy, Dad,” said Dean, buttoning his coat up.

“I know,” said Dad. “But if the army surplus store is still open, we can get you both something.”

The army surplus store was down on Pearl Street and had everything. Dad was quick; Dean trailed after him, keeping a tug on Sam’s coat so he wouldn’t wander off in the mystery and magic that was the army surplus store. There were rows and rows of closely packed bits of anything a hunter might need. Or a hunter’s boys. Dad got them two grey, canvas messenger bags, a new pair of sneakers for Dean, and shorts for gym class.

“Wear a t-shirt with that, son,” said Dad, as they stood in line for the cash register. “And if that’s not enough, I’ll give you a note to sit it out.”

Dean nodded. He could forge his own notes pretty well, but it was always easier if Dad just wrote them himself.

After, they drove through the slushy streets to the McDonalds, which was next to a 7-11, on Baseline. As they went in, Dad gave them the look, the one that told them to mind themselves, but it was almost a lost cause. Sammy couldn’t stand still in line in anticipation of the French fries, and danced about, bumping into people until Dad chuffed him upside the head and told Dean to watch him. When they got their tray of food, they slid into one of the orange booths, and found out that as a treat, Dad had gotten them both fruit pies. Dean had the apple of course, and Sam got the cherry one. Sammy got half his pie on his face, and Dean burned his tongue on the filling, but the shakes were cool, and the fries salty. It was the perfect meal; he hadn't known he was starving until they sat down to eat.

Then Dad drove them back to the trailer. They trundled from the Impala, up the metal steps, and stomped their feet to remove the snow. As Dean laid their coats on the back of chairs, Dad sat on the couch to unlace his boots.

“We okay on supplies, Dean?” he asked.

“Yes, Dad,” said Dean, toeing off his sneakers.

“Well, I’m leaving in the morning. Take this twenty, if you need anything.”

“What are you hunting?” asked Dean, taking the money and going directly to put it in the coffee tin by the sugar.

“I dunno,” said Dad. He stood up to put the boots by the door. “Some kind of phantom; I’ll find out when I get there. You got homework?”

“Some,” said Dean, trying not to squirm. He’d been hoping to get out of it, but alas, no.

“You and Sammy, then. Homework. Then bed. You hear me, Sammy?”

“Yes, Dad,” said Sam. He got up from the couch and moped his way to the table. This was a sham, Dean knew. Sam loved to do those dumb worksheets, or the reading, or writing little stories. Anything to hand in, because he knew he would always get good marks. What a dork. Dean pulled out his geography book. It seemed the least painful of his options.

*

It was like a getaway chase game, only he was the one being chased. His heart thumped like birds trying to get free. He ran down the halls.

Someone was around the corner. Waiting. Dark and still.

Something jumped out at him, he hadn’t seen it coming.

There were hands on him. Hard, like the claws of a wendigo Dad had shown him once. Exactly like that.

They reached. They were fast. They got him.

"Dean?"

When he heard Sam's voice, he woke up. He could feel sweat pooling in the creases of his neck even as a cold draft came down from the window over their heads. His throat felt thick, like someone had stuffed a fist in there, and he reached up to wipe the sweat away, to ease his breathing. Then he tried to stay still, like he wasn't awake, but Sam tapped him and then butted his warm head against Dean's arm.

"Dean," he said again. Sleeping. Already falling back asleep.

Dean listened as Sam's breathing slowed and quieted back down. Swallowing, he waited till his heartbeat evened out and the shadows in the room felt comfortable. Even the cool air stirring around his ears felt good. Everything was okay now. He was okay. It had just been a dream. Everybody had those.

Friday, January 10, 1992

They ate cereal at the table, which felt a little big without Dad there. Dean hoped Sam wouldn’t say anything about it.

“C’mon, eat up," Dean said, "and I’ll give you a dollar for lunch.”

“Don’t need a dollar,” said Sammy through a full mouth, wiggling on his chair.

“Why not, didn’t you eat?”

“I had lunch,” said Sammy, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. “It was only 55 cents, so I've been keeping the rest.” He looked at Dean. “I wanna buy candy with it.”

It was part confession, part consultation. If Dean didn’t give him another dollar, he could give him ten cents, enough to buy lunch, and Sam would get no candy. The decision was Dean’s.

“Thought lunch was a dollar at your school,” Dean said. “That’s what I told Dad.”

Confession and consultation on his part, too. If Sammy decided to be horribly honest, Dean would have to as well. He still had the dollar from the day before.

They looked at each other. Then Sammy shrugged and looked up at Dean, cocking his head to the side. “Candy? We could split it.”

Dean nodded. “Candy. We could walk to the 7-11 when we have enough.”

That done, Dean jerked his head over his shoulder and began cleaning up from breakfast. Took his bowl and Sam's and rinsed them in the sink.

“You gotta catch the bus,” said Dean, looking at the clock. “Hurry, or I’ll be the one who gets it if you miss it.” If Sam missed the bus, there was no way he could get to school, and no way Dean could leave him at home alone. It would be all kinds of messy when Dad found out.

Sam hurried. Dean hurried too. He had on his other jeans, the ones without the holes in the seat of the pants, and a clean shirt. He tucked a dollar from the jar in his pocket and slipped on his coat. He grabbed his new school bag, packed it with his books and notebook. He made sure that Sammy was zipped up, had his bag too, and gave him a dollar, and walked outside to wait with him by the side of the road in the icy, blue air till the yellow bus came.

“See you at 3:30,” he said, not hugging Sammy. Not touching him. Sammy didn’t need that kid stuff anymore.

As Sam's bus pulled away, Dean walked along Baseline road towards the school, the slush from the night before now frozen spikes beneath his sneakered feet. He realized he’d forgotten his new gym shorts and sneakers, but never mind. He was still the new kid, and the excuse of being overwhelmed by the newness of it all was still good for a few days yet. He’d done his geography homework, had glanced at the English spelling words enough to be able to fake it. Screw math. He could do that in his head. In his sleep, even.

At the corner of Baseline and Cherryvale, he stopped to check for his dollar. Still there. Then he hoofed it across the street when someone stopped at the stop sign and headed towards the other leg of Baseline. Some screwball had spilt the street in two; Dad had said something about it being on one of the actual lines of latitude, which could be pretty cool, if he had any idea what it meant. He’d ask Mr. Collins about it. He seemed the type to like questions like that.

Then he walked up Baseline, joining the babble of kids at the crosswalk, the sea of blue and red and green down coats. Dean felt cold in his wool pea coat, unbuttoned, but reckoned it would help make him tough. He had no hat or scarf or mittens like the other kids had. Sometimes hunters had to go without shoes, even. Or eating. Or sleeping. You always had to be on the alert. When he was allowed to go on a hunt, he would be tough. He wouldn’t be soft. He would be ready.

Nevin Platt rose up, red brick against the hard, clear sky. There were buses in the parking lot, teacher’s cars, people walking towards the front door. Dean felt something vacant and empty slip inside of his head. That was okay. All he had to do was make it to his first class. What was his first class, anyway? By the time he got to the front door, his heart was pounding. He didn’t have his slip of paper; it was in his other pants. The pants with the holes. Or more holes. These ones, the ones he had on, were a little worn on one knee. He hoped it wouldn’t attract any attention.

Hefting his messenger bag, he looped it over his head sideways so it lay across his chest and rested his hand along the top. Then he opened the door. Science. He had science. Science classes were in the middle corridor going across. He could head straight up the left hand side of the H, or he could go along the front corridor and head up the right hand side of the H. Yeah. There would be fewer kids on that side of the building, away from the band rooms and the auditorium. He started walking. Heart thudding, and he really didn’t know why.

*

During geography, Mr. Collins was cool. They were talking about the Soviet Union, and Mr. Collins, wearing a green tie, had handed out study sheets for next week’s test, and then asked if there were any questions.

Dean, sitting in the back of the room, had raised his hand. Not something he normally would do, not after Dad’s instructions of head down, no trouble, no attention. But he couldn't resist.

“Yes, Dean,” said Mr. Collins, pointing at him as he walked between the rows of desks.

“This ain’t to do with the Soviet Union,” he said, feeling his mouth go a little dry as everyone turned to look at him. “But I got a question.

“Yes, Dean, go ahead.”

“Um, my Dad says that Baseline Road is on a latitude. What does that mean?”

“Well, now.” Mr. Collins settled a hip on the edge of his desk. “That’s a very good question. Can anyone answer Dean?”

The entire class was totally silent. No one had any idea what he was talking about.

“Okay, then, here’s your answer. Remember when we talked about longitude and latitude and how they marked space and time on the globe?”

Everyone around Dean nodded, and Dean nodded too.

“Well, Baseline Road sits exactly on top of the north 40th parallel, which, as you all know, you can see on any globe.”

“Any globe?” asked someone in front of the room.

“Any. Here, take a look.” Mr. Collins went over to the table near the windows and picked up the globe. Spun it around, and traced his finger along a dark black line. “It’s pretty specific and very clear. This line goes round the world, and we’re a part of it.”

There was a general sigh of appreciation from the class and then Mr. Collins nodded at Dean. “Great question, Dean. Bonus points for you.” He went back up front and put the globe away.

The bell rang.

“Okay, finish the chapter on the Soviet Union and start reviewing the study sheets I just gave you. Test on Monday.”

Dean tucked the sheet in his bag, and then stood up. He had two more classes, just social studies and art. They were both in the topmost corridor; he could easily hurry up the left hand side of the H. Hurry. Keep to the wall. It would be okay.

Thursday, November 23rd, 2006 - Thanksgiving Day

Getting Dean up in the morning was as hard as he remembered getting Dad up after Dad had hit the bottle too hard because it was the wrong time of year, or the right time or whatever. Not that it happened very often, but when it did, the memory was as clear as a punch to the jaw. And Dean liked to sleep in, yes, that was true, it always had been. He was a night owl or an alley cat, and it was after the sun went down that he came to life.

Nine o’clock had come and gone by the time Sam went to eat breakfast. The Buff Restaurant was a little diner attached to the motel. It had the usual booths and tables, and a sunroom with tables along the window. Sam sat in the sunshine and drank over-sugared coffee that tasted of burnt orange rinds and looked over Phil’s notes. The eggs were good and fresh, though, and the butter real. That made up for it. He’d wanted to take a donut or something back to the room, a danish even, but the kitchen had been flat out, he was told, half an hour before he’d gotten there. Try again tomorrow. When he got back to the room, Sam had to resort to kicking the bed Dean slept in.

“Don’t,” said Dean, into his pillow. He rolled over, half-awake, the back of his hair standing straight up as if it had been glued that way. “Don’t you ever.”

Sam tried not to loom. He wished he had a bag of something to shake at Dean, something sweet to keep him at bay. Always best, when older brother was like this, to distract him with pastries. “C’mon, Dean, this is an easy one. The sooner we’re done, the sooner we’re-”

“Easy?” asked Dean, scrubbing his right eye with the heel of his palm. “Why are you so sure, we haven’t even started.”

Shrugging off his coat, now that he was in the warm, dry air of the motel room, Sam moved to the little table next to the window, his fingers reaching out to his laptop, Dad’s journal. He put down the crisp pad of paper and the new pen he’d bought himself last week and stacked Phil’s notes on top of that. “It seems pretty obvious to me. Some ghost is haunting the school for some reason. I looked at Phil’s notes, and they’re-”

“Amateur stuff, right?”

Sam sat in the chair, leaning into the curved back. He pretended to be very interested in what his laptop was doing at the moment, which was sleeping, so as not to let it fly in Dean’s direction everything he was not saying. “Not really. He didn’t know what he was seeing, but he was pretty systematic about it all. Each night new marks, new things disrupted and opened. But, he says at the end of the third month, he began to realize that there was no permanent damage. Funny, for a ghost, huh? Like it was being careful or something.”

Dean sat up, like Sam knew he would. There wasn’t a puzzle in the world that Dean could resist, and in particular, Sam’s making it sound like the whole deal was already solved was enough to make him edgy and determined to prove that they would be better off if they solved this gig together. As they had all the other gigs. As they would, Sam presumed, solve all the gigs to come.

Looking at his feet, Dean sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers curving into the rumpled counterpane so hard they disappeared. “I need a shower,” he said. Then he looked up, and it was then Sam noticed the circles under his eyes, as though the sleep Dean had gotten had worn him out rather than done him any good. “After that,” continued Dean, as if unaware of Sam looking at him so hard, “what do you want to do?”

“EMF readings,” said Sam. That much was obvious. Plus, according to Phil, when they went into the school, they would find evidence of the ghost having been there. “Far as I know, no one has ever been hurt by this ghost-”

“Or as yet unknown entity,” said Dean, standing. Butting in.

“Or entity,” said Sam, nodding. He watched Dean strip out of his t-shirt as he walked into the bathroom. Watched the door close, heard the shower going on. Maybe he should have listened to Dean when he’d half-complained about not wanting to come to Boulder. The last time the Winchesters had lived there, Dean had caught a cold pretty much early on and it had not left him until they had left the area. Maybe the thin air didn’t agree with him, which didn’t make any sense, since Manning had not had the same effect on him and was even higher in elevation. Maybe it was the time of year, maybe it was nothing.

*

They pulled into the now-empty parking lot of Nevin Platt. A bit of wind whisked at their feet, carrying hard bits of snow. As they walked up to the front door, the edge of the roof seemed to loom at them against the clear blue sky. He couldn't remember his own school, but he could remember meeting Dean here under the same sky. It'd been cold then as well, but for some reason, Dean's pea coat had always been unbuttoned, yet at the same time, he'd fussed at Sam to keep his jacket zipped up on the walks home. Where was the trailer they'd lived in anyway? For some reason, he couldn't place it on the map in his memory.

“I remember,” said Sam, as he watched Dean unlock the front door, “it being the shortest semester on record that you went here.”

“What’s that?” Dean asked above the loud alarm beeps as he strode to the alarm pad and punched in the seven numbers that Phil had given them. The pad gave a small beep and then stopped. “What?”

“You went to school here; I went to elementary school down the road. We were here, what, three weeks before something lit a fire under Dad and we were out of here.”

“Don’t get started, Sam,” said Dean. He put the piece of paper with the alarm numbers on it in his shirt pocket. He had to reach under his leather jacket to his flannel shirt to do this, and it occurred to Sam how many layers Dean was wearing. Leather jacket, fleece vest, flannel t-shirt, thermal underwear. It was cold, but not that cold. “Don’t get started about Dad. Not today. You were in elementary school, you didn’t miss anything important.”

“I’m not complaining,” said Sam, feeling the last of his hold on his temper slipping. He waited a minute, Dean’s eyes glittering at him from that pale face. “I just said it was short, is all.”

Dean’s jaw worked. Then he turned on his heel and pulled the EMF from his jacket pocket. He held it in one hand and turned it on, and then waved to Sam to come along. Together they walked up the left hand side of the H. As soon as they passed the auditorium, the meter went off, that low buzzing whine sending a familiar shock up Sam’s spine. Bingo. He never could understand why it still got to him when Dean’s homemade meter would make that sound. He should be used to it.

“Look,” he said, tapping Dean on the shoulder.

They looked up the hallway at the shining floors, the bank of lockers completely open, with kid’s stuff falling out, and Sam could see a row of black X’s near the ceiling.

“Something opened them,” said Dean.

“And no kid could have gotten up there to make those marks.”

They walked closer, and the hallway was so quiet, Sam could hear Dean’s breathing, the creak of the leather of his jacket. When they got to the open bank of lockers, they were in front of the library, the bank of glass letting them see in to the half-lit room, with rows of books under a very high ceiling. The X’s, along the opposite wall, were about the size of a man’s palm, each neatly in the center of the polished brick, and above every locker that had been opened. 25 in all.

Dean tilted his head back to look up at them, and then scratched the back of his head. He looked at Sam. “We should keep track of where the X’s show up,” he said.

“We need to clean them off; Phil’s got some sort of cleanser that will work-”

The expression on Dean’s face stopped him. There was a little gleam there, the twitch of an eyebrow, and a small little nod that told Sam that Dean had just figured something out, all in his head, just standing there. Figured out something it would have taken Sam, or John, even, pieces of paper, charts, graphs, just to see the pattern.

“We should leave the marks,” he said, “till we figure out what they’re for.”

“How is leaving them-” Sam began, then he snapped his mouth shut. Dean already knew that.

“We leave them so we can see the pattern of where they show up. If we can compare that to where they don’t show up then-”

“We can maybe figure out why.” Sam nodded. “Phil washed them off religiously. Every day, according to his notes.” Sam wanted to mention that the notes were available at any time for Dean’s perusal, but he didn’t. Notes were fine and Dean could unlock the mysteries of a pie chart as fast as the next man. But he much preferred to see the evidence with his own naked eye and could grasp what it meant as easily as he could pick up a fork.

“It’ll mean cleaning them all off after,” said Dean, “but hell, we’ve pulled all-nighters before.”

“If this is the average number of X’s,” said Sam, chewing on his thumb, “around 25, for six months, that’s 180 days times-”

“Lots and lots, Sam,” said Dean.

“Four thousand, five hundred,” finished Sam.

“Thanks, Spock,” said Dean.

“Shut up, Kirk,” said Sam, now smiling.

Dean waved the EMF to point up the hallway. “Let’s cover the rest of the school, and then get out of here.

“We could go eat lunch, you know,” said Sam, falling in at Dean’s side as they walked up the ramp towards the top of the school. “You didn't eat this morning.”

“I'm good,” Dean said to this, his head bent over the meter. “Not hungry now anyhow.”

They circled the whole school. The only place the meter went off was in front of the Auditorium.

“No,” said Sam, reaching out to grab the EMF. Dean pulled it out of reach. “I think it’s the hallway, point it this way.”

“I’ll point it,” said Dean. “You make an EMF, you get to point it. Otherwise, keep your hands off.”

Sam didn’t let himself snort at this and kept his hands at his sides, however much they might want to strangle. The EMF kept shrieking at them as they went down the little side corridor, and Dean kept walking, holding it in front of him. The passage was cold and the air seemed sharp, and Sam was about to open his mouth and say ghost, I told you so, when Dean stopped. Right in front of the door leading to the boiler room and the janitor’s office.

“Is that where it goes?” asked Sam.

“Do we have the keys?” asked Dean. He lowered the volume on the EMF, and, without looking at Sam, tucked his chin into his shoulder, like he was stretching a muscle.

“Yeah,” said Sam. “All the ones Phil gave me. They’re all marked. Hang on.”

Sam dug in his pocket and pulled out the ring of keys. There weren’t many; the school had master locks, Phil had said, so as to keep the number of keys down. It apparently was an improvement on the way things had been done when Blake was there. Seven keys. Sam twirled them on the ring in his hand. He found the one labeled Boiler and unlocked the door. When he opened the door, Dean stepped back, and Sam felt the cold, dank air rush out at him. Just like it had the day before, as if the rooms below hadn’t been opened for years and years instead of just a day. He reached in to flip on the light. It fluttered yellow for a minute before coming on with full strength.

“What is it with ghosts and basements?” asked Sam, turning to share the joke with Dean.

Dean was right behind him, holding the EMF with one hand, holding his jacket closed with the other.

“You cold?” Sam asked.

“Maybe coming down with something.”

“You look it,” said Sam. “We’ll check out the boiler room and then go get lunch. After all, it is a holiday.”

“Uh-huh,” said Dean.

Sam led the way down the stairs single file, hearing the small squeal of the EMF and Dean’s footsteps behind him on the metal stairs. They walked down the narrow passage, the cement wall on one side, the row of boilers and their pipes and lights on the other till they reached the battered doorway of the janitor’s office. The EMF burst into a cackle and as Sam looked down, the red bar pressed all the way to the right.

Dean clicked the EMF off. “This is where it is,” he said, his voice thick. “Whatever it is.”

Sam opened the door. Flipped on the light, and took in the office, which was as dusty as it had been the day before. The gloom was offset only by the light coming in through the bank of frosted windows. In the silence, the clock, a round, functional throwback from the fifties, ticked loudly. Water dripped along a long, rust-colored stain in the corner sink, and the pipes along the wall rose to bend and disappear into the murk of the ceiling.

“This is where the EMF leads us,” said Sam, stepping into the room. It was not as cold in here as it was in the corridor, though the air was still as murky, and the odor of lemon-lime cleanser was potent. “Shit, that’s strong,” he said looking for the source. But besides the closet full of light bulbs and the shelves of tools and boxes of dry supplies, there was nothing that looked as though it should smell of lemons or limes.

Off to the left of the door, by the pipes, was a small dark opening, as tall as the ceiling.

“What’s in there, I wonder,” he said, almost to himself. He moved to go over to it when he felt Dean’s hand on his sleeve.

“Just a crawlspace,” said Dean. “Under the auditorium, behind the boilers.”

“Oh,” said Sam, nodding. The passage way didn’t look very wide. “Wait. How do you know?”

For a moment there was silence, then he turned to look at Dean who was clutching the EMF to him like a talisman.

“Uh,” said Dean. His mouth worked for a minute. “Well, I went to school here, so I think maybe I just knew that.”

This made sense to Sam. Dean had a mind full of odd factoids, and he could never explain how he had come by them. Sam nodded and looked around the room, thinking if he kept looking hard enough, he’d find the source of that smell. “Okay, so…we’ve located the source. Let’s put the stuff back in the lockers at least, leave the marks, and go get something to eat.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Dean. He was already walking out the door, holding the EMF close. If he’d been any other person besides who he was, Sam would have said that he was running. As it was, it look Sam several long-legged strides to catch up and keep up as Dean raced up the stairs, where he stood, holding the door open. He closed it behind Sam when Sam got to the top. “You going to lock it?” he asked.

“What’s the point?” asked Sam in return. “There’s no kids around, and the front door is locked.

“You should lock it.”

There was a pause and it was in his mouth to ask why it was so important but the curve to Dean’s mouth stopped him. Or rather the lack of it. Dean’s mouth was flat, and his chin was tucking down to his shoulder, and he seemed to be trying to catch his breath as he looked at Sam. There was something in his expression, as though he’d rammed up against something hard and was just now feeling the painful effects.

“Okay,” he said. Sam reached into his pocket and locked the door as fast as he could. As they put stuff back into lockers as neatly as they could and shut the metal doors, something in the back of his brain started moving around ages ago, as if rearranging furniture, but he'd ignored it. He'd been distracted by the hunt, but now the look on Dean’s face worried him. It couldn't just be that Dean was hungry.

When they finished, he tried that first anyway.

“So,” he said, putting the ring back in his pocket and jerking his chin towards the front of the school. “I think either Applebee's or Chili’s is open, your call.”

“Urg,” said Dean. “I hate those places.”

They walked, shoulder to shoulder, their footsteps loud in the empty spaces.

“It is Thanksgiving,” said Sam. “Our options are limited, you realize.”

Dean sighed as he set the alarm, frowning as they walked out the front door. He was almost muttering to himself as he locked up and tested the door with a heft of his hand.

“Or,” said Sam, pushing his fists into the pockets of his jacket as he leaned into the wind. “Seeing as this is Boulder, there might be a Chinese restaurant in town that’s open today.”

They both squinted against the bright sun as Dean rubbed his hands together and blew on them. He was smiling as they walked towards the Impala. “Pork lo mein, man,” he said. “I can taste it now.”

If it would cheer Dean up, Sam was prepared to go anywhere, even a Chinese place that had tons of MSG in every dish.

They drove around in the cold for a bit before they found a place in Niwot that was open. It was called Fan's and even Sam could see the sign that proudly stated no MSG. He liked the way it smelled, and the small tables on the clean, linoleum floor. They ordered tons of food, but when it came, and Sam started inhaling the soup and the lemon chicken, Dean merely poked at his noodles and sauce.

"I thought you liked that," said Sam, around a mouthful.

Dean shrugged. "I'll have it later."

The dark look in his eyes told Sam not to pester him with questions. So Sam didn't. Dean had a right not to eat if he didn't want to. Maybe he was coming down with a cold. Maybe everything would come out in the wash.

Part 3