SPN fic: The Secrets of Copper Country [Prologue and Part One]

[on_verra]

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Prologue

There is a place as desolate as it is beautiful. A remote, jagged strip of land jutting out into the treacherous coastline of Lake Superior, the largest body of fresh water in the world. A few roads wrap down along the water, passing villages that were once vital ports of call. Still other roads run closer to the region's small, inland lakes. The scenery here, too, is often stunning where the dense forest line meets the shoreline and quaint vacation cottages sit right on the water.

To the untrained eye, this place may look like any other slice of American life. Its small main streets have seen better days, and most of the inhabitants are poor but proud. Some, with romantic notions about an older way of things, chop their own wood and catch their own fish. Standing firm on their abiding love of the land, they've largely managed to oppose the encroachment of massive warehouse stores and fast food chains from the States below.

A modest amount of tourism helps to sustain an otherwise extremely depressed economy. Snow lovers come for tons of the white stuff; hikers and sailors alight in the brief warmer months. Any visitor will find beauty, to be sure, so long as beauty is all that he or she is looking for.

Once the smokestacks and ramshackle industrial buildings come into view, the eye must give pause. These concrete monoliths disturb the otherwise picturesque setting, and strange, flat beaches of coarse gray-black sand spread out around them. This is an unnatural, unearthly landscape. Nothing grows on the blackened sand.

The Keweenaw, on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan - far from what some still call the World Below - is no longer the lush wilderness that it once was, and often still appears to be. Wandering explorers must be mindful even as they enjoy the fresh cool air, for they will often stumble over ancient tools, piles of poor rock, and abandoned shacks half-reclaimed by the forest. If they aren't careful, they may find themselves falling into some long-forgotten mine shaft, its cover long since rotted through.

Back before words like deindustrialization entered modern consciousness, before the Rust Belt expanded across the Midwest as factories shut their doors and left joblessness, hopelessness, and environmental consequences behind, having stripped both the land and the people of their usefulness; back before all that - older, wilder places have seen their day come and go in the name of progress, in the name of the American Dream.

This is one such place, for this is the land of the king red metal. This is Copper Country. No amount of modern redress can wholly belie the ghosts of what it's seen.

And it is these ghosts, in this place, that bring hunters north in the dead of winter.

*~ *~*

Part One

"Come on, baby, just a little more..."

Dean breaks the silence with his murmured endearments to the car, and also breaks Sam's concentration. He'd been staring straight ahead into the oncoming snow, hypnotized, remembering back to when they were kids and he used to imagine that the large snowflakes were stars, and the Impala a starship rushing through the black of space. He is absolutely not about to share this observation with Dean.

"We'll make it, man." Sam's unused voice cracks a little as he speaks. "Should be almost there. Or we can stop at the next motel."

"Yeah, can you read any motel signs in this weather? The snow is taller than you." Dean tries to gesture with one hand, but quickly grabs back onto the steering wheel when the car starts bearing ever so slightly to the left.

"Then at least if we skid off the road, the snowbanks will keep us from falling very far."

"Don't you even joke about that, Sam. If there is even one scratch on this car, so help me God..."

"Well, its a good thing we won't have to drive much after this. Could end up being a total whiteout until spring."

Dean doesn't respond, just sinks a little lower into the seat, keeping his eyes on the road and his speed at a steady 15 miles an hour. The second-hand snow tires they picked up yesterday are struggling audibly against the icy road, making an eerie rubbing sound, like stretching leather. Sam pushes his hair out of his face and starts looking for signs of civilization.

*~ *~*

They end up stopping at a small family-run motel about a mile shy of Calumet, mostly because it's the first place they see with a freshly plowed driveway. They are the only customers, and their host makes friendly small-talk about the weather, all so-what-brings-you-boys-up-this-way charm, as she shows them to their room after they've paid cash. It's got dull wood paneling, and the curtains and bedsheets are stars and stripes. The whole place has a faint chemical smell, like disinfectant disguised as fruit, but it's not bad. At least it's warm and clean.

The woman bids Sam and Dean a goodnight, and offers some advice about where to go snowmobiling in the morning. They manage to thank her convincingly enough, though Sam has trouble keeping a straight face at the thought of Dean dressed for a snowmobile.

There are pink crocheted dolls on corner shelves in the bathroom, and a framed print over the toilet that's got eagles flying around some patriotic aphorism. Sam scans it while he takes a piss, not really taking the words in, and then resolutely looks at the frame instead. It's dusty, with little golden flowers and butterflies on it.

When Sam comes out, Dean's got his duffel open on the floor next to the bed he's chosen, but is still standing fully dressed, staring at the large stuffed deer head mounted on the wall.

"Dude, the eyes. They follow you." Dean sways deliberately from side to side, making the floorboards creak quietly.

"Yeah, yeah, you'll get over it."

"I hate sleeping with dead animals in the room. It's creepy, is what it is."

"Creepier than anything else we've seen recently?" Sam snorts, and bends to turn down his blankets.

"That's different." Dean doesn't elaborate, just squats down to retrieve his toothbrush from the duffel before his turn in the bathroom. He yells out through the open door, over the running tap, "So when and where is the meeting tomorrow?"

Sam thinks about his earlier phone call from Bobby but absently checks the blinking red alarm clock, as if it has the answer, and then yells back.

"Around noon a bit west of here, in a parking lot on Elm Street."

"Ooh, Elm Street..."

"Yes, Dean, like Nightmare on Elm Street. You always say that, every Elm Street we see, and it never gets any funnier."

"One, two, Freddy's coming for you." Dean laughs before spitting into the sink. He saunters out and starts changing for bed. "Come on, Robert Englund is hilarious. Have you ever seen any asshole in real life who could pull off the one-liners like that? I mean, they try, but..."

"You may have a point there," says Sam, amused in spite of himself. Leave it to Dean to find something funny in all this mess they've had to deal with in the last couple of years.
Sam doesn't like to admit it, but he's grateful for Dean's sense of humor, even as he feels guilty for enjoying what he still thinks of as Dean's unhealthy method of coping. Although since Dean hasn't protested much about the fact that they'll be basically stuck in Bumblefuck, Michigan for an extended length of time, Sam figures Dean is getting more comfortable with the idea of settling down and dealing with his shit. And Dean certainly has shit to deal with.

"It's a good thing Freddy ain't real tonight," says Dean, looking boyish as he rubs a knuckle into his eye. "'Cause I need to get some serious shut-eye after that drive."

"Yeah, goodnight." Sam goes to brush his own teeth, and when he returns Dean is already asleep, on his stomach with his head turned away and his arms looped around the bunched-up pillow. Sam watches for a moment, listens to the in-and-out of his brother's breathing, and then settles down to read.

Sam has had trouble falling asleep lately. Once, Dean might have said that it serves him right, fitting punishment for all those times when he waited up for his big brother to fall asleep so that he could go off with Ruby. Which Sam still feels pretty damn horrible about, even though they've both put that phase firmly behind them.

But really, Sam has always had these phases off and on. By now, staying up late is more like a habit, just another of the burdens he's been piling onto himself for more years than he can count. He knows it's not healthy, but if there's anything that truly makes a Winchester, it's a penchant for self-inflicted martyrdom.

Mostly, though, he's just kept awake by too many thoughts rolling around in his mind, disjointed and with all the fucked-up rationality of nightmares. He doesn't talk about it with Dean, doesn't even bother anymore, but he thinks about the world they've managed to save, and all of the normal people in it, and about how every step he takes still seems to bring him even farther from living like one of them. He thinks about his family, about Mom and especially Dad, and about how completely futile his old desire for normality had turned out to be. He contemplates the concepts of destiny and free will, knowing full well that if the world's most learned minds have never managed to come up with a satisfactory answer, then he probably has no hope of being the one to do it.
He knows he's torturing himself, but he can't help wondering whether his demon-blood taint might still come back to bite him in the ass one day, or if that part of him is well and truly buried now. He can't help wondering what his life will have been for in the end, besides the promise, each morning, of another day with Dean. And most of all, he wonders whether this is enough.

Reading takes his mind off things, of course. Lately, he's taken to rereading some of the old classics that he's never read, or at least never got to finish at his own pace before Dad could move them on to some different school with different reading list. Sam finds it therapeutic to retrace his literary steps like this; there's a reason some books are considered classics.

And besides, no matter how dark the world may get in a novel, at least its not his own doing. Dean isn't the only one who has learned to master the art of avoidance.

After a couple of hours, Sam finally feels himself nodding off and manages to set down his book and put out the light. He drifts into sleep to the combined sounds of Dean's snoring and the wind whipping the snow outside.

*~ *~*

Sam is looking forward to this meeting with a kind of nervous curiosity. Bobby was a bit fuzzy on the details of the hunt, but he'd said that a friend needed help with some kind of estate haunting, and a few months' free room and board - plus a few thousand bucks - might be on the table if Sam and Dean were willing to help fix up the estate in addition to taking out whatever supernatural thing they'd be fighting. Bobby had also suggested, in his usual subtle way, that it would be best if the boys lay low for a while. Time off from more dangerous hunts, no worrying about money or the law. More importantly, no worrying about angels, demons, or anyone else finding them when they don't want to be found. Not even Castiel, though it had been quite some time since he'd disappeared anyway.

Dean had been dubious. "You sure this friend of Bobby's won't sell out our location?"

"Bobby said this was someone we could trust. Since when is that not good enough for you?
Dean had nodded, point taken. It had been a long hard road to get Dean feeling comfortable with trusting anyone else's instincts again - even Bobby's and especially Sam's - but he'd been a lot better lately.

Now they're sitting in the Impala, engine idling and hands wrapped around the hot cups of coffee that they'd picked up at a gas station near the motel. There's a fine mist of snow in the air outside obscuring the neat brick and stone buildings and the few locals, accustomed to the weather, who are brave enough to go on about their business outside. It's only a couple of minutes before an SUV with tinted windows pulls up next to them on the left. They wait to hear the driver's door slam before making their way out.

"Hello. It's been a long time, boys." She's bundled up in a heavy, hooded wool coat, but there is no mistaking her, and Sam's sure his shock is plain on his face.

"Tamara! Wow, it's so good to see you! We had no idea..." Sam splutters, and holds out a hand. Tamara shakes it warmly, and then does the same with Dean's.

"I'm not sure why Bobby wanted it to be such a surprise, but that man always does have his reasons." She smiles and lifts her hands to push her hood back off her face.

"Wonder why he didn't keep you in the dark, too," says Dean. "Might have figured you wouldn't want us around. Don't know if you've heard, but most other hunters aren't too keen on the Winchesters these days. Not to mention what went down with the old Seven Deadly." And what happened to your husband is left implicit in the air.

Sam shoots him a glance, wondering how he could be so tactless. Luckily, Tamara doesn't seem bothered.

"So I've heard, but I prefer to make up my own mind. Actually, I'm not hunting anymore. Not often, at least. It got to be too much for me, alone. I still help with the odd case here and there, but I suppose I'm a civilian now." She seems amused by this turn of phrase, and there's a moment of awkward silence in which they all just look at each other.

"So, what's the story? Bobby said something about a haunted estate?" Sam shivers and buries his hands in his pockets.

"Right, well, a friend from England recently bought an historic property here. His family owns a few inns and small hotels and he plans to open another one. He's traveling abroad and hired me to come and check on the house for him. The grounds are quite large and the house itself needs a fair amount of straightening out, so I've asked for funds to hire winter caretakers - that would be you two. But that's not what I'm concerned about, or I could have hired locally."

"So, definitely haunted."

"But it's not an ordinary haunting, you see. I'm honestly not sure what it is, but I can't stay long. I've got to get back to Chicago."

"Chicago, huh?" Dean arches an eyebrow, and Sam knows what he's thinking. From the way Tamara starts fidgeting with her gloves, he's pretty sure that she does, too.

"After Isaac was killed, I went to Oak Park. To try to understand why the Sins had targeted the area. I never did learn anything useful, but by the time I decided to give up hunting, I realized that I liked it there. I've got a day job now, and I'm seeing someone. He has children. It's... a good life."

"Well that's great." Dean grins broadly at her, and looks to Sam for agreement. "We're really happy for you!"

"Yeah, good for you, Tamara." He's happy for her, and knows that Dean must be, too. Even so, he can't help noticing that Dean's smile doesn't look entirely genuine.

"Thanks. Now why don't I take you to the house?"

*~ *~*

They follow Tamara in the Impala, and as they get farther and farther from the main road, it feel like they're driving straight into clouds of white. The roads have been plowed - thank fuck - but they can barely see the back of Tamara's SUV, and Dean's hands are gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles are cracking.

"How far are we supposed to be from the water? Maybe we've gone too far and we're driving out over the ice right now." From the wary tone of his voice, Sam can tell that Dean is only half-joking.

"Relax. She said it was only a dozen miles away and we've driven, what, less than 10?" Sam sighs. It does feel like they've somehow entered an expanse of bleak, frozen ocean, a whiteness that never ends. "She's keeping just barely ahead of us, and the turn-off should be coming soon."

They've been driving up a slight incline, but sure enough it levels off, and Tamara indicates a left onto the hidden drive that she'd spoken of. They drive just a few feet before parking on the shoulder. They'll have to walk the rest of the way until the estate driveway can be cleared.

They tromp through the snow, Tamara leading the way and unlocking the entrance gate and then the old carriage house about 10 yards further in. The snow has died down a little, enough so that Sam can spot the outline of the main house from here, through the bare, icy trees.
"Dude," Dean slaps Sam lightly on the elbow and whispers, "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again."

Sam actually smirks at that one, which makes Dean elbow him again with a chuckle.
"We should just shovel from here to the road, get the snow cleared out enough to get the car inside." Dean tilts his head to indicate the carriage house. It's not a bad idea. There's some kind of wooden sled pushed to the back, brittle and ancient, and what looks like a horse stable beyond that, but there's plenty of room for the car and it's relatively warm and dry.

"If you can do that today, I'll pop back round with groceries and whatever else you need," says Tamara, retrieving a couple of heavy shovels from their hooks on the wall. "I've started stocking the kitchen already, but it may be a good long while before the weather changes so we'll have to be sure you have enough supplies. Have you got extra torch batteries in case the power goes out?"

"We can always use more of everything," says Dean with a grin that makes Sam rub his eyes in embarrassment.

"So what else can you tell us about the place? Could give us somewhere to start."

Tamara stamps her boots and leaves the shovels leaning against the door while she locks the carriage house again, handing Sam the keys. "Sure. Let's get walking and I'll tell you what I know."

*~ *~*

The story goes like this.

The Manor, which had earned this nickname because it was built to resemble the traditional homes that dotted the English countryside, was constructed in 1881 by a wealthy industrialist called E. J. Alexander after he'd enlarged his fortune in the nearby copper mines.
Alexander had chosen this spot of land because it was on a forested ridge about six miles from the eastern shore of the peninsula, thus having outstanding views and features. And as it had already been checked and disregarded as a prospective mining base, there was no danger of further excavation.
Most of the investors in the Lake Superior mines hadn't even made back what they'd put in, never mind turning a profit, and the few successful ones tended to live back east in New York and New England. Alexander was very unusual in his preference to live at least part of the year near his assets in order to enjoy the solitude and rugged beauty of the area.
For the most part, only the miners and site managers themselves lived and worked year-round on the Keweenaw, which was a pretty isolated place for a long time, even after they'd started bringing their whole families in. Many of the first miners to emigrate here had come from Cornwall, bringing with them Cornish traditions that still thrive in the region to this day.

The distinctive building style of the Manor had been a gesture of love for Alexander's young bride, Lilian, whom he married in 1880 and brought over from England, where she'd deeply loved her family's old house and gardens. He wanted to give her something similar that she could love here, too, although it would obviously never be the same.

"Let me guess," Dean interrupts as they reached the heavy front doors, "the young bride died mysteriously."

"Uh, no, nothing as clichéd as all that." Tamara winks, and continues.

Alexander liked to go on site visits to his mines, and unfortunately was killed in a machinery accident on one such visit in 1890. Lilian lived on until 1911 when she died of a common fever. She was in her 50s then, and the house passed to her son, who lived in Philadelphia and never came here again. The son died childless in the 1960s and the house was willed to an Historic Trust, but there wasn't much money to maintain it, as the whole region was well beyond depressed by then.

The deed had changed hands a few times, each owner with bigger dreams and bigger disappointments than the last, and with the local government blocking development schemes that might cause damage of any kind. The current owner - Paul, the son of an English hotelier who hoped to impress his father with this new acquisition - bought it for next to nothing, hoping to take advantage of the recent upsurge in tourism to the area by restoring it and turning it into a seasonal luxury inn. Tamara had known Paul as a teenager back in England when their mothers were friendly, and they'd stayed in touch through the years, though they weren't close.

"He's actually in India at the moment, on one of those spiritual retreats that's become quite popular," says Tamara with a hint of mockery as they enter the dim front hallway.

"'Finding himself', huh?" Dean's tone is sardonic, and he makes a face and elbows Sam. "Hey, sounds like something you would love, Hippie Boy."

"Shut it, Dean." Sam hates it when his brother baits him, but can't help rolling his eyes, at least. Even though it will go unnoticed.

Over the years, all sorts of rumors had taken hold that reinvented the Manor and its grounds as cursed. Most of the stories were blatantly untrue - the kind made up by local teenagers with nothing better to do than frighten themselves. There was one that had Alexander dying in a shipwreck in Keweenaw Bay, doomed to forever haunt the icy waters, and another that had him down as a serial wife-murderer akin to Bluebeard. There was one about an early group of prospectors who died during some exploratory mining operations in what later became the estate gardens. In one version, they'd turned cannibal during a particularly brutal winter.

Some of those last rumors might very well turn out to contain some kernels of truth, but no one has yet done the research.

Sam nearly trips into Dean as their eyes adjust to the dark. Tamara leads them on toward the back of the hall, beyond a grand staircase, and finally flicks on the lights.

*~ *~*

From outside, the house had looked ominous and disheveled, all thick gray stone, and massive doors studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars. There were bars on some of the windows, too. The Manor was wider than it was tall, rambling along around a three-sided courtyard before drawing the eye across the horizon. The many-chimneyed roof, where it could be seen peeking out from its a blanket of snow, was the pale mint color of verdigris, all native copper too long exposed to water and air. It matched the few statues in the yard, only their heads and arms poking out of the snow like the flailing limbs of drowning sailors.

Inside, the house is all dark wood, heavy carpeting and ornately carved furniture. It's remarkably well-preserved considering how long it's been sitting empty.

"Wow. Somebody really went all out on this place." Dean's voice booms in the stillness of the hall.

"Somebody still is," says Tamara. "You wouldn't believe the amount of money that's being put in to bring it up to code. You should have seen it last summer."

"So, all of this was just redone?" Sam watches Dean pace around the foyer, taking in details.

"No, no, it's all original. Hard to believe it hasn't been looted over the years, but Lilian Alexander... well, she went a bit potty and had it locked down like a fortress a few years before she died. Afterward, no one came in until the early '70s, when the main drive was paved and the Historic Trust was wiring for electricity."

"So there is electricity?"

"Only in the kitchen here." Tamara gestures to a door next to the light switch she'd flipped. "And in a few other rooms nearby that were meant to be offices. Heating, as well. So unless you stick to this part of the house, I'm afraid you'll have to use extension cords and hope you don't blow a fuse. There are a few old oil lamps lying about, as well, and there's plenty of natural light during the day."

Dean is still wandering near the bottom of the staircase, running his hands along the paneling and the large metallic finials on the banisters. He comes back toward Sam, clapping his palms together in a cloud of black dust that makes them all cough. "It's fucking filthy in here. But otherwise not a bad set-up, huh?"

Tamara shoots him an annoyed glare, coughs again and clears her throat. "The walls are built from a special kind of dolomite stone that is naturally water-resistant. Apart from a few rooms upstairs that we found with minor cracks along the ceilings and window frames, and some flooding in the storage cellars, the whole house is sealed. Even when it gets cold, the humidity stays fairly constant as long as the windows are closed. Apparently that's why all the artwork and furniture are practically worthy of a museum."

"That's funny, because you sound like a museum guide right now."

"Yeah, sorry. There's just a lot to take in. I do wonder, though, if the condition of this place is entirely natural. There maybe something else sealing it off, keeping it so close to pristine. In any case, everything just needs a good cleaning, which you two can help with. That's your 'official' reason for being here, as far as Paul is concerned. I've brought in some new bedding and linens, though. And there's a working bathroom with a shower. You'll be alright."

"We've had worse." Sam deadpans, and kicks lightly at the baseboard closest to his feet. "But, well, you still haven't told us... I mean, what are we really here to do?"

Dean stands beside him now, and they both turn to Tamara with similar quizzical expressions. Sam can see past her, down into a long hallway beyond the staircase, where muted daylight is filtering in from the few open doorways. Tamara tracks his gaze and motions with a quick nod of her head.

"Come on, I'll show you down the east wing first."

*~ *~*

The workmen who had been sent to assess the property last summer had only opened a few of the rooms, and most of those had been unlocked to start with. No one had wanted to pry the remaining doors too forcibly, in case they caused damages. But then, no one had cared enough to keep exploring what they assumed would be more of the same, over and over: more bedrooms, parlors, and libraries, just like the rooms that they'd already seen. A house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up - a house standing on what feels like the edge of the world - did not make for a warm welcome, and everyone preferred to make their basic estimates and leave as quickly as possible.

But the real reason that no one had wanted to spend extra time in the house, or so the story goes, was because of the low, creepy feeling that came on with increasing intensity each time they came here. These were clean-cut assayers and big tough construction workers, and not one of them would come right out and use the word, but it was clear they all believed that the Manor was haunted. The most expressive among them had described the feeling as if the good mood in which they'd arrived to work, at that beautiful time of year, was being drained out of them by some strange, unnatural force.

"Oh my god, Dementors are real!" Dean is all mock-horror, clutching at Sam's shirt.

"That's real cute, Dean." Sam groans and rolls his eyes again.

"Funny, but the idea really isn't all that far off. I speak from my own experience. I'm glad I haven't been able to come back here in a while, apart from stocking your supplies the other day. You two, you - " Tamara trails off. She pauses in front of another pair of thick double doors, and fiddles with the keys in her hand.

"You two have seen me at my worst, and I think I can be completely honest with you. A lot of time has gone by since Isaac, and even more since our daughter died. I've gotten over it, as much as anyone can. But when I come here, I feel this... overwhelming sense of guilt. And emptiness. Like all the good memories I have, and all the good things in my life now don't mean anything, and I'm left with nothing but the bad parts. And I know it isn't just me, or some sort of coincidence, because as soon as I leave the property, it stops. It just stops, suddenly, and everything goes back to normal again."

"Well. That's weird," says Sam. As Tamara spoke, a chill had settled over him, more than could be accounted for by the cold. He feels... spooked, feels hollow places in his chest and in the back of his mind, telling him that being here will not end well.

"Could just be a ghost with a really nasty attitude problem." Dean reaches out and touches Tamara's elbow for a moment. "Nothing we can't handle."

"I've taken out a lot of ghosts, and I've never felt anything quite like this." Tamara fixes them with a piercing glare. "Look, I don't put much faith in hearsay when it comes to other hunters, but you two were raised in the life. And Bobby did fill me in on what's happened. Come on, Hell? Lucifer? Frankly, after what you've been through, you may be the only ones who can withstand staying here."

It's a pretty back-handed compliment. Sam shifts his weight, and Dean smiles nervously. He might be grinding his teeth. "Aw shucks, that's us. The last resort."

Tamara sighs, selects one of the larger keys on the ring, and starts to unfasten the doors behind her. The enter a very dark room, just a tiny bit of light seeping in from small windows near the ceiling. The walls are lined on all sides with glass-fronted cabinets full of books, paintings of ominous-looking old men, and ancient photographs. Sam peers down for a closer look at some of the captions. Copper Harbour, 1872. Stamp Mill on Portage Lake, 1877. A.C. Alexander, 1855.

There are a few chairs covered in crackling brown leather, and the carpet puffs out big clouds of dust with every step. On the mantel, on the desk, and on top of each cabinet, there are small sculptures and household objects all made of copper, their shine darkened and dulled by the years. A nugget rests as a paperweight on a large open book. The text is obscured by a thick layer of grime that Sam wipes away with the hem of his coat sleeve. A Practical Treatise on the Extraction of Copper Ore for Use in...

"So this is the library, obviously."

"What's with all the copper, do you think?" Dean shuffles up to read over Sam's shoulder. "I get that it's how these people made their money, but jeez."

"Yeah, it's really all over the house. It's kind of... ostentatious."

"A lot of people believe that copper has mystical properties," Tamara chimes in, still standing in the doorway. "Maybe it was meant to be some kind of protection, like a good luck charm."

"Or maybe he just liked showing off the fruits of his investment," suggests Sam.

"I've had a look 'round and you might get some use out of this library. There's a lot of local and English history, and gardening and the like, but I also found a few occult texts. Nothing major, but there could be more."

"Hoho! So dude did get into something mystical!"

"Looks like. But you haven't seen the strangest thing yet. Come on, let's go upstairs."

*~ *~*

On the third floor of the house, there are bedrooms and a sitting room that once made up the servants' quarters. The original idea had been to have a large contingent during the warmer months, when the doors and windows could be kept open for fresh air, parties could be thrown, and all sorts of fruits and vegetables could be grown, harvested and prepared for the winter supply pantries. However, the parties ended after old Alexander died, and once junior had grown up and moved away, there wasn't much left for a house full of servants to do. So they had all moved on as well - to other jobs, to full-time motherhood, or away from the Keweenaw altogether. Only a gardener and a few consecutive cooks and housekeepers had stayed on until 1911.

Tamara leads Sam and Dean to the northernmost end of the servants' quarters, not stopping until she reaches a large window at the end of the hall. A patch of glass has been cleaned recently, and through it Sam can see a crystal clear sky. The snow has stopped completely now.

"Tell me what you see," says Tamara.

Sam moves over to let Dean have a better angle, and they stand together, peering out at the view stretched over the gardens and beyond, toward the white forest. The gardens begin just a few yards from the house, a few tall evergreen hedges and other shrubberies visible over the snow, and then a series of high stone walls.

"Is it a labyrinth or something?"

"Or something. Look."

Sam counts the snow-capped walls, which had probably once held gardens. The trees inside are growing every which way, some of their branches beginning to split the stone walls apart. All the way at the back, between the walls closest to the forest, there is a dense patch of bright green, like a spot of emerald in all the whiteness.

"Wait - "

"Why is it -"

"Green. That last garden is bright green like it's bloody spring. I wouldn't even have noticed if I hadn't come up to check a leak. And look how the snow is piled all around outside. No one can have gotten in there."

"Weird." Sam's stomach starts to drop again.

"Yeah. And I'll tell you from last summer - no one can get in there, because no one can find the door."

A beat of silence, and then Dean points through the windowpane.

"So," he says, leaving a single black spot on the glass. "You think the freaky mojo comes from inside that locked garden."

Sam looks out again, and sees the landscape through the whorl of Dean's fingerprint.

*~ *~*

Sam and Dean clear a path from the road to the carriage house, while Tamara brings more canned goods and batteries and things into the house.

They work in silence, glancing occasionally up at the sky, which is threatening heavy snow once again. The sun will be setting soon, and now that they're alone Sam thinks this is as good a time as any to talk to his brother.

"Hey," he gets out slowly. "Are you sure we should do this? You, uh, you're not gonna go stir crazy?"

Dean doesn't pause from breaking up a chunk of ice with the hard metal blade of his shovel. "I thought you wanted to get off the grid. This is perfect."

"No, yeah. I do. It's just, you heard what she said about how this place gets to people, twists them up inside."

"Well you're already pretty twisted, so it's all good."

"I'm serious, Dean. What if -"

"Sam." Dean does pause now, using the flat of his palm to balance the shovel on its point. "It's not like we haven't had our minds fucked with before, and by a lot worse than a fucking haunted house. Besides, we owe it to Tamara. And Bobby."

For a long moment, they just stare at each other. And then a clump of snow falls from a low-hanging branch and lands directly on Sam's head.

"Hah," says Dean, helpfully.

*~ *~*

"Alright then. I'll be back in a month or so." Tamara leans against her minivan as the engine warms up. "Your won't be able to use your mobiles out here, but if you've got any major problems you can always head back into town."

"Will do. You get home safe." Dean looks as if he's not sure whether to move in for a hug or a handshake, and so does nothing. His face is flushed from the cold and the exertion of shoveling, and Sam figures he himself is just about the same shade of red.

"Can you let Bobby know we're here, that we're on it?" Sam wishes they could call Bobby right now, but as predicted, there's no signal.

"I will." Tamara slams the door and rolls her window down halfway, her expression going abruptly serious. "Good luck."

Sam stands and watches her head off into the sunset before following Dean back toward the lit Manor doors. They take the shovels with them, and clear haphazard pathways around the front courtyard before the snow hits.

Next...