SPN fic: Bittersweet
Holy crap, I still can't believe I wrote fic. And just in time to beat S5!
I need to cut back down on my online time again. I should hardly ever be on here at all. So between this post and the last (fanmix!), that'll be it for my 2009 fandom contributions. At least this year there were two :)
Title: Bittersweet
Author: On_Verra
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~5,800
Warnings/Enticements:
See pairing, though this is maybe more like pre-slash. Loads of UST & brief mentions of pre-series UST. This is Season 2 case!fic with a twist.
Spoilers: General spoilers through Season 2, Episode 5 ("Simon Said"). Takes place after that ep.
Disclaimer: I do not own the boys, and I make no money from this.
A/N: This is my first fic. I hope it doesn't show! I've been reading in this fandom so much over the last few years that I couldn't resist trying my hand once I finally had a plot bunny of my very own. MANY many thanks to kitsune13 and cathexys for the hand-holding and beta duties! And to linaerys for putting up with my email spammage. Additional A/N at the end.
It had been two weeks, holed up in central Pennsylvania as the season changed from summer to fall. They both needed the break. Sam spent his time reading and scanning the papers for possible hunts, resting the ankle he'd managed to sprain outrunning a groundskeeper during their last salt and burn, while Dean did a little work on the Impala and picked up a couple of odd jobs around the neighborhood.
They'd found quite a few empty houses, repossessed or simply abandoned when the local economy went bust. The place where they were squatting still had electricity, and they spent most evenings smacking the sides of the ancient TV that Dean had found on a closet shelf, trying to get a signal clear enough to watch the news, or whatever old movie was playing.
Sam hunches over a newspaper on the small table in the kitchen, a bowl of cereal in one hand and the morning light flashing in from the dusty window. He looks towards the living room, where Dean is sprawled out on the sofa, one forearm flung over his eyes. There are a few crumpled food wrappers on the floor. Two guns sit on the coffee table with some cleaning rags, and next to them Dad's journal, old and worn. It never ceases to amaze Sam how easily Dean can take up space, spreading bits of himself all over it and making it his own.
Sam usually keeps his own things close by, all stowed in his duffel or in a neat row on the side table of whatever motel they happen to be staying in. He supposes he formed this habit long ago, from that special tension of always waiting for the other shoe to drop as soon as he started to feel at home anywhere. From all those years of the slow-burning resentment that came with knowing he might have to pack up and move at any time, no matter how much he pretended otherwise.
Sam puts the bowl down and picks up a pen to mark the newspaper. "Hey, looks like there might be something up in New York."
Dean lifts his arm and looks up from the couch, his eyes tired. "New York City?"
"No, up north aways."
"Nice. I hate New York City."
"Dean, you've hardly been there in your life."
"No parking, too many tourists. Everything's so damn expensive. We can't even afford beer right now as it is! And last time some chick told me my car was ironic." Dean actually makes air quotes on that last part.
Sam rolls his eyes, not bothering to explain that the girl probably meant it as some sort of compliment. Dean could be so earnest sometimes that it hurt.
"Whatever. This is upstate. If we take the highway we can be there in, like, 5 or 6 hours without getting anywhere near the city." Sam spends the next few minutes rereading the newspaper article. "So the short of it is, guy came out of a bar, got clocked one. Woke up the next morning with nothing missing. Still had his wallet, his keys, everything, so there was no obvious motive."
Dean swings his legs off the side of the couch and sits up. "Uh, where does this sound like our kind of thing, Sammy?"
"Well, right before the guy got knocked out, says he saw a man in old-fashioned clothing leaning up against an old-fashioned car. Like 1920s-style, just hanging out under a streetlamp. Apparently, this was the fourth time that Mr. Olden Days has been spotted just before similar attacks around the area in the last week or so. The police are looking for more information. They think that it could be related to a fifth attack that happened yesterday, at a mini-mart a couple miles from here. I don't think that really fits, but that's why it's in the local paper, anyway."
"Could just be a social reject with anger management issues."
"Maybe," says Sam, "but it's worth checking out. It's not that far, and we've been here too long anyway. I think the neighbors are getting suspicious."
Dean runs a hand over his face, twists the silver ring around on his finger.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay." He stands with a heavy sigh, bending to retrieve the trash and stuff it all into a small plastic bag before making his way down the hall into the bathroom. He spends a long time getting ready; does a few sit-ups, then push-ups. He packs slowly and shuffles around aimlessly for while, peering out of windows and rummaging in cupboards before finally declaring himself ready and heading for the Impala, which they'd parked around back.
Sam watches him a little sadly, wondering when exactly Dean had become so transparent. Lately, it seems like Dean's the one who doesn't want to tear up roots.
***
They stop outside Scranton to get some gas, and eat lunch at a cheap diner. Dean is unusually quiet, just shooting glances out towards the parking lot, which the diner shares with a McDonald's. They both watch as teenagers in soccer uniforms are herded on and off a big orange school bus, greasy bags and sodas in hand. Dean doesn't even flirt with the waitress, all long blue nails and gold hoop earrings, who looks just out of high school herself.
Sam pays at the counter and returns to where Dean is holding a plastic straw, dropping beads of water onto its bunched-up wrapper, which uncoils like a snake.
"You ready?"
Wordlessly, Dean drops the straw and a few dollar bills onto the table and follows Sam outside.
***
They pass through Liberty, NY around sunset and Dean waits in the car while Sam checks them into some dumpy motel, just a few miles down Route 55 from the bar where one of the victims had been drinking.
Dean is leaning up against the wall while Sam fiddles with the lock, looking out towards the trees which surround the motel on three sides. A streetlamp switches on, casting the long, spindly shadows of electrical wiring across a pair of faded billboards on the other side of the street that announce This Space Available. A slight breeze sends a few dried leaves down to scatter over the cracked pavement. Sam steals a look at how the shadows streak across Dean's face, darkening his features and making him look both muted and angry.
Dean rubs something out of his eyes. "Man, there must be nothing to do around here but drink. No wonder all of these attacks happened outside of bars. They all in the same town?"
Sam gets the door open and throws the keys on top of the dresser before glancing at his notes again. "No, but not far. The first was in... Napanoch? The second was in Grahamsville. That one was in front of a hunting supply store though, not a bar. The third one was in Claryville, and the fourth one was here. All within a few days. There's definitely a pattern. Just have to talk to this fourth victim, see if he can give us any details that weren't in the paper."
Dean sits on the first bed and starts pulling off his boots.
Sam stretches his arms up over his head with a grunt. "At least this place has wireless. I'll see if I can find anything else for us to go on. You wanna go see if you can find some dinner?"
Dean's hands pause over his left ankle, and he turns his head at an awkward angle to blink at Sam for a moment before standing up and heading for the door.
"You know, Sam, you... nevermind." He slams the door, obviously irritated.
Sam listens for the Impala until he can't hear it anymore, and sits immobile on the second bed for another minute before fishing his laptop out of his bag. Sometimes he'd rather send Dean off in a bad mood than be around him when he's being this sullen. Sam wonders what could have gotten up Dean's ass today. Proximity to New York City obviously isn't it.
***
The next night they sit in the car, drinking coffee and staking out the bar. Sam thinks it's the best chance they have to see where the last attack took place, without any hassle. If they'd learned anything from their chat with the fourth victim, it had been that nothing around here seems as strange to the locals as a stranger. And with Dean in this mood, Sam doesn't think actually going into the bar is the best idea. All the attacks happened outside, anyway.
They watch the street in silence, the only sound a dog barking somewhere in the distance, and the occasional burst of music whenever the bar's mud-streaked door swings open.
Dean takes a long pull from his coffee and says suddenly, "Hey, you know, we're not far from New Paltz. Maybe you wanna swing through, stop in on Sarah?"
Sam feels his eyebrows go up, startled. "Wow, you're right. Didn't even occur to me."
It hasn't been that long, but so much has happened since the last time they came through this part of the country. Apart from the forested landscape, Liberty bears no resemblance to that artsy college town. Sam really hasn't been thinking about it at all. He's surprised that Dean would even mention it, though he supposes it's a good sign that Dean is thinking about anything besides Dad or demons. Or his own personal demons.
"So?" Dean shakes him from his thoughts.
"Uh, actually, I don't feel like it right now. Rather just concentrate on this. On the case."
"Okay. Just thought I'd mention it is all." A pick-up truck passes by, its occupants singing loudly along with James Hetfield. Dean shrugs, then leans forward in his seat, peering out into the night.
"Hey, did you see that? Thought maybe I saw something up ahead. Fucking truck blocked our sight-lines! All these rednecks, man, always with the same old cars and the same old music."
Sam snorts, "You should talk," waving a hand around to encompass the Impala and the radio, which has just switched on, blaring Lynyrd Skynyrd as Dean slips a key in the ignition.
"You... talk," Dean finishes lamely. Then grins, "Maybe I'm just being ironic."
Sam laughs, head thrown back, and Dean's grin flashes brighter, his green eyes shining in the dim light. A knot loosens in Sam's stomach, just below his ribs. A tightness gone that he hadn't even realized was there. He doesn't know what flipped Dean's mood so dramatically, but he's glad of it. It's amazing how easily Dean's moods can change his own, like the sun coming out after a week's worth of grey, rainy days.
"Come on though, really. All these guys have cars and trucks from the '80s and shit. I'm pretty sure I saw an old-school car turn off the road. Like 1920's old-school." Dean revs the engine and they drive about half a mile, then pull over and get out to stand at the junction where the road branches off into a wilder, almost dirt track. There's a chill in the air, and no cars in sight. Just a few lights from the houses and outbuildings nearby, and the sound of crickets.
"Hey, do you see this?" Dean points to the ground, then fumbles in his pocket for his EMF meter.
Sam can just make out four wet, icy tire prints where a car had been parked, and on the driver's side, two icy footprints. There's no other mark in sight. No watery treads, no puddles anywhere. And it's really not that cold out here. The EMF meter clicks faster, then stops.
***
Sam spends the next day on his laptop while Dean checks supplies. He's not sure what he's looking for. Maybe drownings, maybe somebody drove their car into a lake? There are tons of lakes around here. A lot of these towns are really old, a few dating back to the colonial period. Dad had brought them through the North East on a few hunts when they were growing up, but mostly to take care of black dogs. Sam thinks there must have been a werewolf, once. And some other kind of creature killing all the deer and a few civilian hunters. Very few ghosts - not because there weren't any reported, but simply because there were too many. A lot of sad history here, and a small industry devoted to humoring the people who wanted to sift through it. One of the few industries left.
Sam barely notices Dean leaning over his right shoulder until he feels Dean's breath on the side of his face, the warmth from his body making Sam acutely aware, suddenly, of his own. He clears his throat. "What do all these attacks have in common? What's the pattern?"
"Hmmm, we'll figure it out. Hey, remember when we stayed at that cabin up in Connecticut? That was, what, eight or nine years ago? This place reminds me of that."
Right, Sam thinks. That was the summer when Sam was 15. He remembers brooding around to some very embarrassing music that Dean mocked mercilessly, and long hikes on the trails in the woods behind the cabin. He remembers how he'd looked forward to going back to school in September, wherever that would be, just to get away from Dad's brutal daily drills when he wasn't off hunting something alone in the mountains. He remembers thinking how the only thing he'd miss about the summer was Dean's happy, constant presence. He'd envied how easily things seemed to come to Dean, how good he was at hunting and how comfortable he was with other hunters, with girls, with just about anyone. Sam had hoped he'd be like that at 19, too, once he'd had time to grow into all that new height that came out of nowhere, making him feel self-conscious and even more freakish than usual. Sam had wanted to be near Dean all the time, hoping that some of that relaxed ease might rub off. And Dean hadn't pushed him away, but had kept him close like when they were kids. If Sam was honest with himself, he'd say he was pretty much obsessed with his brother that summer.
He'd also say that it was the beginning of the end. By September, he'd known he had to get away. Go to college somewhere, anywhere. Be normal.
Now here he is, right back where he'd started. He should have known it would always come back to this. No one but the two of them, claustrophobic in spite of all the open road. And something he's starting to identify as a growing obsession with Dean. Sam feels like he's been spending all his time watching Dean when he thinks Dean's not looking, watching how fragile and on-edge he's been, since Dad. And then how shaken he was, after what happened with Gordon. Sam is just... concerned for Dean's well-being, is all. Which makes him wonder vaguely if this is what it had been like for Dean when Sam was little. He's wanted Dean to snap out of it. He's wanted... he doesn't know what. He just wants some of that solid comfort back again. Or maybe he wants to know that Dean might be okay without him, alone, someday.
But that golden summer, Sam had loved that feeling of the two of them against the world. He'd never wanted it to end. They would go swimming, spend hours baking on the rocks in cut-off jeans. Sam would watch the sun glistening over Dean's lean, tanned muscles in the water, the amulet bouncing on his chest, before they were chased away, laughing, by guards. Because there was No Swimming Permitted in Reservoir.
"Yeah. Hey, do you remember the reservoir? All the water for Hartford came from up there. Looks like this whole region here is a like one big watershed for New York City."
"Fucking City. Greedy bastards." Dean hasn't moved from behind Sam. Sam looks up to see Dean's eyes flickering over the images on the screen, reflecting the flash player slideshow of pristine waters, blazing autumn trees, then white snow.
Sam ignores him and taps a few keys on his laptop. "There are two reservoirs right between the towns where those guys were attacked. The Rondout and the Neversink."
"Ooh, your spider sense is tingling now, Sammy! At least now we might have a real lead." He pushes himself off Sam's chair, and Sam feels slightly cold. "Come on, let's go back to that bar and shoot some pool. I'm feeling lucky."
***
"I don't think anyone ever drowned in the reservoirs. At least, definitely not before the 1940's." Sam leans down and whispers to Dean, who is scrolling through his tenth reel of microfilm with a glazed expression. "They weren't even built before that."
They had been in the Grahamsville library all morning. Sam had spent about an hour with the librarian, a 40-something man who was clearly excited that someone below retirement age had taken an interest in local history. He told what he knew about the construction of the reservoirs, which was actually still a sore point for some people, even today.
Dean whispers back, "So if we're looking earlier, what's the link to the water?"
"There were a few towns that were condemned so that the valleys could be flooded. The state came in and relocated whatever they didn't just raze. Made all the residents move."
"But if that wasn't until a couple of decades after our guy's get-up puts him, he must have been around before." Dean folds his hands behind his head and leans back precariously in his creaky wooden chair.
"We should go check out this other library in the next county." Sam puts his hand on the back of the chair. Dean won't be offended if he never knows that Sam prevented him from tipping over. "The reservoirs cross county lines, and some of the towns did, too, way back before the modern districts were set up. A lot of records are still spread out between different archives and historical societies."
"Right, let's do it. You wanna drive?" He tosses the keys to Sam, and Sam palms them as he watches Dean nod a curt farewell to the librarian and head out, the bell above the door jangling.
When Sam seats himself behind the wheel, Dean's already got his right arm out the window, legs splayed, looking down at a map on his left knee. "Head east instead of South, Sam. We can take the scenic route. Go past the Rondout Reservoir and then through Napanoch. That's where the first attack happened, right? We can take a look around."
They drive with the radio blasting the Allman Brothers and Dean hums along. This is beautiful country, nothing but rolling hills of autumn color most of the way. Postcard perfect. It's enough to distract from all the run-down houses and closed storefronts. When they pull onto the main road again, the first thing Sam sees is what looks like a medieval fortress, all heavy stonework and battlements peeking out through the trees beyond a dense cornfield.
"What the hell is that?" Sam wonders aloud.
Dean leans over towards him slightly to squint at a sign as they drive past. "Uh... Eastern Correctional Facility. Wow, I hope they get outdoor time. Would suck to know you're surrounded by all this and not be able to see it." Dean waves the hand that hangs out of the window.
Sam glances over through the passenger-side window and sees a few cars parked in a vast lot beneath the stained cement façade of what used to be some kind of department store sign. He doubts that's what Dean meant, but it's also not like Dean to comment so vocally on the beauty of natural landscapes. He may prefer countryside to city, no doubt, but he's usually pretty silent about it, never this sentimental. Not for the first time this week, Sam finds himself choking down his surprise.
The road soon segues into the somewhat more urban area of Ellenville, a strange little city in miniature, and they head for the library, a squat brick structure attached by an indoor passage to a well-preserved Victorian manse. In the parking lot, a sour-faced woman smokes a cigarette and stares openly at Sam and Dean as they park and walk toward the door. Sam stares back briefly, watching her unchanging expression, which somehow wavers between appreciative and grinch-like.
At the front desk, they are directed to wait for someone to take them over to the archives, which are housed in the old house. Sam pretends to look at artifacts in a display case, but really watches a table full of teenage girls, textbooks and laptops open, who are whispering and blushing as they watch Dean idly flip through the meagre DVD selection. Dean must notice the atention his looks are getting him because he's blushing slightly, light pink high on his cheeks, but to his credit, he does not take the jailbait. Instead he looks over at Sam and holds up a movie card, mouthing the title incredulously. "Vampiros Lesbos. What the hell?"
Their guide materializes, and - of course - turns out to be the woman from the parking lot, who monotones a welcome and leads them up the long, rising passageway. At the top, Dean points and his lips curve up in a small involuntary smile. "Whoa, check it out!"
It's a glass box containing a scale model of a village, its steeples and rooftops bisected horizontally by a sheet of translucent blue plastic. Sam runs a finger along the attached sign, "Neversink Reservoir. Is that what it was like?"
"No touching," coughs the woman, pursing her lips. "It didn't actually look like that. It's just an artistic representation. There weren't any buildings left. But they say you can still see the foundations when the water gets low." She turns to Dean, who is prodding at the glass. "I said no touching."
Dean tries to look innocent, hands clasped behind his back as they are led away to a table in the adjoining room.
***
Sam spends a couple of hours with the newspaper and journal archives. Dean sifts through a collection of old photographs and double-checks whatever articles Sam hands off as particularly relevant.
"Neversink," Dean snorts and makes a kind of prosaic gesture with his thumb and forefinger. "'Because when your town is already under water, it'll never sink any further.'"
"Yeah, it is kind of funny. So Eureka, Montela and Lackawack went under one reservoir. Neversink and Bittersweet under the other one."
"Bittersweet? Huh. That's kind of funny, too. In a... bittersweet way. Hey, take a look at this." He places a faded photo in front of Sam.
It's a young man in a pale suit, posed rather stiffly in front of a Ford Model T. Dean reads the caption aloud. "'The deceased, Jeremy Franklin Edwards, in only known photograph, 1915.' You think this is our guy?"
The photo was in the archives of an old local paper, and in the next folder they find a clipping of the related article. "Edwards was from Bittersweet. He was found one morning, beaten to death and stuffed into the back of his own car in 1920, right on Main Street. The article is actually from 1921, revisiting the case a year later. Looks like they never figured out who did it, or why."
Dean briefly pinches the bridge of his nose. "So now, what, he just drives around leaving ice trails and occasionally assaulting people? Why hasn't anyone reported it before now?"
"I don't know, Dean. Maybe something set him off. Let's go up to that reservoir tonight, see if we can find out anything."
***
Night falls quickly, and Sam hides the Impala as best he can under some branches, keeping an eye on Dean as he surveys the area surrounding an decrepit barn they've found near the old site of Bittersweet. Inside, the damp floorboards creak where they step, careful to avoid holes. Dean is keeping watch on the forest from a large window with broken panes and a jagged, splintering frame, while Sam looks out towards the water through another, smaller window.
About an hour or so in, the temperature drops down to nothing and Sam thinks he hears the sound of an engine approaching. "Dean, somebody coming?"
"No, I don't see anything." He's shivering, and pulls up the collar of his jacket against the cold. The sound passes by, moving towards the water's edge, then stops.
Sam looks out again and maybe, just maybe, thinks he sees the outline of a car glowing softly beneath the surface, before it disappears past the reach of the moonlight.
BAM!
There's a sudden crashing noise, the sound of breaking glass, and Sam is on Dean before he even realizes that he's moving, pushing him away from where a large wooden beam has fallen from the roof and into the wall at a nasty angle, destroying what was left of the window where Dean had been standing.
They lie there, panting hard, so close that Sam can see his breath fogging the larger shards of glass on the floor beneath his brother. Sam can smell leather and wood, a faint hint of coffee, and something else, something that's just Dean. He lifts his head and sees Dean looking up at him, eyes dark and expression unreadable. There's a tiny drop of blood on his left temple where a piece of glass must have hit. Sam feels dizzy and not entirely himself as he wipes it away with his thumb. He lowers his head back down, lips brushing the side of Dean's neck. He can feel how his entire body covers Dean's, gravity and adrenaline pressing them both heavily into the gnarled floor. Sam can feel Dean's left knee move up in a slow draw along his thigh, and he is dimly aware of his own hand fisting the collar of Dean's denim shirt.
Neither of them moves for a long moment. Dean rests one hand on the small of Sam's back where his jacket has ridden up, holding him there, and takes a final, shuddering sigh before his breathing goes back to normal. Almost too low to be heard, he whispers, "Come on, Sammy, you're okay. Let's not start something we shouldn't finish."
Sam's mind races, and then it empties, and then he comes back to himself and pushes off onto his knees.
Dean stands up gingerly and offers a hand to pull Sam up to his feet.
"Damn, how did Edwards do that?" Dean growls out and paces away along one rotting floorboard. And just like that, the mood swings back to normal. Sam doesn't know what the hell that was, what just happened between them, but he does know that Dean is not going to want to talk about it now.
"Uh," Sam manages, in as normal a voice as he can, "I don't think it was Edwards."
Dean freezes, his back to Sam. He says, evenly, "Was it you?"
The mood shifts yet again and Sam feels his eyes go wide, his body flush with indignation. He spreads his arms and takes one big step forward.
Dean continues, "I mean, maybe it was an accident, with your mind mojo thing?"
Sam stills himself, then exhales. "You know it doesn't work that way."
"I don't know how it works, Sam!" Dean turns around and faces him, and he just looks... sad. "I just... Okay, fine. Then what was it?"
"I think it was just an accident. It's an old building, Dean. Walk around and stir up the studs, beams fall. Shit happens."
"Yes. Yes it does." Dean's face closes like a book, then, and he makes a show of readjusting his clothes. "But we've seen enough. I think it's time we burn the fucker's bones."
***
A trip to the county records office confirms what Sam suspects: Edwards was buried in Bittersweet.
"Bittersweet, as in... under the water?" Dean does not look amused.
"Well, they were supposed to relocate the cemetery when they relocated the church and everything else. You know, so people would still be able to visit their loved ones or whatever, but from what I can tell they didn't do the whole thing. Edwards is still down there."
"Holy fuck, Sam, do I look like I have scuba gear in the trunk?" He raises his voice and a few heads turn in their direction.
"Calm down, Dean."
"Or how about you find me some gillyweed and an invisibility cloak?"
"Calm down, Dean."
"Even if we could dive down there, how would we know where to look?" Dean is speaking more softly now. "Jesus, what the hell are we supposed to do now if we can't get to his bones?"
"I'm still not sure we have to. I mean, I'm still not sure that Edwards is responsible for the attacks. We've seen him twice now and he didn't do anything, and that last case down in Pennsylvania still doesn't fit. There has to be something we're not understanding."
"Well we better understand it soon." Dean's voice is strained. He gets up and Sam follows, leaving the mess of papers behind. They sign out at the front desk and emerge into another beautiful afternoon. They walk towards the car. Sam has a thought.
"Why are you getting so upset about this, anyway? It's not that urgent a case. Nobody's dying or anything."
"I don't know," Dean starts and lets out a ragged breath. "I guess, just, it must really suck for the guy. He dies bloody, no one is ever held responsible. His spirit sticks around for years and then everybody else up and leaves and there's nothing left to haunt. Not even a town."
Sam moves towards his brother, but Dean's not done.
"You always think of towns as permanent, you know? Like, you can leave for years, but you know in the back of your mind that you can always go back, relive your memories, see what's changed and what's the same. You never think that you'll outlast something so solid, something you're maybe even proud of, that you've fought for. And here's this guy who can't rest, buried like some dirty secret, drawn to a home that doesn't exist. Eighty years later and there's nothing left to stay for. Everything's gone, and there's nobody even left to mourn. But he's still here. Just. He's just stuck."
Sam's not sure what to say to that outpouring, so he says nothing.
The wind picks up then, and Sam has to sweep his hair out of his eyes. When he looks at his brother again, Dean is staring at him, his expression indefinable. Sam fights down an overwhelming urge to grab onto him and hold him again.
Sam's feelings must telegraph on his traitorous face, because sure enough Dean puts on his usual, smirking mask.
"Hah, lucky he's still got his car."
Sam huffs a short laugh despite himself. "Uh, yeah, there is that. Come on, let's go."
***
The next morning Sam goes out while Dean is in the shower. He returns with two large coffees, a newspaper, and three breakfast sandwiches, two of which Dean snatches up greedily.
"Guess what it says in today's paper."
"Wha'?" Dean says around a mouthful of ham and cheese.
"'Law enforcement officials have successfully apprehended the escaped prisoner and he is now back in custody.'"
"Wha' the hell does tha' mean?"
"Someone escaped from that big-ass prison last week, and made it quite a ways before being apprehended in Pittsburgh. He tried to assault some guy outside of a bar, but the guy knocked him out instead. He's confessed to all of the attacks. Apparently, dude just has a thing for random acts of violence."
"Why did we not know about any escaped con?" Dean says, taking a last bite.
"They were hoping to keep the escape all hush-hush. Didn't want to worry the community. The warden and the governor are taking all kinds of heat for it now."
"Yeah, I'll bet. So, what, that's it? Edwards had nothing to do with it?"
"Edwards was only seen at the New York attacks, so we were right about his being tied to the area. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Or maybe his presence is like a warning. You know, mostly he appears just before someone is about to get hurt. Like, protecting people."
Dean flinches almost imperceptibly. "Some deal. I still wish there was something we could do."
"I don't think there is. If that's it.. well, then that's it."
Something flickers over Dean's face. Sam can't identify it, and he isn't sure why that bothers him as much as it does.
***
They're out by the old barn again, enjoying a surprisingly warm afternoon before they decide where they'll be heading next. They finish a couple of beers, and Dean insists that they throw a last bottle out into the reservoir, in a kind of salute to all that remains of Jeremy Franklin Edwards.
Sam watches his brother stand at the edge, shoulders sagging slightly as if they still bear the weight of his leather jacket, which rests on the hood of the Impala. He looks like he's mulling something over, and that's usually not a good sign. Here in the sun, Sam's mind wanders back to that dark night in the barn, when Dean last stood with his back to him.
"I'm going swimming." Dean announces brightly. He turns towards Sam and promptly strips off his flannel and his t-shirt in one fluid motion, pitching them to the ground.
"Dean, are you crazy?"
"You should join me." He looks resigned.
"It's broad daylight," Sam splutters weakly.
"So what?"
"It's the New York City water supply! If we get caught we could be charged with attempted terrorism!"
"When has that ever stopped us before? Besides, I bet the local kids swim in here all the time."
"You're not a local kid, Dean."
"You know me, I'm young at heart and I'm at home everywhere." He toes off his boots and starts to work on the buttons of his jeans, and Sam has to turn away and brace himself against the car while he considers that statement.
"Aw, come on, Sammy! Live a little, have some fun!" Dean dives in with a splash and resurfaces, gasping with the shock of cold water and looking like all the summer memories in Sam's best dreams.
Sam lets out a helpless laugh and starts stripping down, feeling Dean's eyes on him. "Okay. What the hell, right?"
And he jumps in.
- END -
Additional A/N: All of the places mentioned in this story are real, though I fudged the exact locations of a few buildings, and the Edwards character is entirely my own. I grew up in the area and was always intrigued by the model of Neversink in the glass box. While fact-checking for this fic, I found some great resources for anyone else interested in "Drowned Towns" literature. For example, LibraryBooklists.org has compiled a bibliography and a short list of real drowned towns.
And for any of you more morbid readers out there, a quick search of ye olde internet will bring you some video footage of scuba divers in Lake Jocassee, SC, which flooded the Jocassee Valley. The footage in the old Jocassee cemetery totally justifies my thingy about Edwards' grave. The cemetery is under about 115 feet of water and is so well-preserved that there are, well, visible body parts sticking out of what is now the lakebed. FUN FACT: Apparently, a scene from Deliverance was filmed in that cemetery shortly before the valley was flooded. So, yay to that.
Comments and recs appreciated. Hope you enjoy! Especially those of you who are feeling as nostalgic for the old days of Show as I am... *wipes away a tear*
*Crossposted to DW and LJ*
ETA: Also posted in AO3, November 2009.
I need to cut back down on my online time again. I should hardly ever be on here at all. So between this post and the last (fanmix!), that'll be it for my 2009 fandom contributions. At least this year there were two :)
Title: Bittersweet
Author: On_Verra
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~5,800
Warnings/Enticements:
See pairing, though this is maybe more like pre-slash. Loads of UST & brief mentions of pre-series UST. This is Season 2 case!fic with a twist.
Spoilers: General spoilers through Season 2, Episode 5 ("Simon Said"). Takes place after that ep.
Disclaimer: I do not own the boys, and I make no money from this.
A/N: This is my first fic. I hope it doesn't show! I've been reading in this fandom so much over the last few years that I couldn't resist trying my hand once I finally had a plot bunny of my very own. MANY many thanks to kitsune13 and cathexys for the hand-holding and beta duties! And to linaerys for putting up with my email spammage. Additional A/N at the end.
It had been two weeks, holed up in central Pennsylvania as the season changed from summer to fall. They both needed the break. Sam spent his time reading and scanning the papers for possible hunts, resting the ankle he'd managed to sprain outrunning a groundskeeper during their last salt and burn, while Dean did a little work on the Impala and picked up a couple of odd jobs around the neighborhood.
They'd found quite a few empty houses, repossessed or simply abandoned when the local economy went bust. The place where they were squatting still had electricity, and they spent most evenings smacking the sides of the ancient TV that Dean had found on a closet shelf, trying to get a signal clear enough to watch the news, or whatever old movie was playing.
Sam hunches over a newspaper on the small table in the kitchen, a bowl of cereal in one hand and the morning light flashing in from the dusty window. He looks towards the living room, where Dean is sprawled out on the sofa, one forearm flung over his eyes. There are a few crumpled food wrappers on the floor. Two guns sit on the coffee table with some cleaning rags, and next to them Dad's journal, old and worn. It never ceases to amaze Sam how easily Dean can take up space, spreading bits of himself all over it and making it his own.
Sam usually keeps his own things close by, all stowed in his duffel or in a neat row on the side table of whatever motel they happen to be staying in. He supposes he formed this habit long ago, from that special tension of always waiting for the other shoe to drop as soon as he started to feel at home anywhere. From all those years of the slow-burning resentment that came with knowing he might have to pack up and move at any time, no matter how much he pretended otherwise.
Sam puts the bowl down and picks up a pen to mark the newspaper. "Hey, looks like there might be something up in New York."
Dean lifts his arm and looks up from the couch, his eyes tired. "New York City?"
"No, up north aways."
"Nice. I hate New York City."
"Dean, you've hardly been there in your life."
"No parking, too many tourists. Everything's so damn expensive. We can't even afford beer right now as it is! And last time some chick told me my car was ironic." Dean actually makes air quotes on that last part.
Sam rolls his eyes, not bothering to explain that the girl probably meant it as some sort of compliment. Dean could be so earnest sometimes that it hurt.
"Whatever. This is upstate. If we take the highway we can be there in, like, 5 or 6 hours without getting anywhere near the city." Sam spends the next few minutes rereading the newspaper article. "So the short of it is, guy came out of a bar, got clocked one. Woke up the next morning with nothing missing. Still had his wallet, his keys, everything, so there was no obvious motive."
Dean swings his legs off the side of the couch and sits up. "Uh, where does this sound like our kind of thing, Sammy?"
"Well, right before the guy got knocked out, says he saw a man in old-fashioned clothing leaning up against an old-fashioned car. Like 1920s-style, just hanging out under a streetlamp. Apparently, this was the fourth time that Mr. Olden Days has been spotted just before similar attacks around the area in the last week or so. The police are looking for more information. They think that it could be related to a fifth attack that happened yesterday, at a mini-mart a couple miles from here. I don't think that really fits, but that's why it's in the local paper, anyway."
"Could just be a social reject with anger management issues."
"Maybe," says Sam, "but it's worth checking out. It's not that far, and we've been here too long anyway. I think the neighbors are getting suspicious."
Dean runs a hand over his face, twists the silver ring around on his finger.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay." He stands with a heavy sigh, bending to retrieve the trash and stuff it all into a small plastic bag before making his way down the hall into the bathroom. He spends a long time getting ready; does a few sit-ups, then push-ups. He packs slowly and shuffles around aimlessly for while, peering out of windows and rummaging in cupboards before finally declaring himself ready and heading for the Impala, which they'd parked around back.
Sam watches him a little sadly, wondering when exactly Dean had become so transparent. Lately, it seems like Dean's the one who doesn't want to tear up roots.
***
They stop outside Scranton to get some gas, and eat lunch at a cheap diner. Dean is unusually quiet, just shooting glances out towards the parking lot, which the diner shares with a McDonald's. They both watch as teenagers in soccer uniforms are herded on and off a big orange school bus, greasy bags and sodas in hand. Dean doesn't even flirt with the waitress, all long blue nails and gold hoop earrings, who looks just out of high school herself.
Sam pays at the counter and returns to where Dean is holding a plastic straw, dropping beads of water onto its bunched-up wrapper, which uncoils like a snake.
"You ready?"
Wordlessly, Dean drops the straw and a few dollar bills onto the table and follows Sam outside.
***
They pass through Liberty, NY around sunset and Dean waits in the car while Sam checks them into some dumpy motel, just a few miles down Route 55 from the bar where one of the victims had been drinking.
Dean is leaning up against the wall while Sam fiddles with the lock, looking out towards the trees which surround the motel on three sides. A streetlamp switches on, casting the long, spindly shadows of electrical wiring across a pair of faded billboards on the other side of the street that announce This Space Available. A slight breeze sends a few dried leaves down to scatter over the cracked pavement. Sam steals a look at how the shadows streak across Dean's face, darkening his features and making him look both muted and angry.
Dean rubs something out of his eyes. "Man, there must be nothing to do around here but drink. No wonder all of these attacks happened outside of bars. They all in the same town?"
Sam gets the door open and throws the keys on top of the dresser before glancing at his notes again. "No, but not far. The first was in... Napanoch? The second was in Grahamsville. That one was in front of a hunting supply store though, not a bar. The third one was in Claryville, and the fourth one was here. All within a few days. There's definitely a pattern. Just have to talk to this fourth victim, see if he can give us any details that weren't in the paper."
Dean sits on the first bed and starts pulling off his boots.
Sam stretches his arms up over his head with a grunt. "At least this place has wireless. I'll see if I can find anything else for us to go on. You wanna go see if you can find some dinner?"
Dean's hands pause over his left ankle, and he turns his head at an awkward angle to blink at Sam for a moment before standing up and heading for the door.
"You know, Sam, you... nevermind." He slams the door, obviously irritated.
Sam listens for the Impala until he can't hear it anymore, and sits immobile on the second bed for another minute before fishing his laptop out of his bag. Sometimes he'd rather send Dean off in a bad mood than be around him when he's being this sullen. Sam wonders what could have gotten up Dean's ass today. Proximity to New York City obviously isn't it.
***
The next night they sit in the car, drinking coffee and staking out the bar. Sam thinks it's the best chance they have to see where the last attack took place, without any hassle. If they'd learned anything from their chat with the fourth victim, it had been that nothing around here seems as strange to the locals as a stranger. And with Dean in this mood, Sam doesn't think actually going into the bar is the best idea. All the attacks happened outside, anyway.
They watch the street in silence, the only sound a dog barking somewhere in the distance, and the occasional burst of music whenever the bar's mud-streaked door swings open.
Dean takes a long pull from his coffee and says suddenly, "Hey, you know, we're not far from New Paltz. Maybe you wanna swing through, stop in on Sarah?"
Sam feels his eyebrows go up, startled. "Wow, you're right. Didn't even occur to me."
It hasn't been that long, but so much has happened since the last time they came through this part of the country. Apart from the forested landscape, Liberty bears no resemblance to that artsy college town. Sam really hasn't been thinking about it at all. He's surprised that Dean would even mention it, though he supposes it's a good sign that Dean is thinking about anything besides Dad or demons. Or his own personal demons.
"So?" Dean shakes him from his thoughts.
"Uh, actually, I don't feel like it right now. Rather just concentrate on this. On the case."
"Okay. Just thought I'd mention it is all." A pick-up truck passes by, its occupants singing loudly along with James Hetfield. Dean shrugs, then leans forward in his seat, peering out into the night.
"Hey, did you see that? Thought maybe I saw something up ahead. Fucking truck blocked our sight-lines! All these rednecks, man, always with the same old cars and the same old music."
Sam snorts, "You should talk," waving a hand around to encompass the Impala and the radio, which has just switched on, blaring Lynyrd Skynyrd as Dean slips a key in the ignition.
"You... talk," Dean finishes lamely. Then grins, "Maybe I'm just being ironic."
Sam laughs, head thrown back, and Dean's grin flashes brighter, his green eyes shining in the dim light. A knot loosens in Sam's stomach, just below his ribs. A tightness gone that he hadn't even realized was there. He doesn't know what flipped Dean's mood so dramatically, but he's glad of it. It's amazing how easily Dean's moods can change his own, like the sun coming out after a week's worth of grey, rainy days.
"Come on though, really. All these guys have cars and trucks from the '80s and shit. I'm pretty sure I saw an old-school car turn off the road. Like 1920's old-school." Dean revs the engine and they drive about half a mile, then pull over and get out to stand at the junction where the road branches off into a wilder, almost dirt track. There's a chill in the air, and no cars in sight. Just a few lights from the houses and outbuildings nearby, and the sound of crickets.
"Hey, do you see this?" Dean points to the ground, then fumbles in his pocket for his EMF meter.
Sam can just make out four wet, icy tire prints where a car had been parked, and on the driver's side, two icy footprints. There's no other mark in sight. No watery treads, no puddles anywhere. And it's really not that cold out here. The EMF meter clicks faster, then stops.
***
Sam spends the next day on his laptop while Dean checks supplies. He's not sure what he's looking for. Maybe drownings, maybe somebody drove their car into a lake? There are tons of lakes around here. A lot of these towns are really old, a few dating back to the colonial period. Dad had brought them through the North East on a few hunts when they were growing up, but mostly to take care of black dogs. Sam thinks there must have been a werewolf, once. And some other kind of creature killing all the deer and a few civilian hunters. Very few ghosts - not because there weren't any reported, but simply because there were too many. A lot of sad history here, and a small industry devoted to humoring the people who wanted to sift through it. One of the few industries left.
Sam barely notices Dean leaning over his right shoulder until he feels Dean's breath on the side of his face, the warmth from his body making Sam acutely aware, suddenly, of his own. He clears his throat. "What do all these attacks have in common? What's the pattern?"
"Hmmm, we'll figure it out. Hey, remember when we stayed at that cabin up in Connecticut? That was, what, eight or nine years ago? This place reminds me of that."
Right, Sam thinks. That was the summer when Sam was 15. He remembers brooding around to some very embarrassing music that Dean mocked mercilessly, and long hikes on the trails in the woods behind the cabin. He remembers how he'd looked forward to going back to school in September, wherever that would be, just to get away from Dad's brutal daily drills when he wasn't off hunting something alone in the mountains. He remembers thinking how the only thing he'd miss about the summer was Dean's happy, constant presence. He'd envied how easily things seemed to come to Dean, how good he was at hunting and how comfortable he was with other hunters, with girls, with just about anyone. Sam had hoped he'd be like that at 19, too, once he'd had time to grow into all that new height that came out of nowhere, making him feel self-conscious and even more freakish than usual. Sam had wanted to be near Dean all the time, hoping that some of that relaxed ease might rub off. And Dean hadn't pushed him away, but had kept him close like when they were kids. If Sam was honest with himself, he'd say he was pretty much obsessed with his brother that summer.
He'd also say that it was the beginning of the end. By September, he'd known he had to get away. Go to college somewhere, anywhere. Be normal.
Now here he is, right back where he'd started. He should have known it would always come back to this. No one but the two of them, claustrophobic in spite of all the open road. And something he's starting to identify as a growing obsession with Dean. Sam feels like he's been spending all his time watching Dean when he thinks Dean's not looking, watching how fragile and on-edge he's been, since Dad. And then how shaken he was, after what happened with Gordon. Sam is just... concerned for Dean's well-being, is all. Which makes him wonder vaguely if this is what it had been like for Dean when Sam was little. He's wanted Dean to snap out of it. He's wanted... he doesn't know what. He just wants some of that solid comfort back again. Or maybe he wants to know that Dean might be okay without him, alone, someday.
But that golden summer, Sam had loved that feeling of the two of them against the world. He'd never wanted it to end. They would go swimming, spend hours baking on the rocks in cut-off jeans. Sam would watch the sun glistening over Dean's lean, tanned muscles in the water, the amulet bouncing on his chest, before they were chased away, laughing, by guards. Because there was No Swimming Permitted in Reservoir.
"Yeah. Hey, do you remember the reservoir? All the water for Hartford came from up there. Looks like this whole region here is a like one big watershed for New York City."
"Fucking City. Greedy bastards." Dean hasn't moved from behind Sam. Sam looks up to see Dean's eyes flickering over the images on the screen, reflecting the flash player slideshow of pristine waters, blazing autumn trees, then white snow.
Sam ignores him and taps a few keys on his laptop. "There are two reservoirs right between the towns where those guys were attacked. The Rondout and the Neversink."
"Ooh, your spider sense is tingling now, Sammy! At least now we might have a real lead." He pushes himself off Sam's chair, and Sam feels slightly cold. "Come on, let's go back to that bar and shoot some pool. I'm feeling lucky."
***
"I don't think anyone ever drowned in the reservoirs. At least, definitely not before the 1940's." Sam leans down and whispers to Dean, who is scrolling through his tenth reel of microfilm with a glazed expression. "They weren't even built before that."
They had been in the Grahamsville library all morning. Sam had spent about an hour with the librarian, a 40-something man who was clearly excited that someone below retirement age had taken an interest in local history. He told what he knew about the construction of the reservoirs, which was actually still a sore point for some people, even today.
Dean whispers back, "So if we're looking earlier, what's the link to the water?"
"There were a few towns that were condemned so that the valleys could be flooded. The state came in and relocated whatever they didn't just raze. Made all the residents move."
"But if that wasn't until a couple of decades after our guy's get-up puts him, he must have been around before." Dean folds his hands behind his head and leans back precariously in his creaky wooden chair.
"We should go check out this other library in the next county." Sam puts his hand on the back of the chair. Dean won't be offended if he never knows that Sam prevented him from tipping over. "The reservoirs cross county lines, and some of the towns did, too, way back before the modern districts were set up. A lot of records are still spread out between different archives and historical societies."
"Right, let's do it. You wanna drive?" He tosses the keys to Sam, and Sam palms them as he watches Dean nod a curt farewell to the librarian and head out, the bell above the door jangling.
When Sam seats himself behind the wheel, Dean's already got his right arm out the window, legs splayed, looking down at a map on his left knee. "Head east instead of South, Sam. We can take the scenic route. Go past the Rondout Reservoir and then through Napanoch. That's where the first attack happened, right? We can take a look around."
They drive with the radio blasting the Allman Brothers and Dean hums along. This is beautiful country, nothing but rolling hills of autumn color most of the way. Postcard perfect. It's enough to distract from all the run-down houses and closed storefronts. When they pull onto the main road again, the first thing Sam sees is what looks like a medieval fortress, all heavy stonework and battlements peeking out through the trees beyond a dense cornfield.
"What the hell is that?" Sam wonders aloud.
Dean leans over towards him slightly to squint at a sign as they drive past. "Uh... Eastern Correctional Facility. Wow, I hope they get outdoor time. Would suck to know you're surrounded by all this and not be able to see it." Dean waves the hand that hangs out of the window.
Sam glances over through the passenger-side window and sees a few cars parked in a vast lot beneath the stained cement façade of what used to be some kind of department store sign. He doubts that's what Dean meant, but it's also not like Dean to comment so vocally on the beauty of natural landscapes. He may prefer countryside to city, no doubt, but he's usually pretty silent about it, never this sentimental. Not for the first time this week, Sam finds himself choking down his surprise.
The road soon segues into the somewhat more urban area of Ellenville, a strange little city in miniature, and they head for the library, a squat brick structure attached by an indoor passage to a well-preserved Victorian manse. In the parking lot, a sour-faced woman smokes a cigarette and stares openly at Sam and Dean as they park and walk toward the door. Sam stares back briefly, watching her unchanging expression, which somehow wavers between appreciative and grinch-like.
At the front desk, they are directed to wait for someone to take them over to the archives, which are housed in the old house. Sam pretends to look at artifacts in a display case, but really watches a table full of teenage girls, textbooks and laptops open, who are whispering and blushing as they watch Dean idly flip through the meagre DVD selection. Dean must notice the atention his looks are getting him because he's blushing slightly, light pink high on his cheeks, but to his credit, he does not take the jailbait. Instead he looks over at Sam and holds up a movie card, mouthing the title incredulously. "Vampiros Lesbos. What the hell?"
Their guide materializes, and - of course - turns out to be the woman from the parking lot, who monotones a welcome and leads them up the long, rising passageway. At the top, Dean points and his lips curve up in a small involuntary smile. "Whoa, check it out!"
It's a glass box containing a scale model of a village, its steeples and rooftops bisected horizontally by a sheet of translucent blue plastic. Sam runs a finger along the attached sign, "Neversink Reservoir. Is that what it was like?"
"No touching," coughs the woman, pursing her lips. "It didn't actually look like that. It's just an artistic representation. There weren't any buildings left. But they say you can still see the foundations when the water gets low." She turns to Dean, who is prodding at the glass. "I said no touching."
Dean tries to look innocent, hands clasped behind his back as they are led away to a table in the adjoining room.
***
Sam spends a couple of hours with the newspaper and journal archives. Dean sifts through a collection of old photographs and double-checks whatever articles Sam hands off as particularly relevant.
"Neversink," Dean snorts and makes a kind of prosaic gesture with his thumb and forefinger. "'Because when your town is already under water, it'll never sink any further.'"
"Yeah, it is kind of funny. So Eureka, Montela and Lackawack went under one reservoir. Neversink and Bittersweet under the other one."
"Bittersweet? Huh. That's kind of funny, too. In a... bittersweet way. Hey, take a look at this." He places a faded photo in front of Sam.
It's a young man in a pale suit, posed rather stiffly in front of a Ford Model T. Dean reads the caption aloud. "'The deceased, Jeremy Franklin Edwards, in only known photograph, 1915.' You think this is our guy?"
The photo was in the archives of an old local paper, and in the next folder they find a clipping of the related article. "Edwards was from Bittersweet. He was found one morning, beaten to death and stuffed into the back of his own car in 1920, right on Main Street. The article is actually from 1921, revisiting the case a year later. Looks like they never figured out who did it, or why."
Dean briefly pinches the bridge of his nose. "So now, what, he just drives around leaving ice trails and occasionally assaulting people? Why hasn't anyone reported it before now?"
"I don't know, Dean. Maybe something set him off. Let's go up to that reservoir tonight, see if we can find out anything."
***
Night falls quickly, and Sam hides the Impala as best he can under some branches, keeping an eye on Dean as he surveys the area surrounding an decrepit barn they've found near the old site of Bittersweet. Inside, the damp floorboards creak where they step, careful to avoid holes. Dean is keeping watch on the forest from a large window with broken panes and a jagged, splintering frame, while Sam looks out towards the water through another, smaller window.
About an hour or so in, the temperature drops down to nothing and Sam thinks he hears the sound of an engine approaching. "Dean, somebody coming?"
"No, I don't see anything." He's shivering, and pulls up the collar of his jacket against the cold. The sound passes by, moving towards the water's edge, then stops.
Sam looks out again and maybe, just maybe, thinks he sees the outline of a car glowing softly beneath the surface, before it disappears past the reach of the moonlight.
BAM!
There's a sudden crashing noise, the sound of breaking glass, and Sam is on Dean before he even realizes that he's moving, pushing him away from where a large wooden beam has fallen from the roof and into the wall at a nasty angle, destroying what was left of the window where Dean had been standing.
They lie there, panting hard, so close that Sam can see his breath fogging the larger shards of glass on the floor beneath his brother. Sam can smell leather and wood, a faint hint of coffee, and something else, something that's just Dean. He lifts his head and sees Dean looking up at him, eyes dark and expression unreadable. There's a tiny drop of blood on his left temple where a piece of glass must have hit. Sam feels dizzy and not entirely himself as he wipes it away with his thumb. He lowers his head back down, lips brushing the side of Dean's neck. He can feel how his entire body covers Dean's, gravity and adrenaline pressing them both heavily into the gnarled floor. Sam can feel Dean's left knee move up in a slow draw along his thigh, and he is dimly aware of his own hand fisting the collar of Dean's denim shirt.
Neither of them moves for a long moment. Dean rests one hand on the small of Sam's back where his jacket has ridden up, holding him there, and takes a final, shuddering sigh before his breathing goes back to normal. Almost too low to be heard, he whispers, "Come on, Sammy, you're okay. Let's not start something we shouldn't finish."
Sam's mind races, and then it empties, and then he comes back to himself and pushes off onto his knees.
Dean stands up gingerly and offers a hand to pull Sam up to his feet.
"Damn, how did Edwards do that?" Dean growls out and paces away along one rotting floorboard. And just like that, the mood swings back to normal. Sam doesn't know what the hell that was, what just happened between them, but he does know that Dean is not going to want to talk about it now.
"Uh," Sam manages, in as normal a voice as he can, "I don't think it was Edwards."
Dean freezes, his back to Sam. He says, evenly, "Was it you?"
The mood shifts yet again and Sam feels his eyes go wide, his body flush with indignation. He spreads his arms and takes one big step forward.
Dean continues, "I mean, maybe it was an accident, with your mind mojo thing?"
Sam stills himself, then exhales. "You know it doesn't work that way."
"I don't know how it works, Sam!" Dean turns around and faces him, and he just looks... sad. "I just... Okay, fine. Then what was it?"
"I think it was just an accident. It's an old building, Dean. Walk around and stir up the studs, beams fall. Shit happens."
"Yes. Yes it does." Dean's face closes like a book, then, and he makes a show of readjusting his clothes. "But we've seen enough. I think it's time we burn the fucker's bones."
***
A trip to the county records office confirms what Sam suspects: Edwards was buried in Bittersweet.
"Bittersweet, as in... under the water?" Dean does not look amused.
"Well, they were supposed to relocate the cemetery when they relocated the church and everything else. You know, so people would still be able to visit their loved ones or whatever, but from what I can tell they didn't do the whole thing. Edwards is still down there."
"Holy fuck, Sam, do I look like I have scuba gear in the trunk?" He raises his voice and a few heads turn in their direction.
"Calm down, Dean."
"Or how about you find me some gillyweed and an invisibility cloak?"
"Calm down, Dean."
"Even if we could dive down there, how would we know where to look?" Dean is speaking more softly now. "Jesus, what the hell are we supposed to do now if we can't get to his bones?"
"I'm still not sure we have to. I mean, I'm still not sure that Edwards is responsible for the attacks. We've seen him twice now and he didn't do anything, and that last case down in Pennsylvania still doesn't fit. There has to be something we're not understanding."
"Well we better understand it soon." Dean's voice is strained. He gets up and Sam follows, leaving the mess of papers behind. They sign out at the front desk and emerge into another beautiful afternoon. They walk towards the car. Sam has a thought.
"Why are you getting so upset about this, anyway? It's not that urgent a case. Nobody's dying or anything."
"I don't know," Dean starts and lets out a ragged breath. "I guess, just, it must really suck for the guy. He dies bloody, no one is ever held responsible. His spirit sticks around for years and then everybody else up and leaves and there's nothing left to haunt. Not even a town."
Sam moves towards his brother, but Dean's not done.
"You always think of towns as permanent, you know? Like, you can leave for years, but you know in the back of your mind that you can always go back, relive your memories, see what's changed and what's the same. You never think that you'll outlast something so solid, something you're maybe even proud of, that you've fought for. And here's this guy who can't rest, buried like some dirty secret, drawn to a home that doesn't exist. Eighty years later and there's nothing left to stay for. Everything's gone, and there's nobody even left to mourn. But he's still here. Just. He's just stuck."
Sam's not sure what to say to that outpouring, so he says nothing.
The wind picks up then, and Sam has to sweep his hair out of his eyes. When he looks at his brother again, Dean is staring at him, his expression indefinable. Sam fights down an overwhelming urge to grab onto him and hold him again.
Sam's feelings must telegraph on his traitorous face, because sure enough Dean puts on his usual, smirking mask.
"Hah, lucky he's still got his car."
Sam huffs a short laugh despite himself. "Uh, yeah, there is that. Come on, let's go."
***
The next morning Sam goes out while Dean is in the shower. He returns with two large coffees, a newspaper, and three breakfast sandwiches, two of which Dean snatches up greedily.
"Guess what it says in today's paper."
"Wha'?" Dean says around a mouthful of ham and cheese.
"'Law enforcement officials have successfully apprehended the escaped prisoner and he is now back in custody.'"
"Wha' the hell does tha' mean?"
"Someone escaped from that big-ass prison last week, and made it quite a ways before being apprehended in Pittsburgh. He tried to assault some guy outside of a bar, but the guy knocked him out instead. He's confessed to all of the attacks. Apparently, dude just has a thing for random acts of violence."
"Why did we not know about any escaped con?" Dean says, taking a last bite.
"They were hoping to keep the escape all hush-hush. Didn't want to worry the community. The warden and the governor are taking all kinds of heat for it now."
"Yeah, I'll bet. So, what, that's it? Edwards had nothing to do with it?"
"Edwards was only seen at the New York attacks, so we were right about his being tied to the area. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Or maybe his presence is like a warning. You know, mostly he appears just before someone is about to get hurt. Like, protecting people."
Dean flinches almost imperceptibly. "Some deal. I still wish there was something we could do."
"I don't think there is. If that's it.. well, then that's it."
Something flickers over Dean's face. Sam can't identify it, and he isn't sure why that bothers him as much as it does.
***
They're out by the old barn again, enjoying a surprisingly warm afternoon before they decide where they'll be heading next. They finish a couple of beers, and Dean insists that they throw a last bottle out into the reservoir, in a kind of salute to all that remains of Jeremy Franklin Edwards.
Sam watches his brother stand at the edge, shoulders sagging slightly as if they still bear the weight of his leather jacket, which rests on the hood of the Impala. He looks like he's mulling something over, and that's usually not a good sign. Here in the sun, Sam's mind wanders back to that dark night in the barn, when Dean last stood with his back to him.
"I'm going swimming." Dean announces brightly. He turns towards Sam and promptly strips off his flannel and his t-shirt in one fluid motion, pitching them to the ground.
"Dean, are you crazy?"
"You should join me." He looks resigned.
"It's broad daylight," Sam splutters weakly.
"So what?"
"It's the New York City water supply! If we get caught we could be charged with attempted terrorism!"
"When has that ever stopped us before? Besides, I bet the local kids swim in here all the time."
"You're not a local kid, Dean."
"You know me, I'm young at heart and I'm at home everywhere." He toes off his boots and starts to work on the buttons of his jeans, and Sam has to turn away and brace himself against the car while he considers that statement.
"Aw, come on, Sammy! Live a little, have some fun!" Dean dives in with a splash and resurfaces, gasping with the shock of cold water and looking like all the summer memories in Sam's best dreams.
Sam lets out a helpless laugh and starts stripping down, feeling Dean's eyes on him. "Okay. What the hell, right?"
And he jumps in.
- END -
Additional A/N: All of the places mentioned in this story are real, though I fudged the exact locations of a few buildings, and the Edwards character is entirely my own. I grew up in the area and was always intrigued by the model of Neversink in the glass box. While fact-checking for this fic, I found some great resources for anyone else interested in "Drowned Towns" literature. For example, LibraryBooklists.org has compiled a bibliography and a short list of real drowned towns.
And for any of you more morbid readers out there, a quick search of ye olde internet will bring you some video footage of scuba divers in Lake Jocassee, SC, which flooded the Jocassee Valley. The footage in the old Jocassee cemetery totally justifies my thingy about Edwards' grave. The cemetery is under about 115 feet of water and is so well-preserved that there are, well, visible body parts sticking out of what is now the lakebed. FUN FACT: Apparently, a scene from Deliverance was filmed in that cemetery shortly before the valley was flooded. So, yay to that.
Comments and recs appreciated. Hope you enjoy! Especially those of you who are feeling as nostalgic for the old days of Show as I am... *wipes away a tear*
*Crossposted to DW and LJ*
ETA: Also posted in AO3, November 2009.