Long Arm of the Law Chapter 2
AUTHOR:Scullspeare 
SUMMARY: A spirit in a coastal Maine town once known as a smugglers’ haven, has taken the law into his own hands. Sam and Dean set out to stop him, turning the spirit’s wrath on them. Casefic, set circa Season 2 with plenty of bro-mos and equal opportunity whumpage.
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, thanks to their largesse - and with much gratitude.
RATING: T for mild swearing.
WORD COUNT: 14K+
GENRE: Gen
Link back to Chapter 1 Here.
Long Arm of the Law - Chapter Two:
The front door to the historical society building was unlocked. That meant Dean was inside. Or…
Sam swallowed as he pulled open the door, then charged down the stairs to the archives. That door was also open. As Sam skidded to a stop inside the room, his chest tightened. The room’s lone chair was tipped over. A cardboard coffee cup on the table beside the microfiche machine was upended and dripping coffee onto the floor, each drip joining the large puddle already spreading across the tiles, soaking into Dean’s abandoned suit jacket. Beside the jacket lay Dean’s phone and his gun.
Sam’s heart was racing as he stared at the gun. Beyond the obvious signs of a struggle, Dean’s abandoned weapon confirmed Sam’s fears above all else: Dean didn’t leave voluntarily.
Sam bent down to pick up his brother’s gun, phone, and jacket, considering his next move. If the spirit had Dean, it meant to kill him. But where the hell would it take him? All the captain’s victims had ended up in the water, but none of the reports Sam had read stated where they’d been dumped.
Sam left the building quickly, grabbing his phone and dialing Frank’s number as he walked. “Frank. It’s Sam Winchester.”
Frank didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “You find your brother?”
Sam swallowed. “No. Looks like Pritchard’s got him.”
“What can we do?”
Sam mentally sifted through all the details of the case. “Where would it take him?”
“I don’t-”
“Think, Frank. All the victims were drowned. Where would he drop them in the water?”
Frank’s silence as he considered the possibilities seemed interminable. Sam slammed shut the Impala door in frustration and fired the engine. “Frank, come on.”
“I think I know. I can take you there. Meet me at the town dock.”
xxxXXXxxx
Dean groaned, the drum solo in his head reverberating through his skull. He peeled open his eyes and reached for his aching head, only to startle awake when he realized he couldn’t.
His hands were tied securely behind his back. As he tried sitting up, he discovered his ankles were lashed too.
Dean’s vision slid in and out of focus as he awkwardly pushed himself up. He shivered in the cold wind, his damp dress shirt clinging to the contours of his chest, his skin sticky with salt. His eyes widened when the ground beneath him shifted suddenly.
It was then it clicked that it wasn’t the ground at all, but the deck of a boat. He glanced around, still fighting to keep his eyesight in focus. He lay at the back of what appeared to be an old police boat, bobbing gently with the swells mid-bay. Behind him was the open ocean, beyond the mouth of the bay. In front, there was a small, C-shaped island that blocked most of his view of the town behind it.
“You’re awake.”
Dean snapped his head to the right. The spirit of Captain Caldwell Pritchard stood next to him. “No thanks to you, you son of a bitch. Why the hell are we out here?”
“To pass sentence.” Pritchard smiled tightly. “I waited until you were awake, to make sure you understand. There is no escaping the law. You break it, you pay-one way, or another.”
Dean strained against his bonds, but there was little give in the rope. “I told you before, I’m no smuggler.”
Pritchard stared at him, his eyes dark and cold, any trace of the man he once was long gone. “I watched you impersonate officers, contaminate a crime scene, access information you had no right to see. All in an attempt to stop me from doing my job. I call that criminal behaviour.”
Dean was still struggling to free himself but making little progress. “You saw all that, huh? Damn, but you get around. What the hell happened to ghosts being stuck in one place?”
“This is my place,” Pritchard hissed. “This whole town is mine. You break the law here, there are consequences.” The spirit flickered, disappeared, then reappeared at the stern of the boat. Dean whipped his head around in time to see Pritchard wave his hand at the stern and the gate that spanned almost the entire width drop down with a loud splash, forming a ramp into the water.
It was then Dean noticed two large burlap sacks at Pritchard’s feet. Each was filled with fifty pounds of salt, if the red ink label on the fabric was correct. Rope lashed the two sacks together, with one long piece trailing free across the deck. He shifted uneasily. “Oh, that can’t be good.”
Pritchard grabbed the loose end of the rope, crouched beside Dean, and quickly lashed it to those already binding his prisoner’s ankles. “You’ve been found guilty.” He smiled coldly. “The law must be upheld.”
Dean was starting to sweat despite the chill in the air. “I’m curious. How exactly does murder fit with upholding the law, huh?”
“It’s justice, not murder,” Pritchard offered evenly. “If the law can’t catch you, I will.” His eyes narrowed as he looked up at Dean. “Oh, and don’t you worry. When I’m done with you, that brother of yours is the next on my list.”
“You leave him alone, you son of a bitch.” Dean’s gaze jumped between the spirit, the sacks of salt, and the water lapping into the boat. He needed to stall until he could figure a way out of this mess. “Look, from what I hear, once upon a time, you were a good cop. You gotta know that what you’re doing is all kinds of messed up. You-”
Dean ducked instinctively as the crack of a shotgun blast cut off his protest, but glanced up in time to see the spirit dissipate as the salt shot slammed into it.
Dean snapped his head in the direction the shot came from. Another boat was gliding silently toward them from around the tiny island, its engine turned off. Sam stood on the narrow bow of the deck that wrapped around the wheelhouse, leaning against the railing, his shotgun now lowered to chest height but his finger still on the trigger.
“Dean!” his brother’s deep voice boomed across the water. “Y’okay?”
“Okay’s a relative term.” Dean’s heart was still pounding against his chest. “But yeah.” He winced as he pushed himself up. “Cutting it a little close there, Sammy.”
Sam snorted. “Needle in haystack, dude, just to find you. How ’bout a thanks?”
It was Dean’s turn to snort. “I’ll thank you when you get my ass back on dry land. You know I hate boats.”
Sam glanced at the wheelhouse behind him, nodded, then quickly reloaded the shotgun. “Look, we’ve gotta fire up the engines to pull alongside. Hang tight.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “I ain’t going anywhere.”
The boat’s engine came roaring to life. Sam dropped a hand from his shotgun to grab the railing as the boat veered sharply to port. He turned back to Dean and his expression changed instantly. He shouted something, his words lost under the growl of the boat motors, but the speed with which Sam raised his shotgun told Dean all he needed to know. His head snapped to the left. Caldwell Pritchard had reappeared behind him.
The spirit smirked down at him. “I never leave a job unfinished.”
Sam’s shotgun boomed, this time hitting Pritchard square in the back. Again, he dissipated, but not before he’d waved his hand at the sacks of salt sitting near the stern of the boat, pushing them off the ramp.
Dean could only watch helplessly as the sacks plunged into the water. The rope attached to them uncoiled rapidly, then pulled taut, jerking Dean across the deck of the boat, down the ramp and into the water. He barely had time to inhale before he was pulled beneath the surface.
xxxXXXxxx
“Dean!” Sam watched, horrified, as his brother was dragged off the boat and into the bay, pulled under by the weight tied to his legs. “Frank, stop the boat!” he yelled, his focus locked on the spot where Dean disappeared.
The engines cut out immediately and Frank swung the boat to port.
Sam kicked off his shoes, yanked off his jacket and jammed the shotgun and a handful of shells into Frank’s hands as the retired cop appeared beside him. “Watch for Pritchard. When he shows up, blast him with this.” With that, he vaulted over the railing and launched himself into the water.
He hit hard, the force of the jump driving him close to ten feet below the surface. He ignored the sting of saltwater on his eyes and the numbing cold against his skin as he focused on finding Dean. But even as the bubbles around him dissipated, the murky gray of the water made visibility difficult. He turned himself around, searching the water below him, his vision darting each time a shadow moved, but there was no sign of Dean. Sam glanced up. He could just make out the hulls of the two boats. Using their position to triangulate where Dean had been dragged under, he jackknifed his body, then began swimming farther from the surface, strong strokes pulling him downward. He peered through the water, twisting his head from left to right, searching for any sign of his brother until his lungs were empty. He punched the water in frustration, and kicked for the surface.
He broke through, coughing up water and gasping in air, tremors rippling through him as the cold tightened its grip. As he inhaled, ready to dive under again, he heard Frank yelling. Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping the water from his eyes, and squinted up at the boat.
Frank was gesturing to Sam’s right. “Over there,” he shouted. “We’ve drifted. He should be over there.”
Sam, shivering visibly now, nodded, turned in the direction Frank pointed, and once more dove under the surface. This time he swam downward at a forty-five-degree angle rather than straight down. He searched frantically, the cold quickly sapping his strength, fear stealing his air far faster than exertion.
Tied up as Dean was, the weight around his ankles would just keep pulling him down until he hit bottom, and Sam had no idea how deep the water was in this part of the bay. He could only pray his brother had somehow managed to Houdini himself free, that he’d suddenly bump into Dean as he swam for the surface under his own steam, flashing Sam a What?-You-didn’t-think-I’d-get-myself-out-of-this-mess? grin. Hell, he’d done it before in seemingly impossible situations, so why not this one?
That faint hope was dashed when a flash of color in the murky water caught Sam’s attention. It was Dean’s red tie, stark against the white of his dress shirt, and waving in slow motion in the underwater currents. Dean wasn’t moving. He was upright, the rope around his ankles stretched taut to the sacks of salt that had dragged him under. His hands were bound behind his back, his eyes open but unseeing, his mouth lax.
The sight sent a chill through Sam that had nothing to do with the water temperature. He kicked out, pushing himself toward his brother, eyes widening as he drew closer. The salt sacks had landed at the edge of a sandy shelf and the weight was causing the ledge to crumble. As it gave way, the sacks tipped further and further toward the edge, beyond which was nothing but dark water hiding unfathomable depths. If they went over with Dean still tied to them…
Sam felt sick as he frantically tried to undo the rope that bound Dean’s ankles. The pressure in his chest was building, the cold stealing his co-ordination. It took conscious effort to fight the reflex to open his mouth and inhale. He knew he should resurface, refill his lungs, and return to his brother but he couldn’t leave Dean. What if he couldn’t find him again?
He shook his head to help him focus and glared at the knots that refused to budge under his clumsy fingers. He’d have to cut Dean loose-
Damn it, Sam. He cursed the lack of oxygen making his thinking sluggish; he should have cut Dean loose the second he reached his side.
Sam screwed his eyes closed, forcing himself to think; he didn’t have a knife-but Dean did. He pulled up his brother’s pant leg and yanked the small dagger from its ankle holster, then sawed desperately at the rope connecting Dean to the anchor.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see more of the shelf give way beneath the anchor, sand clouding the water. Even as he cut, he could feel the heavy, waxed rope pull taut in his hand, burning against his skin as the anchor began to slip over the edge.
Sam’s chest felt like it was about to burst but he sawed even faster, willing the rope to give.
It snapped suddenly, the anchor threatening to pull Sam over the edge with it until his fuzzy brain remembered to let go of the rope. The sacks slipped silently into the dark water beyond the shelf, unobserved because Sam’s full attention was immediately back on Dean.
He wrapped an arm around his brother’s chest, then kicked wildly, clawing at the water with his free hand to speed the ascent. He had no idea how deep they were, how long it would take. All he knew was that he couldn’t fight the reflex to breathe in any longer. He opened his mouth and inhaled, filling his lungs with seawater.
It didn’t register at first that they’d breached the surface, but somewhere between coughing up water and clinging tightly to Dean, it clicked that he was sucking in air as well as water.
Sam’s violent coughing masked the boat’s approach.
“Sam!”
The boat had pulled alongside the brothers, the engine cutting out just before Frank appeared by the lowered liftgate at the stern. He was suddenly beside them, kneeling on the open ramp and offering a hand to pull them aboard. “Come on, before the captain shows up again.”
Shivering uncontrollably, Sam clumsily maneuvered Dean onto the ramp. He was still coughing as he looked up at Frank. “I got him…Watch…for-”
“You sure?” When Sam nodded, Frank picked up the gun he’d set down on the deck, released the safety, and scanned the waters around the boat. “He came back. I got the drop on him ’cause, well, he sure as hell didn’t expect to see me.”
With the ramp supporting Dean’s weight, Sam crawled aboard the boat. His legs felt like rubber, his hands and feet numb, but his only thoughts were of Dean and getting him to breathe. He hauled Dean farther into the boat, then dropped to his knees at his brother’s side, pressing his fingers against his neck to check for a pulse. His own heart began racing when he didn’t find one. Surprised to see Dean’s knife still clutched tightly in his hand, Sam slashed the ropes that bound Dean’s hands and feet, rolled him again onto his back, and began rescue breathing.
After filling Dean’s lungs with air, he started compressions, staring down at his lifeless brother, haunted by the image of him anchored underwater, his eyes open but vacant. “…twenty-eight…twenty-nine…thirty.” He breathed for Dean again, then repeated the compressions. “Come on. Don’t you let him win. Don’t you do that.” Again and again, he breathed for his brother, continuing compressions while willing Dean’s heart to start pumping on its own.
And then it did.
Sam’s only warning was a slight convulsion. He rolled Dean onto his side as he started coughing up water, his body jackknifing reflexively. Sam nodded in relief when fingers pressed to his brother’s neck found a soft but steady pulse and he could see the slight rise and fall of his chest beneath the wet shirts plastered to his skin.
He looked up at Frank, just in time to see the spirit of Caldwell Pritchard materialize right behind the retired cop. “Frank!”
Frank stumbled around, shotgun raised, but this time the spirit was faster. He waved a hand, yanking the gun from Frank’s grasp and tossing it to the side. It was luck, nothing more, that it hit the side of the boat and fell onto the deck rather than dropping over the side.
The spirit’s attention was solely on the retired cop. “Sergeant Bryden? Is that you?”
Frank held his ground. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re…older.” Pritchard’s eyes narrowed. “I’m surprised to see you.”
Frank snorted. “Right back atcha.”
The spirit frowned. “You’ve changed, and not for the better. The sergeant I knew wouldn’t be caught dead helping lowlifes like these.”
Frank shook his head. Then, risking a glimpse at Sam, moved to his right, placing himself directly between the spirit and the hunter. “One of the first things you taught me is never to be quick to judge. Things are often not what they seem. Instinct tells me these are good men. A little…unorthodox maybe, but they’re just doing what we did every day on the job-hunting down the bad guys and stopping them from hurting innocent people.”
Sam knew immediately what Frank was doing: giving him a chance to go for the shotgun. It had skidded to a stop about ten feet to his left. Slowly, he began sliding across the deck toward the weapon. His gaze shifted between Frank and the captain as he listened attentively to their exchange.
The spirit laughed bitterly. “You got soft, sergeant. Gave up your badge before the job was done. And since you weren’t cleaning up this filth, I had to.”
Frank took a step forward, his voice quiet. “What happened to, ‘Nobody’s above the law, son.’? Or, when a perp slipped through the cracks, ‘Trust me, he’ll break the law again. And when he does, we’ll be there to catch him. Make sure it sticks.’” He shook his head. “The captain I knew, the man I admired, he never would have resorted to this - to murder.”
Pritchard snorted. “Yeah, well, the law, and those charged with enforcing it, let me down. One too many good guys turned bad. One too many bad guys slipping the noose.” He smiled coldly. “Now, they don’t. And these two won’t be any exception.”
At that moment, Sam’s fingers closed around the shotgun. He rolled to his right to clear Frank, raised the weapon and fired. The spirit disappeared just as the salt shot hit. Sam scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily. Unsure whether or not he’d hit the captain, he warily scanned the boat.
“Behind you!”
Sam spun around to see Pritchard glowering at him. The spirit pulled the shotgun from Sam’s hands, this time successfully tossing it into the bay. He flickered forward, grabbed Sam by the neck and slammed him into the wheelhouse wall.
Pritchard tightened his grip, leaving Sam gasping for breath as he pinned him against the wall and lifted him off the ground. His glance slid to Dean, who still lay unconscious on the deck a few feet away. “Like I said, you two will be no exception. The only question is, who goes first?”
His focus returned to Sam, but his cold smile disappeared when the hand he had wrapped around his victim’s throat burst into flames. His expression morphed from surprise to fear to anger as the fire consumed him, deep red-orange flames quickly painting him from head to foot. His anger had escalated to full-on fury, the hatred in his glare at Sam burning more intensely than the fire itself, when his body blackened and turned to ash. The flames died out, the ash crumbled and, with a final, tortured scream, Captain Caldwell Pritchard was gone.
Suddenly released from the spirit’s hold, Sam collapsed to the deck, coughing. “Who goes first?” he rasped, rubbing his sore throat as he struggled back to his feet. “You do.”
Frank was at Sam’s side, offering a hand. “What did you do?”
Sam accepted Frank’s offer of help, then stumbled to Dean’s side. He checked his brother’s pulse, relieved to find it slow but steady. “Shooting them with salt just gets rid of them temporarily. That-him bursting into flames-means his remains have been salted and burned. He’s gone for good.”
Frank scrubbed a hand down his face. “But how…?”
“I called a friend.” With the spirit taken care of, Sam’s attention was now fully on his brother. “You told me where the remains were but I had to find Dean, so Bobby got another hunter to torch the bones. Guess it took them a while to get there and dig up the casket.”
“Almost too long.” Frank moved to the large deck box that sat behind the wheelhouse, opened it, and pulled out a bright orange survival suit. “Here, get your brother’s wet clothes off and put him in this. It’ll help warm him up. I’ll go radio for help, make sure an ambulance is waiting when we get to the dock.”
“Thanks.” Sam took the suit, laid it out on the deck beside Dean, and began unzipping it.
Frank frowned down at Sam, then reached into the deck box for a second survival suit. “Soon as he’s zipped in, strip yourself off and get yourself in this, too.”
Sam had pulled off Dean’s tie, ripped open his shirt and was using the knife to slice open his t-shirt. “It’s okay. I-”
“That’s not a request, son.” Frank gestured again with the suit. “You stay out here on deck soaked through like that, you’re gonna end up in the hospital right beside your brother.”
“Been there, done that.” Sam pulled off Dean’s boots and began slicing through his jeans. He paused when he realized Frank was still standing beside him, then took the suit the retired cop was offering. “I’ll put it on… Thanks.”
“It’s me who should be thanking you, risking your lives to stop…to put an end to this.”
Sam shrugged as he pulled off the last of Dean’s sodden clothes. “It’s what we do.” He quickly wrangled his brother into the survival suit, pulled up the hood and zipped him inside, leaving only Dean’s face exposed. He looked up as he peeled off his own wet shirt, but Frank had already disappeared inside the wheelhouse. A few seconds later, the engine roared to life and the boat lurched around, heading back to the wharf.
Sam quickly shucked off the rest of his clothes, then unsteadily pulled on the survival suit. He’d just pulled up the hood and sat down beside Dean when he noticed a pair of hazy hazel-green eyes staring up at him. “Hey.” He squeezed Dean’s shoulder. “Hang in there. The spirit’s toast, now we’re gonna get you some help.”
Dean glanced around, then down at the suit he was encased in, still disoriented, his voice little more than a raspy whisper. “Son of a bitch…”
It was such a Dean thing to say, for the first time since he realized the spirit had snatched his brother, Sam smiled.
xxxXXXxxx
Dean scowled as Sam walked through the door of his hospital room. “Oh, that is just cold, dude.”
Sam frowned. “What?”
Dean gestured at the coffee cup in Sam’s hand. “That. Drinking java in front of me when I’m sentenced to apple juice.” He dropped his head back on the pillow. “This sucks.”
Sam bit back a smile. “What kind of brother do you think I am?”
“A bitchy one. Dean’s expression brightened as he rolled his head across the pillow to look up at Sam. “Unless…”
Sam grinned. “Yeah, it’s for you.” He handed Dean the cup. “Call it self-preservation. Caffeine deprivation makes you crappy company.”
Dean removed the lid and sniffed the drink suspiciously. “This is real coffee, right?”
Sam held up his right hand. “Scout’s honor. Black, extra strong, fully caffeinated. ”
Dean inhaled deeply, and smiled. “You may be a pain in the ass, Sammy, but right now, you’re an awesome pain in the ass.”
Sam slid his backpack off his shoulder, flipped up the cover and pulled a small, square Styrofoam container from inside. “Couldn’t get your doc to sign off on a bacon cheeseburger, extra onions. Said the cardiologist is booked up this week.” His grin returned at Dean’s scowl. “But she okayed this.”
Dean gulped down some coffee, placed the cup on the nightstand, then took the box from Sam. His smile widened when he popped the lid. “Cherry pie! This day is sucking less by the minute.”
Sam dug out a plastic fork from the side pocket of his knapsack, handed it to Dean, then sat down on the empty bed beside his brother’s. It had been a rough couple of days for both of them: Dean, as doctors treated him for drowning and hypothermia, running every cardiac and neurological test available to them to ensure there was no permanent damage; Sam, as he waited for his brother to fully regain consciousness and listened to doctors explain the worst-case scenario, followed by the not-so-comforting caveat, “But let’s not go there yet.”
Dean was a lousy patient under the best of circumstances; a second stay in less than a week had him itching to hightail it from the moment he woke up. Sam had no love of hospitals either, but wasn’t about to aid and abet until he knew Dean was okay. He’d played every card he knew to keep his brother’s ass in bed; the pie and coffee were just the latest.
Dean stopped mid-chew when he realized Sam was staring at him. “What?”
Sam shrugged. “Nothing. But, if you’re up for more good news, I think they’re gonna spring you from here in the morning.”
Dean frowned. “Why not now?”
“Just waiting for the last batch of test results.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed as he studied Sam. “You get the all clear?”
“I’m fine. I-”
“Sam.”
Sam exhaled loudly. “Got a follow-up exam this morning. Everything’s good.”
Dean held Sam’s gaze for a moment, then scooped up another forkful of pie. “Tell me something. How’d you find me out on the boat? How’d you know where to look?”
Sam shook his head. “I didn’t, but Frank did. Apparently that part of the bay is in the shadow of Becker’s Island. It’s one of the few places you can’t see from any vantage point in town. It was a favorite spot for smugglers to rendezvous with ships coming down the coast from the north until Captain Pritchard organized routine daily sweeps by either the police or the Coast Guard. Frank figured he’d like the irony of drowning his victims there.”
Dean swallowed a piece of pie, put down his fork and closed his eyes. “It was weird, Sammy. When I got dragged under… I was fighting to hold my breath and get out of the ropes and one stupid thought kept going through my head.” He looked up at his brother. “Salt. Of all the times salt has saved our asses, this time it was gonna be the thing that killed me.” He snorted. “Not the footnote I wanted on my career: Dean Winchester-drowned by a bag of salt.”
“Not funny.” Sam shifted uncomfortably, still unable to shake the eerie image of a lifeless Dean at the bottom of the bay. He cleared his throat. “But that’s another smuggler’s trick Pritchard borrowed.” At Dean’s puzzled frown he continued. “If someone crossed them or cheated them, drowning was the smugglers’ punishment of choice. They used sacks of salt as an anchor because, over time, the salt would dissipate and the body would float up and wash ashore…”
“Serving as a warning to anyone else who felt like double-crossing them.” Dean shook his head. “Nice.”
Sam swallowed. “Not the word I’d use, but yeah.”
Dean looked over at Sam, shoveled in a large forkful of pie, then grinned as he chewed. “Get your panties untwisted, Sammy. I’m good. It’s gonna take a lot more than a pissed-off spirit to take me out.”
Sam snorted. “Maybe, but do we have to keep testing that theory?”
“All part of the job, dude.” Dean reached for the cup on the nightstand and washed down the pie with a big gulp of coffee, then winked at Sam. “Just another day at the office for the Brothers Winchester.”
Finis
A/N: This history of smuggling - especially during Prohibition - along the east coast of Canada and the U.S. is fascinating to me so I thought it would be fun to toss Sam and Dean into the mix. All the smugglers’ tricks used in the story - the Smuggler’s Law which says rivals will be drowned, for example, and the use of bags of salt to weigh them down - are all pulled from the pages of history. Hope you enjoyed. If you have a moment, I’d love to hear from you. Until next time, cheers!
SUMMARY: A spirit in a coastal Maine town once known as a smugglers’ haven, has taken the law into his own hands. Sam and Dean set out to stop him, turning the spirit’s wrath on them. Casefic, set circa Season 2 with plenty of bro-mos and equal opportunity whumpage.
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Supernatural belong to Eric Kripke & Co. I am playing in their sandbox, with their toys, thanks to their largesse - and with much gratitude.
RATING: T for mild swearing.
WORD COUNT: 14K+
GENRE: Gen
Link back to Chapter 1 Here.
Long Arm of the Law - Chapter Two:
The front door to the historical society building was unlocked. That meant Dean was inside. Or…
Sam swallowed as he pulled open the door, then charged down the stairs to the archives. That door was also open. As Sam skidded to a stop inside the room, his chest tightened. The room’s lone chair was tipped over. A cardboard coffee cup on the table beside the microfiche machine was upended and dripping coffee onto the floor, each drip joining the large puddle already spreading across the tiles, soaking into Dean’s abandoned suit jacket. Beside the jacket lay Dean’s phone and his gun.
Sam’s heart was racing as he stared at the gun. Beyond the obvious signs of a struggle, Dean’s abandoned weapon confirmed Sam’s fears above all else: Dean didn’t leave voluntarily.
Sam bent down to pick up his brother’s gun, phone, and jacket, considering his next move. If the spirit had Dean, it meant to kill him. But where the hell would it take him? All the captain’s victims had ended up in the water, but none of the reports Sam had read stated where they’d been dumped.
Sam left the building quickly, grabbing his phone and dialing Frank’s number as he walked. “Frank. It’s Sam Winchester.”
Frank didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “You find your brother?”
Sam swallowed. “No. Looks like Pritchard’s got him.”
“What can we do?”
Sam mentally sifted through all the details of the case. “Where would it take him?”
“I don’t-”
“Think, Frank. All the victims were drowned. Where would he drop them in the water?”
Frank’s silence as he considered the possibilities seemed interminable. Sam slammed shut the Impala door in frustration and fired the engine. “Frank, come on.”
“I think I know. I can take you there. Meet me at the town dock.”
xxxXXXxxx
Dean groaned, the drum solo in his head reverberating through his skull. He peeled open his eyes and reached for his aching head, only to startle awake when he realized he couldn’t.
His hands were tied securely behind his back. As he tried sitting up, he discovered his ankles were lashed too.
Dean’s vision slid in and out of focus as he awkwardly pushed himself up. He shivered in the cold wind, his damp dress shirt clinging to the contours of his chest, his skin sticky with salt. His eyes widened when the ground beneath him shifted suddenly.
It was then it clicked that it wasn’t the ground at all, but the deck of a boat. He glanced around, still fighting to keep his eyesight in focus. He lay at the back of what appeared to be an old police boat, bobbing gently with the swells mid-bay. Behind him was the open ocean, beyond the mouth of the bay. In front, there was a small, C-shaped island that blocked most of his view of the town behind it.
“You’re awake.”
Dean snapped his head to the right. The spirit of Captain Caldwell Pritchard stood next to him. “No thanks to you, you son of a bitch. Why the hell are we out here?”
“To pass sentence.” Pritchard smiled tightly. “I waited until you were awake, to make sure you understand. There is no escaping the law. You break it, you pay-one way, or another.”
Dean strained against his bonds, but there was little give in the rope. “I told you before, I’m no smuggler.”
Pritchard stared at him, his eyes dark and cold, any trace of the man he once was long gone. “I watched you impersonate officers, contaminate a crime scene, access information you had no right to see. All in an attempt to stop me from doing my job. I call that criminal behaviour.”
Dean was still struggling to free himself but making little progress. “You saw all that, huh? Damn, but you get around. What the hell happened to ghosts being stuck in one place?”
“This is my place,” Pritchard hissed. “This whole town is mine. You break the law here, there are consequences.” The spirit flickered, disappeared, then reappeared at the stern of the boat. Dean whipped his head around in time to see Pritchard wave his hand at the stern and the gate that spanned almost the entire width drop down with a loud splash, forming a ramp into the water.
It was then Dean noticed two large burlap sacks at Pritchard’s feet. Each was filled with fifty pounds of salt, if the red ink label on the fabric was correct. Rope lashed the two sacks together, with one long piece trailing free across the deck. He shifted uneasily. “Oh, that can’t be good.”
Pritchard grabbed the loose end of the rope, crouched beside Dean, and quickly lashed it to those already binding his prisoner’s ankles. “You’ve been found guilty.” He smiled coldly. “The law must be upheld.”
Dean was starting to sweat despite the chill in the air. “I’m curious. How exactly does murder fit with upholding the law, huh?”
“It’s justice, not murder,” Pritchard offered evenly. “If the law can’t catch you, I will.” His eyes narrowed as he looked up at Dean. “Oh, and don’t you worry. When I’m done with you, that brother of yours is the next on my list.”
“You leave him alone, you son of a bitch.” Dean’s gaze jumped between the spirit, the sacks of salt, and the water lapping into the boat. He needed to stall until he could figure a way out of this mess. “Look, from what I hear, once upon a time, you were a good cop. You gotta know that what you’re doing is all kinds of messed up. You-”
Dean ducked instinctively as the crack of a shotgun blast cut off his protest, but glanced up in time to see the spirit dissipate as the salt shot slammed into it.
Dean snapped his head in the direction the shot came from. Another boat was gliding silently toward them from around the tiny island, its engine turned off. Sam stood on the narrow bow of the deck that wrapped around the wheelhouse, leaning against the railing, his shotgun now lowered to chest height but his finger still on the trigger.
“Dean!” his brother’s deep voice boomed across the water. “Y’okay?”
“Okay’s a relative term.” Dean’s heart was still pounding against his chest. “But yeah.” He winced as he pushed himself up. “Cutting it a little close there, Sammy.”
Sam snorted. “Needle in haystack, dude, just to find you. How ’bout a thanks?”
It was Dean’s turn to snort. “I’ll thank you when you get my ass back on dry land. You know I hate boats.”
Sam glanced at the wheelhouse behind him, nodded, then quickly reloaded the shotgun. “Look, we’ve gotta fire up the engines to pull alongside. Hang tight.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “I ain’t going anywhere.”
The boat’s engine came roaring to life. Sam dropped a hand from his shotgun to grab the railing as the boat veered sharply to port. He turned back to Dean and his expression changed instantly. He shouted something, his words lost under the growl of the boat motors, but the speed with which Sam raised his shotgun told Dean all he needed to know. His head snapped to the left. Caldwell Pritchard had reappeared behind him.
The spirit smirked down at him. “I never leave a job unfinished.”
Sam’s shotgun boomed, this time hitting Pritchard square in the back. Again, he dissipated, but not before he’d waved his hand at the sacks of salt sitting near the stern of the boat, pushing them off the ramp.
Dean could only watch helplessly as the sacks plunged into the water. The rope attached to them uncoiled rapidly, then pulled taut, jerking Dean across the deck of the boat, down the ramp and into the water. He barely had time to inhale before he was pulled beneath the surface.
xxxXXXxxx
“Dean!” Sam watched, horrified, as his brother was dragged off the boat and into the bay, pulled under by the weight tied to his legs. “Frank, stop the boat!” he yelled, his focus locked on the spot where Dean disappeared.
The engines cut out immediately and Frank swung the boat to port.
Sam kicked off his shoes, yanked off his jacket and jammed the shotgun and a handful of shells into Frank’s hands as the retired cop appeared beside him. “Watch for Pritchard. When he shows up, blast him with this.” With that, he vaulted over the railing and launched himself into the water.
He hit hard, the force of the jump driving him close to ten feet below the surface. He ignored the sting of saltwater on his eyes and the numbing cold against his skin as he focused on finding Dean. But even as the bubbles around him dissipated, the murky gray of the water made visibility difficult. He turned himself around, searching the water below him, his vision darting each time a shadow moved, but there was no sign of Dean. Sam glanced up. He could just make out the hulls of the two boats. Using their position to triangulate where Dean had been dragged under, he jackknifed his body, then began swimming farther from the surface, strong strokes pulling him downward. He peered through the water, twisting his head from left to right, searching for any sign of his brother until his lungs were empty. He punched the water in frustration, and kicked for the surface.
He broke through, coughing up water and gasping in air, tremors rippling through him as the cold tightened its grip. As he inhaled, ready to dive under again, he heard Frank yelling. Sam scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping the water from his eyes, and squinted up at the boat.
Frank was gesturing to Sam’s right. “Over there,” he shouted. “We’ve drifted. He should be over there.”
Sam, shivering visibly now, nodded, turned in the direction Frank pointed, and once more dove under the surface. This time he swam downward at a forty-five-degree angle rather than straight down. He searched frantically, the cold quickly sapping his strength, fear stealing his air far faster than exertion.
Tied up as Dean was, the weight around his ankles would just keep pulling him down until he hit bottom, and Sam had no idea how deep the water was in this part of the bay. He could only pray his brother had somehow managed to Houdini himself free, that he’d suddenly bump into Dean as he swam for the surface under his own steam, flashing Sam a What?-You-didn’t-think-I’d-get-myself-out-of-this-mess? grin. Hell, he’d done it before in seemingly impossible situations, so why not this one?
That faint hope was dashed when a flash of color in the murky water caught Sam’s attention. It was Dean’s red tie, stark against the white of his dress shirt, and waving in slow motion in the underwater currents. Dean wasn’t moving. He was upright, the rope around his ankles stretched taut to the sacks of salt that had dragged him under. His hands were bound behind his back, his eyes open but unseeing, his mouth lax.
The sight sent a chill through Sam that had nothing to do with the water temperature. He kicked out, pushing himself toward his brother, eyes widening as he drew closer. The salt sacks had landed at the edge of a sandy shelf and the weight was causing the ledge to crumble. As it gave way, the sacks tipped further and further toward the edge, beyond which was nothing but dark water hiding unfathomable depths. If they went over with Dean still tied to them…
Sam felt sick as he frantically tried to undo the rope that bound Dean’s ankles. The pressure in his chest was building, the cold stealing his co-ordination. It took conscious effort to fight the reflex to open his mouth and inhale. He knew he should resurface, refill his lungs, and return to his brother but he couldn’t leave Dean. What if he couldn’t find him again?
He shook his head to help him focus and glared at the knots that refused to budge under his clumsy fingers. He’d have to cut Dean loose-
Damn it, Sam. He cursed the lack of oxygen making his thinking sluggish; he should have cut Dean loose the second he reached his side.
Sam screwed his eyes closed, forcing himself to think; he didn’t have a knife-but Dean did. He pulled up his brother’s pant leg and yanked the small dagger from its ankle holster, then sawed desperately at the rope connecting Dean to the anchor.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see more of the shelf give way beneath the anchor, sand clouding the water. Even as he cut, he could feel the heavy, waxed rope pull taut in his hand, burning against his skin as the anchor began to slip over the edge.
Sam’s chest felt like it was about to burst but he sawed even faster, willing the rope to give.
It snapped suddenly, the anchor threatening to pull Sam over the edge with it until his fuzzy brain remembered to let go of the rope. The sacks slipped silently into the dark water beyond the shelf, unobserved because Sam’s full attention was immediately back on Dean.
He wrapped an arm around his brother’s chest, then kicked wildly, clawing at the water with his free hand to speed the ascent. He had no idea how deep they were, how long it would take. All he knew was that he couldn’t fight the reflex to breathe in any longer. He opened his mouth and inhaled, filling his lungs with seawater.
It didn’t register at first that they’d breached the surface, but somewhere between coughing up water and clinging tightly to Dean, it clicked that he was sucking in air as well as water.
Sam’s violent coughing masked the boat’s approach.
“Sam!”
The boat had pulled alongside the brothers, the engine cutting out just before Frank appeared by the lowered liftgate at the stern. He was suddenly beside them, kneeling on the open ramp and offering a hand to pull them aboard. “Come on, before the captain shows up again.”
Shivering uncontrollably, Sam clumsily maneuvered Dean onto the ramp. He was still coughing as he looked up at Frank. “I got him…Watch…for-”
“You sure?” When Sam nodded, Frank picked up the gun he’d set down on the deck, released the safety, and scanned the waters around the boat. “He came back. I got the drop on him ’cause, well, he sure as hell didn’t expect to see me.”
With the ramp supporting Dean’s weight, Sam crawled aboard the boat. His legs felt like rubber, his hands and feet numb, but his only thoughts were of Dean and getting him to breathe. He hauled Dean farther into the boat, then dropped to his knees at his brother’s side, pressing his fingers against his neck to check for a pulse. His own heart began racing when he didn’t find one. Surprised to see Dean’s knife still clutched tightly in his hand, Sam slashed the ropes that bound Dean’s hands and feet, rolled him again onto his back, and began rescue breathing.
After filling Dean’s lungs with air, he started compressions, staring down at his lifeless brother, haunted by the image of him anchored underwater, his eyes open but vacant. “…twenty-eight…twenty-nine…thirty.” He breathed for Dean again, then repeated the compressions. “Come on. Don’t you let him win. Don’t you do that.” Again and again, he breathed for his brother, continuing compressions while willing Dean’s heart to start pumping on its own.
And then it did.
Sam’s only warning was a slight convulsion. He rolled Dean onto his side as he started coughing up water, his body jackknifing reflexively. Sam nodded in relief when fingers pressed to his brother’s neck found a soft but steady pulse and he could see the slight rise and fall of his chest beneath the wet shirts plastered to his skin.
He looked up at Frank, just in time to see the spirit of Caldwell Pritchard materialize right behind the retired cop. “Frank!”
Frank stumbled around, shotgun raised, but this time the spirit was faster. He waved a hand, yanking the gun from Frank’s grasp and tossing it to the side. It was luck, nothing more, that it hit the side of the boat and fell onto the deck rather than dropping over the side.
The spirit’s attention was solely on the retired cop. “Sergeant Bryden? Is that you?”
Frank held his ground. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re…older.” Pritchard’s eyes narrowed. “I’m surprised to see you.”
Frank snorted. “Right back atcha.”
The spirit frowned. “You’ve changed, and not for the better. The sergeant I knew wouldn’t be caught dead helping lowlifes like these.”
Frank shook his head. Then, risking a glimpse at Sam, moved to his right, placing himself directly between the spirit and the hunter. “One of the first things you taught me is never to be quick to judge. Things are often not what they seem. Instinct tells me these are good men. A little…unorthodox maybe, but they’re just doing what we did every day on the job-hunting down the bad guys and stopping them from hurting innocent people.”
Sam knew immediately what Frank was doing: giving him a chance to go for the shotgun. It had skidded to a stop about ten feet to his left. Slowly, he began sliding across the deck toward the weapon. His gaze shifted between Frank and the captain as he listened attentively to their exchange.
The spirit laughed bitterly. “You got soft, sergeant. Gave up your badge before the job was done. And since you weren’t cleaning up this filth, I had to.”
Frank took a step forward, his voice quiet. “What happened to, ‘Nobody’s above the law, son.’? Or, when a perp slipped through the cracks, ‘Trust me, he’ll break the law again. And when he does, we’ll be there to catch him. Make sure it sticks.’” He shook his head. “The captain I knew, the man I admired, he never would have resorted to this - to murder.”
Pritchard snorted. “Yeah, well, the law, and those charged with enforcing it, let me down. One too many good guys turned bad. One too many bad guys slipping the noose.” He smiled coldly. “Now, they don’t. And these two won’t be any exception.”
At that moment, Sam’s fingers closed around the shotgun. He rolled to his right to clear Frank, raised the weapon and fired. The spirit disappeared just as the salt shot hit. Sam scrambled to his feet, breathing heavily. Unsure whether or not he’d hit the captain, he warily scanned the boat.
“Behind you!”
Sam spun around to see Pritchard glowering at him. The spirit pulled the shotgun from Sam’s hands, this time successfully tossing it into the bay. He flickered forward, grabbed Sam by the neck and slammed him into the wheelhouse wall.
Pritchard tightened his grip, leaving Sam gasping for breath as he pinned him against the wall and lifted him off the ground. His glance slid to Dean, who still lay unconscious on the deck a few feet away. “Like I said, you two will be no exception. The only question is, who goes first?”
His focus returned to Sam, but his cold smile disappeared when the hand he had wrapped around his victim’s throat burst into flames. His expression morphed from surprise to fear to anger as the fire consumed him, deep red-orange flames quickly painting him from head to foot. His anger had escalated to full-on fury, the hatred in his glare at Sam burning more intensely than the fire itself, when his body blackened and turned to ash. The flames died out, the ash crumbled and, with a final, tortured scream, Captain Caldwell Pritchard was gone.
Suddenly released from the spirit’s hold, Sam collapsed to the deck, coughing. “Who goes first?” he rasped, rubbing his sore throat as he struggled back to his feet. “You do.”
Frank was at Sam’s side, offering a hand. “What did you do?”
Sam accepted Frank’s offer of help, then stumbled to Dean’s side. He checked his brother’s pulse, relieved to find it slow but steady. “Shooting them with salt just gets rid of them temporarily. That-him bursting into flames-means his remains have been salted and burned. He’s gone for good.”
Frank scrubbed a hand down his face. “But how…?”
“I called a friend.” With the spirit taken care of, Sam’s attention was now fully on his brother. “You told me where the remains were but I had to find Dean, so Bobby got another hunter to torch the bones. Guess it took them a while to get there and dig up the casket.”
“Almost too long.” Frank moved to the large deck box that sat behind the wheelhouse, opened it, and pulled out a bright orange survival suit. “Here, get your brother’s wet clothes off and put him in this. It’ll help warm him up. I’ll go radio for help, make sure an ambulance is waiting when we get to the dock.”
“Thanks.” Sam took the suit, laid it out on the deck beside Dean, and began unzipping it.
Frank frowned down at Sam, then reached into the deck box for a second survival suit. “Soon as he’s zipped in, strip yourself off and get yourself in this, too.”
Sam had pulled off Dean’s tie, ripped open his shirt and was using the knife to slice open his t-shirt. “It’s okay. I-”
“That’s not a request, son.” Frank gestured again with the suit. “You stay out here on deck soaked through like that, you’re gonna end up in the hospital right beside your brother.”
“Been there, done that.” Sam pulled off Dean’s boots and began slicing through his jeans. He paused when he realized Frank was still standing beside him, then took the suit the retired cop was offering. “I’ll put it on… Thanks.”
“It’s me who should be thanking you, risking your lives to stop…to put an end to this.”
Sam shrugged as he pulled off the last of Dean’s sodden clothes. “It’s what we do.” He quickly wrangled his brother into the survival suit, pulled up the hood and zipped him inside, leaving only Dean’s face exposed. He looked up as he peeled off his own wet shirt, but Frank had already disappeared inside the wheelhouse. A few seconds later, the engine roared to life and the boat lurched around, heading back to the wharf.
Sam quickly shucked off the rest of his clothes, then unsteadily pulled on the survival suit. He’d just pulled up the hood and sat down beside Dean when he noticed a pair of hazy hazel-green eyes staring up at him. “Hey.” He squeezed Dean’s shoulder. “Hang in there. The spirit’s toast, now we’re gonna get you some help.”
Dean glanced around, then down at the suit he was encased in, still disoriented, his voice little more than a raspy whisper. “Son of a bitch…”
It was such a Dean thing to say, for the first time since he realized the spirit had snatched his brother, Sam smiled.
xxxXXXxxx
Dean scowled as Sam walked through the door of his hospital room. “Oh, that is just cold, dude.”
Sam frowned. “What?”
Dean gestured at the coffee cup in Sam’s hand. “That. Drinking java in front of me when I’m sentenced to apple juice.” He dropped his head back on the pillow. “This sucks.”
Sam bit back a smile. “What kind of brother do you think I am?”
“A bitchy one. Dean’s expression brightened as he rolled his head across the pillow to look up at Sam. “Unless…”
Sam grinned. “Yeah, it’s for you.” He handed Dean the cup. “Call it self-preservation. Caffeine deprivation makes you crappy company.”
Dean removed the lid and sniffed the drink suspiciously. “This is real coffee, right?”
Sam held up his right hand. “Scout’s honor. Black, extra strong, fully caffeinated. ”
Dean inhaled deeply, and smiled. “You may be a pain in the ass, Sammy, but right now, you’re an awesome pain in the ass.”
Sam slid his backpack off his shoulder, flipped up the cover and pulled a small, square Styrofoam container from inside. “Couldn’t get your doc to sign off on a bacon cheeseburger, extra onions. Said the cardiologist is booked up this week.” His grin returned at Dean’s scowl. “But she okayed this.”
Dean gulped down some coffee, placed the cup on the nightstand, then took the box from Sam. His smile widened when he popped the lid. “Cherry pie! This day is sucking less by the minute.”
Sam dug out a plastic fork from the side pocket of his knapsack, handed it to Dean, then sat down on the empty bed beside his brother’s. It had been a rough couple of days for both of them: Dean, as doctors treated him for drowning and hypothermia, running every cardiac and neurological test available to them to ensure there was no permanent damage; Sam, as he waited for his brother to fully regain consciousness and listened to doctors explain the worst-case scenario, followed by the not-so-comforting caveat, “But let’s not go there yet.”
Dean was a lousy patient under the best of circumstances; a second stay in less than a week had him itching to hightail it from the moment he woke up. Sam had no love of hospitals either, but wasn’t about to aid and abet until he knew Dean was okay. He’d played every card he knew to keep his brother’s ass in bed; the pie and coffee were just the latest.
Dean stopped mid-chew when he realized Sam was staring at him. “What?”
Sam shrugged. “Nothing. But, if you’re up for more good news, I think they’re gonna spring you from here in the morning.”
Dean frowned. “Why not now?”
“Just waiting for the last batch of test results.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed as he studied Sam. “You get the all clear?”
“I’m fine. I-”
“Sam.”
Sam exhaled loudly. “Got a follow-up exam this morning. Everything’s good.”
Dean held Sam’s gaze for a moment, then scooped up another forkful of pie. “Tell me something. How’d you find me out on the boat? How’d you know where to look?”
Sam shook his head. “I didn’t, but Frank did. Apparently that part of the bay is in the shadow of Becker’s Island. It’s one of the few places you can’t see from any vantage point in town. It was a favorite spot for smugglers to rendezvous with ships coming down the coast from the north until Captain Pritchard organized routine daily sweeps by either the police or the Coast Guard. Frank figured he’d like the irony of drowning his victims there.”
Dean swallowed a piece of pie, put down his fork and closed his eyes. “It was weird, Sammy. When I got dragged under… I was fighting to hold my breath and get out of the ropes and one stupid thought kept going through my head.” He looked up at his brother. “Salt. Of all the times salt has saved our asses, this time it was gonna be the thing that killed me.” He snorted. “Not the footnote I wanted on my career: Dean Winchester-drowned by a bag of salt.”
“Not funny.” Sam shifted uncomfortably, still unable to shake the eerie image of a lifeless Dean at the bottom of the bay. He cleared his throat. “But that’s another smuggler’s trick Pritchard borrowed.” At Dean’s puzzled frown he continued. “If someone crossed them or cheated them, drowning was the smugglers’ punishment of choice. They used sacks of salt as an anchor because, over time, the salt would dissipate and the body would float up and wash ashore…”
“Serving as a warning to anyone else who felt like double-crossing them.” Dean shook his head. “Nice.”
Sam swallowed. “Not the word I’d use, but yeah.”
Dean looked over at Sam, shoveled in a large forkful of pie, then grinned as he chewed. “Get your panties untwisted, Sammy. I’m good. It’s gonna take a lot more than a pissed-off spirit to take me out.”
Sam snorted. “Maybe, but do we have to keep testing that theory?”
“All part of the job, dude.” Dean reached for the cup on the nightstand and washed down the pie with a big gulp of coffee, then winked at Sam. “Just another day at the office for the Brothers Winchester.”
Finis
A/N: This history of smuggling - especially during Prohibition - along the east coast of Canada and the U.S. is fascinating to me so I thought it would be fun to toss Sam and Dean into the mix. All the smugglers’ tricks used in the story - the Smuggler’s Law which says rivals will be drowned, for example, and the use of bags of salt to weigh them down - are all pulled from the pages of history. Hope you enjoyed. If you have a moment, I’d love to hear from you. Until next time, cheers!