Counting Coup Chapter 2
AUTHOR: scullspeare
RATING: PG-13, for some swearing
PAIRINGS: None
GENRE: Gen
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Sam & Dean Winchester belong to Eric Kripke who entertains us each week and graciously lets us play in his sandbox when he turns out the lights and goes home for the night. (Or we sneak in when he's not looking, I'm not sure which.) Definitely for fun not profit.
Link back to Chapter 1 Here.
CHAPTER 2
"SAM!" Dean watched horrified as his brother was pushed and fell, diving forward to try to pull him to safety but grabbing only air as Sam smashed through the railing and tumbled out of reach.
Dean looked down and his stomach lurched. Sam lay on his back on the landing six feet below, head turned to the side, eyes closed. Blood stained the side of his face.
Heart pounding, Dean scrambled to his feet and turned to run down the stairs but skidded to an abrupt stop as the spirit of Reginald Barnstable materialized suddenly in front of him. Dark eyes flashed at Dean from under heavy eyebrows and the spirit's cruel mouth curled into a sneer behind a close-cropped mustache and goatee.
Dean froze, each exhale frosting in front of him, as Reginald moved toward him. The spirit's eyes narrowed. "You have no business here. I want you out of my house."
Hunter and spirit reacted simultaneously, Dean raising his gun and squeezing the trigger even as a blast of cold energy picked him up and threw him across the hall. He slammed into the wall on the far side, shattered plaster raining over him, and crumpled to the floor as Reginald's spirit dissipated in a shower of rock salt.
Dean grimaced as he pushed himself to his feet, coughing up plaster dust. His vision blurred and he stumbled, grabbing the wall behind him for balance. He waved away the dust as his vision slid back into focus.
"Sam?" His voice was thick and rough. He coughed again and staggered forward to look down the stairs. Sam hadn't moved; he still lay sprawled on his back, one leg bent under him. "Sammy?"
Dean half ran, half fell down the eight steps to the landing. Dropping to his knees at his brother's side, he put down his shotgun and pressed his fingers against Sam's neck, exhaling in relief when they found a strong and steady pulse. His eyes and his hands then quickly scanned his brother, assessing the severity of every cut and bruise he found and searching for any broken bones. The most obvious injury was a deep gash over Sam's temple where his head had caught the edge of the newel post. Blood matted his hair and mixed with dirt and dust down the side of his face.
Dean's gaze darted to Sam's face as his brother groaned softly. "Sammy? You in there?"
Sam's eyes slid open and he looked around dazedly. "Dean?"
"Right here." Dean held his brother's head still. "I need you to look at me. How many of me are there?"
Sam squinted at Dean, then screwed his eyes closed. "One-that's enough." He groaned again as he tried sitting up.
"Whoa, whoa." Dean gently pressed a hand on Sam's chest, holding him down. "Before you start movin' around, how bad is it? And no brave-little-soldier bullshit, either."
Sam opened one eye and frowned at Dean. "Ow."
Dean's eyebrow quirked, then he smiled at their childhood shorthand for rating severity of injuries. "Ow" was a step up from "Ouch," a step below "Damn it," and a long way from "Fuck," the latter reserved for only the most severe injuries and about the only time use of the word didn't result in a cuff behind the ear if their dad was in earshot.
"Okay, 'Ow' we can handle." He turned to look at Sam's feet. "Move your toes."
Sam scowled. "I'm fine. I-"
Dean cut him off. "Gotta rule out back injuries, Sammy. You know the drill. Now, feet."
Sam sighed, moving his right foot up and down, then slowly straightening his left leg.
Dean nodded approvingly. "Good." His gaze slid up to Sam's arms. "Hands."
Sam curled his fingers into fists, but left each middle finger extended.
Dean bit back a smile. "You suck at being a good patient, you know that?"
"Yeah, I learned from the best." Sam raised a hand toward Dean. "Help me up."
Dean nodded slowly. "Fine, but if anything's off, I wanna know about it."
Sam grimaced as Dean sat him up. He grabbed his brother's shirt to steady himself until a wave of dizziness passed, then patted Dean on the chest in thanks. "Who, or what, pushed me?"
Dean frowned as he inspected the gash on Sam's head. "It was definitely Reggie. And you know what that means."
Sam nodded. "Yeah. That wasn't him in the casket."
"Exactly. So we've got our work cut out for us." Dean pulled himself to his feet, then moved behind Sam and slid his arms around him. "But, for now, let's get outta here before Reggie shows up again. You ready to try standing?"
Sam nodded.
"Okay. On three. One…two…three."
Sam pushed himself to his feet, with Dean holding him steady. He swayed a little but held his balance even when Dean let go.
"You good?" Dean studied his brother closely.
Sam nodded. "Yeah. Let's go." Despite his bravado, Sam had a tight grip on the railing. He glanced down at the foyer below. "Guess I'm lucky I landed here rather than down there, huh?" The foyer was another ten feet below the landing, its marble floor a lot less forgiving than the worn but thick Persian rug Sam had fallen on.
Dean shot his brother a look as he bent down to pick up the EMF and his shotgun. "Only you would find an up side to being tossed down the stairs." He spotted Sam's gun three stairs down, glancing around suspiciously as he moved to retrieve it. He frowned at Sam's stiff gait as his brother moved past him down the stairs toward the front hall. "You're walking like you're seventy."
Sam kept moving, albeit slowly. "It's nothing a hot shower won't fix. Now come on-we've got a pile of research to do."
Dean's face fell as he followed his brother. "This job just keeps getting better."
Dean kept his shotgun at the ready, not letting down his guard until they were both in the Impala, the Chevy kicking up gravel as it sped down the long driveway toward the road.
xxxXXXxxx
Sam pushed open the door to the diner. Dean was already seated in a booth by the window, chatting animatedly with the waitress, Eve. It was the fourth time they'd eaten at this diner since arriving in town, and the food, while good, was definitely not the main attraction for his brother.
Sam frowned as he stepped inside, an eerie chill creeping up his spine. He shuddered as he glanced around, the feeling of unease growing steadily. It was dinner hour, so the place was busy, full of young couples meeting up after work, teens grabbing a bite before heading to a movie and a trucker or two taking a much-needed break from behind the wheel.
Nothing seemed out of place, but still, something felt…off. Sam's "spidey senses," as Dean called them, were rarely baseless, but here, now, he couldn't peg what had triggered them. Puzzled, he crossed the restaurant to Dean.
After leaving the Barnstable House, the brothers had returned to their motel, showered quickly, then tumbled into bed just as most people were heading off to work. As much as Sam wanted to head straight to the library, he put up little resistance when Dean insisted they get a few hours shut-eye first. It was early afternoon when they woke up. Sam's headache had receded, but he was still moving stiffly thanks to bruising that now covered his back from shoulder blades to waist.
Following a breakfast of coffee and painkillers, the brothers had agreed to split up to try to figure out where Reginald had been buried. Sam headed to the local library to study Barnstable journals archived there, comparing the information they contained with that in the thick file of family papers sent to them by Elliot Barnstable. Dean visited the town records department, the local funeral home, whose ads bragged that it had been "Serving you in your time of need for 125 years," and the Edgeport Historical Society. When Dean was done, he'd called Sam, who'd suggested they meet up at the diner, which was walking distance from the library.
Sam slid into the booth opposite Dean, nodding at Eve. "Hey."
Dean grinned. "'Bout frigging time, Sammy. I'm starving."
Sam rolled his eyes. "You're always starving, Dean."
Eve, a petite brunette, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail and thick bangs falling over big brown eyes, laughed. "That's what I like to hear. It's good for business." She turned to Sam, her smile fading almost imperceptibly. "Coffee?"
Sam nodded, frowning slightly as he turned over his cup. Eve filled it, then topped up Dean's, her smile widening again as she turned back to the elder Winchester. "Now that you're both here, I'll tell the cook to get your dinner started." She turned and headed for the kitchen, Dean following her movements appreciatively.
Sam took a sip of his coffee. "You ordered for me?"
Dean nodded, still watching the waitress walk away. "Eve recommended the fried chicken."
Sam shook his head. "Something tells me if she recommended squid, that's what we'd be eating."
Dean turned back to Sam, frowning. "What? They don't have squid."
"Never mind." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose as the headache that had never really gone away since his tumble down the stairs ratcheted up a notch.
Dean worriedly took in the tension in Sam's face, the tightness around his eyes. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I…" Sam looked up to see Dean studying him intently. He sighed, rubbing his temples, trying to push back the sense of unease he couldn't shake. "Just a headache." He pulled a book from inside his jacket. "The good news is I think I've got a clue as to where Reginald is buried."
Dean frowned at the obvious diversion but let it go. "Go on."
Sam gestured with the book. "This is Celia Barnstable's diary from the year her husband died." He opened it to a marked page. "A few days after Reginald's death she wrote, 'This past week has been the hardest of my life. My sons are already moving on, but there is a gaping chasm in my heart I fear will never be filled. I need Reginald's presence to fuel my strength, to help me to keep going.'"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Why do chicks get all flowery like that? Why couldn't she just write 'I miss the old bastard. Wish he was still around.'"
"You have a real way with words, Dean." Sam turned to a second marked page and cleared his throat. "Six weeks later, something had definitely changed. She writes, 'So many times I feared discovery, feared my sons would uncover the truth of my plans and try to stop me, but they are too wrapped up in petty battles over their inheritances to pay me much mind. I know Reginald would approve. His money has been used to reunite us and to buy the continued silence of those who helped restore his rightful place here within his beloved home.'"
Dean sat back. "Okay. So she had him moved back to the house. Think maybe there's a family cemetery or crypt somewhere on those overgrown grounds?"
Sam shook his head. "No. All the Barnstables are either buried in the cemetery where Reginald should be, or their ashes interred in a mausoleum near the cemetery gates. And from what Celia wrote in her diary, her sons knew nothing about her plans. If she was doing something out in the open, they would have seen what was going on."
Sam closed the diary and put it down on the table. "Celia writes about how nice it is to be able to visit him, talk to him on a daily basis. She has to have buried him somewhere where she could move around in relative privacy, without anyone questioning where she was going." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a single sheet of paper. "I found a work order for renovations to the house that coincides with the date in the diary, but it says only 'structural repair'-there's nothing specific as to what the work was or in what part of the house."
Sam handed the paper to Dean and took a sip of his coffee as his brother looked it over. "Her sons' journals make no mention of any renovations, but each writes, at various times, how their mother became more reclusive after Reginald's death, spending more and more time alone in her room."
"I think I have an-" Dean stopped talking as Eve showed up at the table with big platters holding fried chicken, biscuits, mashed potatoes and gravy and, to Dean's apparent surprise, vegetables. He smiled at the waitress. "Looks incredible."
Sam nodded, sliding the diary out of the way. The dinner did actually look great; the food and the plates were hot and the vegetables were crisp and fresh, not the wilted mush that generally passed for veggies at most diners. "Looks great. Thanks."
Eve smiled at Dean. "Enjoy. Anything else I can do for you, just shout."
Dean grinned. "I'll keep that in mind." He stabbed a piece of broccoli suspiciously, then, once Eve was out of earshot, turned to Sam. "I found plans for the house at both the town records office and the Historical Society, but there are some discrepancies between the two. Based on what you've just said, one of those differences could mean something."
He shoved a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth, then reached into his jacket, pulling out a sheaf of papers and shuffling through them until he found the ones he was looking for. Unfolding them, he slid one across the table toward Sam. "Okay, this is the house in 1890, shortly after it was built." He unfolded a second piece of paper and placed it beside the first. "These are plans from 1937, shortly after Celia's death. Reggie and Celia's suite was on the third floor, right?"
Sam nodded.
Dean picked up his knife and fork. "Well, compare the layout in the two sets of plans."
Sam studied the papers. In the earlier drawing, the master suite of rooms consisted of the main bedroom, two dressing rooms and two studies. In the later version, one study had been converted into a bathroom, but the other no longer existed. "It looks like they knocked down the wall between the study and the dressing room and combined them into one large dressing room."
Dean nodded. "Yeah, that's what you're supposed to think. But check out the dimensions."
Sam looked from one set of plans to the other and his eyes widened. "There's almost a 100 square feet of space missing."
Dean smiled. "Yeah. In a house that big, apparently it's pretty easy to hide a ten-by-ten room-big enough for a private chapel or crypt, if that's what floats your boat."
Sam nodded, rubbing his temple absently as his headache spiked again. "This was some plan for Celia to pull off in secret."
Dean shrugged. "Money talks, Sammy, so people won't. And, from the sounds of it, Celia paid well." He frowned. "But why take the secret to the grave? If she went to all this trouble to be with Reggie, keep him close, wouldn't she want to be buried with him?"
Sam tapped the journal. "She thought she had that covered. It's all kind of cryptic but, from what I can tell, she arranged to be cremated so her ashes could be interred with Reginald."
Dean frowned. "How? If nobody knew about the crypt, who was supposed to put them there?"
"Her maid, Marie." Sam reached in his pocket, searching for painkillers, then remembered they were in the computer bag he'd thrown in the car on the way into the diner. "Marie was the one person Celia seemed to trust with all her secrets. Problem is, the two of them were killed in the same car accident so it never happened. Celia's ashes were interred in the family mausoleum as her will stipulated." He picked up the journal. "This is the only diary that makes any reference to moving Reginald, and the only one Celia refused to donate to the library. It was tucked inside the box of legal papers we got from Elliot. I don't think her lawyer had much interest in reading it so, until now, Reginald's crypt remained secret."
With this new information, the brothers began to work out their plan as they finished their dinner, quieting only when Eve approached the table. Her smile fell neatly between shy and seductive. "So, guys, how was your meal?"
Dean sat back in the booth and returned the brunette's smile, his grin widening as his eyes traveled from her pretty face down her curvy frame, lingering just a touch too long on the hint of cleavage teasingly revealed by her V-neck t-shirt. "It was…awesome."
Sam rolled his eyes. Subtle was not one of Dean's strong suits. He pushed his empty plate to the end of the table, then pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing his headache would lift. "It was great, thanks, Eve. We'll take the check now."
The waitress pouted prettily. "No dessert?"
Dean's face fell too. "Yeah, Sammy, what about dessert? You know I love me some pie."
Sam shot a look at his brother, clearing his throat. "We're on the clock, Dean. We-"
"-still have time for pie. Job's waited this long. Another half-hour won't make a difference." Dean turned back to Eve, his smile widening. "What've you got?"
Eve's cleavage deepened as she leaned forward to refill Dean's coffee cup. "There's our famous deep-dish apple pie."
"Tempting." Dean's eyes flashed mischievously. "But somethin' tells me accepting apple pie from a girl named Eve is just askin' for trouble. What else?"
"There's cherry tart-and don't even go there." Eve laughed as she straightened up. "I think you might like the peach cobbler."
Dean grinned. "Sounds good. Two peach cobblers it is. With ice cream."
Sam shook his head. "Just one. I-"
"Two," Dean insisted, shooting a look at his brother. "Sam'll just end up eating half of mine if he doesn't get his own."
Sam glared but said nothing. Eve topped off Sam's cup. "Two peach cobblers it is." She smiled at Sam but, as before, the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Trust me, it's really something."
She picked up their dirty plates and walked to the kitchen. Dean's eyes again traveled down her back, fully appreciating her assets, until Sam kicked him under the table. "Ow. What the hell was that for? It's just pie, Sam."
The clattering of spoon against cup as Sam stirred his coffee was a clear sign of annoyance, especially since he drank it black. "We need to take care of Reginald."
Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's hand. "Dude, it's coffee, not cement. You can quit stirrin' now." He pulled his hand away, staring intently at his brother as he sat back. "You get cranky like this when you're sick. You still hurting?"
Sam's headache was magnifying all the noises of the diner, the happy chatter, the silverware and glasses clinking, the bell that signaled an order was ready, all echoing loudly inside his skull. He sighed, putting down the spoon and scrubbing a hand over his face. "Just my headache."
Dean studied Sam worriedly. "Maybe we should take you to the hospital. Maybe Reggie throwing you down the stairs did more damage than we thought."
Sam shook his head. "No. I don't need a hospital." He pushed himself out of the booth. "I'm just gonna go out to the car, grab the Tylenol. I'll be right back."
Dean leaned forward and grabbed his arm. "Hey. You sure that's all it is? We don't need to do this tonight if you're off your game."
"I'm fine." Sam smiled tiredly at Dean. "Just do me a favor? If you're thinking of hooking up with Eve when we're done, arrange to go back to her place, okay? My back's not up to sleeping in the Impala right now."
Dean glanced over to the counter where Eve was ladling scoops of ice cream onto their dessert. "Nah. Let's get the job done first." He shrugged. "Then we'll see. Take a couple of days off, just hang around here, relax…then maybe Eve and I can get a little somethin' goin' on." He grinned. "Pretty girls and pie, Sammy. Doesn't get much better for fixin' what ails you. Maybe she has a friend?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "I can get my own dates, Dean."
Dean's eyebrows arched. "But you don't. That's the problem."
Sam shook his head. "I'll be right back."
He sighed as he made his way quickly out of the restaurant and across the parking lot. In some ways, he wished he could enjoy uncomplicated relationships like his brother. Dean never led a woman on; if she spent the night with him, she did so fully aware his interest was passion, not picket fences, and there was a good chance he'd be gone before morning. It didn't stop some women from hoping, but they were always disappointed.
He knew there was a part of Dean that craved a normal life, part that, if things were different, would love to settle down. But, as long as hunting was part of the equation, his brother would keep that part of him buried deep inside.
Sam was gone less than five minutes. When he pushed open the door to the diner, another chill ran down his spine. He glanced around and, again, nothing seemed out of place. Eve was chatting with a trucker a few booths down from their table, and Dean was already digging into his dessert. Sam blew out a breath and returned to his seat.
Dean motioned to Sam's dessert with his spoon. "Eve wasn't kidding. This stuff is awesome."
Sam smiled, dumping three pills from the bottle into his hand, tossing them in his mouth, and washing them down with a gulp of coffee. He looked at the dessert in front of him, the aroma of hot fruit and cinnamon tickling his nose. "Smells great."
Dean grinned. "Tastes even better. Dig in."
Fifteen minutes and another cup of coffee later, the brothers were finished their dinner. Dean headed off to the men's room while Sam paid the check. As Eve rang up their bill, she smiled up at Sam. "For someone who really didn't want dessert, you certainly cleaned your plate."
Sam startled. For the briefest of moments, the warmth disappeared from Eve's eyes and was replaced by what he could only describe as hate. It was gone as quickly as it appeared…if it had even been there at all. Sam's eyes narrowed, wondering if he was seeing things. "Dessert was great, thanks." He waved off her attempt to return his change. "Keep it."
She smiled, eyes flashing. "Thanks. Take care." To Sam, the double meaning to her words was clear.
Sam walked away from the counter without turning away from Eve, and bumped into Dean, returning from the men's room. His brother frowned. "Dude, watch where you're goin."
Sam watched Eve walk away and chat pleasantly with a young couple at the counter. "Sorry, it's just…"
"What?" Dean followed Sam's gaze. Eve looked up and gave Dean a seductive wink.
Sam shook his head. "It's, um, nothing…I guess."
"Good." Dean smacked him in the arm. "Come on. Now that we're fueled up, I gotta do the same for the car, then we're on our way."
Dean drove the Impala to the gas station across the street. A large motor home was parked in front of the pumps on the street side, forcing Dean to tuck around behind and pull up on the opposite side of the island. Sam stayed in the car, studying the plans of the Barnstable House while Dean filled up the tank, then went inside to pay. Sam glanced up just as the motor home pulled away, clearing the line of sight to the diner across the street. Movement caught his attention, and his eyes narrowed.
Eve was leaving the diner, in the company of an older man dressed in jeans, flannel shirt, and ball cap. Sam vaguely recalled seeing him in the diner earlier. Eve seemed upset, almost angry, and she turned away from the man and stormed across the parking lot. The older man jogged after her, grabbed her by the arm, and spun her around. She tried to pull away, but he refused to let go.
Despite the pit in his stomach he couldn't pin a cause on, Sam instinctively had his hand on the door, ready to see if she needed help, when the trucker pulled Eve toward him and wrapped her in a tight hug. Sam's confusion grew as, slowly, she returned the man's embrace and he leaned down to kiss the top of her head. Sam's frown deepened. The man's actions weren't aggressive; they were almost fatherly.
Eve stepped back and nodded at the man. He wrapped his arm around her waist, guided her to the passenger side of his pickup truck, and opened the door for her. Once she was safely inside, he closed the door, exhaled noticeably, and walked around the back of his truck to the driver's side. He looked up briefly, and Sam caught a clear glimpse of his face. Sam shuddered, the same chill he'd felt at the diner once again racing up his spine.
Sam couldn't place the face but was convinced he'd seen the man before. He just had no idea where. Without really knowing why, he scrawled down the license plate number of the truck.
The driver's side door opened, hinges groaning loudly, and Dean slid inside. He glanced at his brother and frowned at the puzzled expression on his face. "Sammy?"
Sam watched the truck drive away.
Dean turned to follow Sam's gaze, then smacked his brother on the arm. "Earth to Sam? What?
As the truck disappeared down the road, Sam turned to Dean and shrugged. "Not sure. Could be something, could be nothing." He glanced down at the number he'd just scrawled at the top of the plans he'd been looking at. He ripped off the corner, folded the paper, and shoved it into his jeans pocket. "Just something to check into later."
Dean frowned. "Anything I should know about?"
"Just a bad feeling I got about a guy I saw in the diner." Sam cleared his throat. "Like I said, I'll check into it when we're done with Reginald. If it's anything, you'll be the first to know."
Dean nodded slowly. "Okay then." He turned the ignition. "Let's go take care of Reggie."
xxxXXXxxx
The sun was low in the sky as the brothers walked up the steps to the Barnstable House. This time they each carried a shotgun and a sledgehammer. Dean had the duffel bag containing salt, crowbars, and anything else they thought they might need, slung over his shoulder. Sam carried a large battery-powered camping lantern since they were quickly losing daylight, and a can of gasoline.
Sam opened the front door, and Dean pushed past him, eyes darting around as he took his customary point position. He held his sawed-off shotgun at the ready in his right hand, the long-handled sledgehammer in his left. Sam pocketed the key, picked up the lantern and gas can he'd placed on the step while opening the door and followed him in, kicking the door closed behind him.
Dean scowled, using the back of his hand that held the sledgehammer to rub the bridge of his nose. "Third floor, right?"
Sam caught his brother's grimace but simply nodded. "Yeah. Double doors at the end of the hall."
"Right." Dean shook his head as he began clomping up the stairs. "Be sharp, Sammy. It won't take long for Reggie to figure out what we're up to." He stumbled, falling forward onto his knees and grabbing the railing to regain his balance.
Sam frowned worriedly. "Dean?"
Dean blew out a breath as he hauled himself up and adjusted the duffel on his shoulder. "Chill. I'm good. Load just shifted, that's all." He turned to flash Sam a smirk, then resumed climbing the stairs.
Sam watched him for a moment before following him. Their footsteps echoed eerily as they moved up the three flights of stairs, then walked along the third floor hallway to the double mahogany doors that led to what had been Celia and Reginald's suite. Dean pushed open the doors, coughing at the cloud of dust the movement created, and pointed to the wall at the far end of the room. "If Celia turned the study into a crypt, it should be over here."
Sam glanced around the room. It was impressive by any standards, even in its current neglected state. It was about 30 feet long and 25 feet wide. The walls, papered in deep burgundy stripes, rose 14 feet to an ornate coffered ceiling. Heavy damask drapes in the same jewel-toned burgundy as the wallpaper framed each of the floor-to-ceiling windows that flanked the oversized canopy bed.
A large marble fireplace was the centerpiece of the right wall of the room, fronted by a once elegant settee, chairs, and coffee table, all now partially hidden under large white dust sheets. According to the plans they'd studied, the door to the left of the fireplace led to what had been Celia's dressing room, the door to the right to the study converted into a bathroom.
At the left end of the room, double doors were centered in the wall, flanked by matching dressers. Sam followed Dean across the room, their own footprints from their previous visit still visible in the heavy dust that coated the wide plank wood floors.
Dean allowed the duffel to slide off his shoulder and drop to the floor. He tossed his sledgehammer on top of the bag, then stepped forward and pulled open the dressing room doors. Walking into the room, he whistled. The room was about fifteen-foot square, each wall lined in cedar shelves, drawers, and clothing rails that offered enough space to accommodate the entire inventory of a good-sized boutique.
Dean shook his head. "Damn, Sam. This closet is bigger than most motel rooms we stay in."
Sam smiled as he put the lantern and gas can on the dresser to the right of the doors and followed Dean into the dressing room. "Not everybody can fit their entire wardrobe in a duffel bag, you know."
Dean scowled at him. "Why not? How many pairs of jeans does a person need?"
Sam shook his head as studied the left wall, knowing the secret room, if it existed, lay behind it. He leaned the shotgun and sledgehammer against the shelves, and began opening drawers and tapping the back wall. "There has to be a hidden door here somewhere."
Dean rubbed his forehead in irritation as Sam searched. "This could take all night. I say we just sledgehammer our way in."
"Just give me a minute, okay?" Sam was reaching into his pocket for a lighter when Dean turned impatiently, stumbled, and fell into him. Sam arms shot out, catching his brother as he went down. "Whoa."
Dean pushed himself up, his hands fisting in Sam's jacket as he regained his equilibrium. "I'm good. Just lost my balance."
Sam's worry deepened. "That's twice, Dean…in the last 10 minutes."
Dean screwed his eyes closed, gave his head a shake, then pushed himself off Sam. "Weird."
Sam still held tightly to his brother's arms. His eyes widened as he felt Dean tremble in his hold and realized his breathing was fast and shallow. "What's goin on?"
Dean batted his brother's hands away, swaying slightly but remaining on his feet. "M'okay. Just a headache." He smiled nonchalantly. "Hope you left me some Tylenol."
Sam frowned. "That 'brave-little-soldier' bullshit works both ways, you know?"
"Sam." The growling tone in Dean's voice was a warning not to push it. "Stow the Flo Nightingale routine and find us a way into that room."
Sam's frown remained as he pulled out the lighter, flicked it on, and held it up against the wall, watching for any flicker that might indicate a draft and the presence of a door. There was nothing. He stepped back and studied the shelving that covered the wall. It was divided into three sections, the two outer ones featuring a clothes rail with two large drawers at the bottom and two open shelves at the top. The center section featured drawers at the bottom and shelves at the top. The top drawer was narrower than the rest and the only one that featured a keyhole. Sam gave it a tug; it was locked.
He stretched out his hand to Dean. "I need the lock pick."
"What?" Dean was staring at him puzzled, like he didn't understand the question.
Sam's eyebrows arched. "The lock pick. You brought it, right?"
Dean stared at Sam, uncomprehending, then his mind suddenly seemed to clear. "Um, yeah-it's right here." He reached for his back pocket, pulling out the lock pick set and handing it to Sam.
Sam took it but his eyes stayed on Dean. His brother was grimacing and rubbing his chest. "Dean?"
His brother looked up, waving his hand dismissively. "Must be comin' down with the flu or somethin'. What do you need the lock pick for?"
Sam motioned to the shallow drawer. "This was likely meant for jewelry. It was kept locked in case staff had sticky fingers but…" Sam slipped the picks into the lock, expertly pushing the tumblers into place. "…it also seems like the logical place to hide a lever to a secret door. Less chance of anyone pushing it accidentally."
The tumblers clicked, and Sam slid open the drawer. It was lined in rich claret velvet and divided into numerous compartments of various sizes. Sam put down the lock picks and reached in, but stopped when the temperature in the dressing room plunged suddenly. In one fluid move, he stepped back, grabbed for the shotgun he'd leaned against the shelves, and spun around.
Reginald's spirit materialized suddenly, storming into the room and charging right at Dean. The elder Winchester stumbled backward as the spirit came at him, raising his shotgun to defend himself, but his movements were uncharacteristically sluggish. Reginald barreled into Dean before he had a chance to squeeze the trigger, the blast of cold energy lifting the hunter off the floor and throwing him across the room. Dean crashed into the back wall, wooden shelves cracking and splintering under the force of the collision, and crumpled to the floor. His shotgun skittered across the hardwood, coming to rest in the corner.
Reginald's head whipped around, his rage now directed at Sam. But the younger Winchester had squeezed the trigger at almost the same moment the spirit had attacked Dean. The rock salt shot caught Reginald full in the chest as he turned, and he dissipated with a furious bellow.
Breathing hard, Sam's eyes jumped immediately to his brother.
Dean was still on the floor, conscious but dazed by the attack. He was slumped against the broken shelving, eyes hazy, breathing too rapid, as he struggled to push himself up. "Damn it-that hurt."
Sam was at his side seconds later, hands on Dean's shoulders, steadying him as he helped his brother sit up. "Take it easy. Anything broken?"
Dean screwed his eyes closed. "No. Help me up."
Sam hooked an arm around Dean, grunting as he helped haul him to his feet. Sam's arm stayed around his brother's waist until he was sure he was steady.
Dean wavered but stayed standing. He grimaced as he pushed himself away from Sam, stretching to unkink his back, which had taken the brunt of the attack. "You haven't found the door yet?"
Sam's jaw clenched. "I was a little distracted. You good?"
Dean nodded, and Sam turned back to the jewelry drawer. He slid his hand inside, feeling along the sides, top and back. As his hand reached the back, he turned to smile at Dean. "Got something." It was a small lever. When Sam pulled it forward, he heard a loud click and the whole section of shelving and drawers in the center of the wall slid forward until it cleared the shelves on either side. With a second click, it popped open, and Sam realized the whole section was hinged on the right side. He grabbed the shelf and pulled, and it swung to the side like a heavy door.
Sam swallowed. A hidden door was set in the wall behind it. He moved forward and turned the knob. It was stiff with disuse but opened with gentle force. The door swung inward with a creaking groan, but the room beyond was in complete darkness.
After retrieving his shotgun, Dean staggered up to the doorway. Sam turned back to the bedroom, grabbed the lantern then returned quickly to stand beside his brother. With a quick glance at Dean, he turned on the light and walked into the secret room for the first time. As the lantern lit up the space, his eyes widened.
Dean followed unsteadily. "Whoa."
The room looked like an antechamber of a large cathedral. It was windowless, with dark wooden panels lining the walls. A large stone crypt sat on a platform along the far wall, an ornate crucifix hanging above it and a vase of desiccated flowers sitting on top of it. The only other furniture in the room was a simple church pew that sat parallel to the crypt.
Dean shook his head. "Puts a whole new spin on skeletons in the closet."
Sam moved forward, setting down the lantern on the pew. "Come on. Reginald will be back. We need to get that crypt open."
Sam moved past Dean back into the bedroom, grabbed the duffel bag and gas can, then returned to the crypt. He unzipped the bag, pulled out two crowbars, and handed one to his brother.
Dean took it, swallowed hard, and stumbled to the side of the crypt, propping up his gun against the wall. Sam tracked Dean worriedly. Something was definitely off with him. "Dean, you-"
"Sam." Dean scowled at his brother. "Like you said, Reggie'll be back. Let's do this."
Sam nodded, moving to the far end of the crypt and sliding the flat end of the crowbar underneath the stone lid. Dean did the same. With loud grunts, they shouldered the heavy piece of stone forward until it rested precariously on the edge.
Dean gave it one final shove and gravity took over. The stone lid tipped and fell to the floor with a thunderous crash, cracking into three pieces and sending up a thick cloud of dust.
Sam jumped back, coughing as he breathed in the dust and debris and dragging a hand over his stinging eyes. "Little warning would be nice." His chest tightened when he realized Dean was no longer standing. As the slab crashed to the floor, Dean had fallen back against the wall, slid down it and landed slumped in the corner. In the cloud of dust, he was really struggling to breathe, his hand rubbing against his chest as his face contorted in pain.
Sam stumbled over the broken pieces of stone to get to his brother, and crouched down beside him. "Dean?"
His brother blinked up at him, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "I know you don't like fishing, Sammy, but give it a chance. You have to be quiet for one thing. If you and Dad can't talk, you can't bite each other's head off."
Sam frowned, his eyes glued to his brother. "What?"
Dean clutched again at his chest, his voice raspy. "Look, I know I gave you a hard time about your prom date, but she was way too low rent for you. What were you thinking?"
Sam's heart was hammering. "Okay, Dean. You're really scaring me now. What's goin' on?"
Dean's head rolled toward him, his eyes sliding back into focus. He looked around, confused, as if trying to figure out where he was. When his eyes settled on the crypt beside him, he relaxed slightly. "You torched Reggie yet?"
Sam rested a hand on Dean's shoulder, his brother's confusion and difficulty breathing worrying him far more than the likely return of a pissed-off spirit. "I think we should get you outta here. I can come back-"
"No." Dean shook his head vehemently. His eyes slid shut. "Torch the bastard. Then we go."
Sam's jaw clenched worriedly. He could argue with Dean or just get the job done, and he knew which would get them out of the house fastest. "Okay. But I want you to stay here, sit tight. I'll take care of Reginald, then we'll get you some help."
Dean was struggling to stand up.
"Dean." Sam gently pushed him back down. "Just stay here-can you do that?"
Dean nodded, and the sudden easy acquiescence ratcheted up Sam's worry.
Sam stood up, stepped away from Dean, and then up onto the platform holding the crypt and looked inside. The ornate coffin within was definitely that of a wealthy man. Sam reached down with the crowbar and forced open the lid. He nodded in satisfaction at the one-armed skeleton it held before stepping off the platform and crossing back to the duffel.
He turned toward Dean. "I don't know who John Doe was out at the cemetery but this is definitely Reginald. We can-" Sam's words trailed off as he watched Dean's eyes slide out of focus and listened to the harsh rattle of his labored breathing. "Dean? You still with me?"
Dean's eyes slid closed. "Dad, you gotta let him do this. Sammy just wants to be a normal kid for a while. I'll swing by Stanford, check up on him, make sure he's good…"
Sam, crouched beside the duffel, pulling out salt, and grabbing the gas can, froze at Dean's unguarded words. His brother's delirium offered a rare glimpse into the aftermath of his leaving for college. He'd never seen Dean checking up on him, but he also knew that if his brother didn't want to be seen, he wouldn't be. There had been days at school when he could have sworn he sensed his brother's presence, but always dismissed it as wishful thinking. But if Dean's delirious ramblings were based in truth, then his brother had been off in the distance, watching over him then as he had been most of their lives.
Dean's cough spurred Sam into action. Right now he had to look out for Dean, and that meant getting rid of Reginald. He crossed to the casket, quickly salting the remains and dousing them in gasoline. He capped the gas can, stowed it beside the duffel, picked up his shotgun for reassurance and pulled his lighter from his pocket.
Sam had taken one step toward the crypt when, without warning, a blast of cold energy hit him hard from behind. He toppled forward, shotgun and lighter flying from his hands and head smacking hard against the edge of the stone platform that held the crypt. The blow opened up the cut from the previous day's attack and left Sam dazed and seeing double. He clumsily rolled over and his vision slid slowly into focus as Reginald's spirit lumbered toward him.
Sam's eyes darted round, searching for his gun. It lay on the floor about eight feet from him. He lunged toward it, but Reginald had seen it too and, this time, he was faster. The spirit smirked coldly and waved his hand; the gun slid across the floor, through the doorway and into the dressing room beyond.
In a blink, Reginald was beside Sam, grabbing him by the throat, pulling him to his feet and choking off all ability to breathe. Sam pawed helplessly at the ghostly hand around his neck, his vision blurring from lack of air. Reginald's voice was a deadly whisper. "How dare you trespass here. This is our sanctuary. You-"
The spirit's threat was cut off by a shotgun blast. Sam gasped loudly, suddenly able to breathe again, as he fell to the ground. He coughed as he looked up to see Dean still sitting in the corner, head leaning against the wall and smoking shotgun across his lap.
He nodded at Sam, eyes struggling to stay open. "Good. Got the right one." He waved his hand. "I was seeing two of 'em."
Unsteadily, Sam pushed himself to his feet and nodded at Dean. "Thanks."
Dean's eyes slid closed. "Wanna go home, Sammy. Super Bowl's on tonight."
Sam's jaw clenched as he searched for the lighter he'd dropped when Reginald attacked. "Super Bowl was four months ago, Dean," he muttered quietly. He spotted the lighter, grabbed it, and stepped up on the platform. He flicked on the lighter, locked the flame open and dropped it into the casket. The fire flared hot and bright, quickly consuming the earthly remains of Reginald Barnstable.
As the fire burned, contained within the stone crypt, Sam turned to Dean, his focus now solely on this brother. He didn't care about covering their tracks, collecting their supplies, or even if the whole damn house burned down: Dean needed help.
Sam staggered over to the corner and crouched down beside Dean. He gently pulled the shotgun from Dean's grasp and placed it on the floor. Then he slid an arm around his brother's back, draped Dean's arm around his neck and, with a loud grunt, hefted Dean to his feet. "Time to go."
"Go?" Dean looked around in confusion. "We gonna miss the Super Bowl?"
Sam fought to push back the steadily rising panic over his brother's delirium as he guided Dean out of the house, knowing their next stop was the hospital. "No, Dean. I promise. You won't miss the Super Bowl."
To Chapter 3
RATING: PG-13, for some swearing
PAIRINGS: None
GENRE: Gen
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Sam & Dean Winchester belong to Eric Kripke who entertains us each week and graciously lets us play in his sandbox when he turns out the lights and goes home for the night. (Or we sneak in when he's not looking, I'm not sure which.) Definitely for fun not profit.
Link back to Chapter 1 Here.
CHAPTER 2
"SAM!" Dean watched horrified as his brother was pushed and fell, diving forward to try to pull him to safety but grabbing only air as Sam smashed through the railing and tumbled out of reach.
Dean looked down and his stomach lurched. Sam lay on his back on the landing six feet below, head turned to the side, eyes closed. Blood stained the side of his face.
Heart pounding, Dean scrambled to his feet and turned to run down the stairs but skidded to an abrupt stop as the spirit of Reginald Barnstable materialized suddenly in front of him. Dark eyes flashed at Dean from under heavy eyebrows and the spirit's cruel mouth curled into a sneer behind a close-cropped mustache and goatee.
Dean froze, each exhale frosting in front of him, as Reginald moved toward him. The spirit's eyes narrowed. "You have no business here. I want you out of my house."
Hunter and spirit reacted simultaneously, Dean raising his gun and squeezing the trigger even as a blast of cold energy picked him up and threw him across the hall. He slammed into the wall on the far side, shattered plaster raining over him, and crumpled to the floor as Reginald's spirit dissipated in a shower of rock salt.
Dean grimaced as he pushed himself to his feet, coughing up plaster dust. His vision blurred and he stumbled, grabbing the wall behind him for balance. He waved away the dust as his vision slid back into focus.
"Sam?" His voice was thick and rough. He coughed again and staggered forward to look down the stairs. Sam hadn't moved; he still lay sprawled on his back, one leg bent under him. "Sammy?"
Dean half ran, half fell down the eight steps to the landing. Dropping to his knees at his brother's side, he put down his shotgun and pressed his fingers against Sam's neck, exhaling in relief when they found a strong and steady pulse. His eyes and his hands then quickly scanned his brother, assessing the severity of every cut and bruise he found and searching for any broken bones. The most obvious injury was a deep gash over Sam's temple where his head had caught the edge of the newel post. Blood matted his hair and mixed with dirt and dust down the side of his face.
Dean's gaze darted to Sam's face as his brother groaned softly. "Sammy? You in there?"
Sam's eyes slid open and he looked around dazedly. "Dean?"
"Right here." Dean held his brother's head still. "I need you to look at me. How many of me are there?"
Sam squinted at Dean, then screwed his eyes closed. "One-that's enough." He groaned again as he tried sitting up.
"Whoa, whoa." Dean gently pressed a hand on Sam's chest, holding him down. "Before you start movin' around, how bad is it? And no brave-little-soldier bullshit, either."
Sam opened one eye and frowned at Dean. "Ow."
Dean's eyebrow quirked, then he smiled at their childhood shorthand for rating severity of injuries. "Ow" was a step up from "Ouch," a step below "Damn it," and a long way from "Fuck," the latter reserved for only the most severe injuries and about the only time use of the word didn't result in a cuff behind the ear if their dad was in earshot.
"Okay, 'Ow' we can handle." He turned to look at Sam's feet. "Move your toes."
Sam scowled. "I'm fine. I-"
Dean cut him off. "Gotta rule out back injuries, Sammy. You know the drill. Now, feet."
Sam sighed, moving his right foot up and down, then slowly straightening his left leg.
Dean nodded approvingly. "Good." His gaze slid up to Sam's arms. "Hands."
Sam curled his fingers into fists, but left each middle finger extended.
Dean bit back a smile. "You suck at being a good patient, you know that?"
"Yeah, I learned from the best." Sam raised a hand toward Dean. "Help me up."
Dean nodded slowly. "Fine, but if anything's off, I wanna know about it."
Sam grimaced as Dean sat him up. He grabbed his brother's shirt to steady himself until a wave of dizziness passed, then patted Dean on the chest in thanks. "Who, or what, pushed me?"
Dean frowned as he inspected the gash on Sam's head. "It was definitely Reggie. And you know what that means."
Sam nodded. "Yeah. That wasn't him in the casket."
"Exactly. So we've got our work cut out for us." Dean pulled himself to his feet, then moved behind Sam and slid his arms around him. "But, for now, let's get outta here before Reggie shows up again. You ready to try standing?"
Sam nodded.
"Okay. On three. One…two…three."
Sam pushed himself to his feet, with Dean holding him steady. He swayed a little but held his balance even when Dean let go.
"You good?" Dean studied his brother closely.
Sam nodded. "Yeah. Let's go." Despite his bravado, Sam had a tight grip on the railing. He glanced down at the foyer below. "Guess I'm lucky I landed here rather than down there, huh?" The foyer was another ten feet below the landing, its marble floor a lot less forgiving than the worn but thick Persian rug Sam had fallen on.
Dean shot his brother a look as he bent down to pick up the EMF and his shotgun. "Only you would find an up side to being tossed down the stairs." He spotted Sam's gun three stairs down, glancing around suspiciously as he moved to retrieve it. He frowned at Sam's stiff gait as his brother moved past him down the stairs toward the front hall. "You're walking like you're seventy."
Sam kept moving, albeit slowly. "It's nothing a hot shower won't fix. Now come on-we've got a pile of research to do."
Dean's face fell as he followed his brother. "This job just keeps getting better."
Dean kept his shotgun at the ready, not letting down his guard until they were both in the Impala, the Chevy kicking up gravel as it sped down the long driveway toward the road.
xxxXXXxxx
Sam pushed open the door to the diner. Dean was already seated in a booth by the window, chatting animatedly with the waitress, Eve. It was the fourth time they'd eaten at this diner since arriving in town, and the food, while good, was definitely not the main attraction for his brother.
Sam frowned as he stepped inside, an eerie chill creeping up his spine. He shuddered as he glanced around, the feeling of unease growing steadily. It was dinner hour, so the place was busy, full of young couples meeting up after work, teens grabbing a bite before heading to a movie and a trucker or two taking a much-needed break from behind the wheel.
Nothing seemed out of place, but still, something felt…off. Sam's "spidey senses," as Dean called them, were rarely baseless, but here, now, he couldn't peg what had triggered them. Puzzled, he crossed the restaurant to Dean.
After leaving the Barnstable House, the brothers had returned to their motel, showered quickly, then tumbled into bed just as most people were heading off to work. As much as Sam wanted to head straight to the library, he put up little resistance when Dean insisted they get a few hours shut-eye first. It was early afternoon when they woke up. Sam's headache had receded, but he was still moving stiffly thanks to bruising that now covered his back from shoulder blades to waist.
Following a breakfast of coffee and painkillers, the brothers had agreed to split up to try to figure out where Reginald had been buried. Sam headed to the local library to study Barnstable journals archived there, comparing the information they contained with that in the thick file of family papers sent to them by Elliot Barnstable. Dean visited the town records department, the local funeral home, whose ads bragged that it had been "Serving you in your time of need for 125 years," and the Edgeport Historical Society. When Dean was done, he'd called Sam, who'd suggested they meet up at the diner, which was walking distance from the library.
Sam slid into the booth opposite Dean, nodding at Eve. "Hey."
Dean grinned. "'Bout frigging time, Sammy. I'm starving."
Sam rolled his eyes. "You're always starving, Dean."
Eve, a petite brunette, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail and thick bangs falling over big brown eyes, laughed. "That's what I like to hear. It's good for business." She turned to Sam, her smile fading almost imperceptibly. "Coffee?"
Sam nodded, frowning slightly as he turned over his cup. Eve filled it, then topped up Dean's, her smile widening again as she turned back to the elder Winchester. "Now that you're both here, I'll tell the cook to get your dinner started." She turned and headed for the kitchen, Dean following her movements appreciatively.
Sam took a sip of his coffee. "You ordered for me?"
Dean nodded, still watching the waitress walk away. "Eve recommended the fried chicken."
Sam shook his head. "Something tells me if she recommended squid, that's what we'd be eating."
Dean turned back to Sam, frowning. "What? They don't have squid."
"Never mind." Sam pinched the bridge of his nose as the headache that had never really gone away since his tumble down the stairs ratcheted up a notch.
Dean worriedly took in the tension in Sam's face, the tightness around his eyes. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I…" Sam looked up to see Dean studying him intently. He sighed, rubbing his temples, trying to push back the sense of unease he couldn't shake. "Just a headache." He pulled a book from inside his jacket. "The good news is I think I've got a clue as to where Reginald is buried."
Dean frowned at the obvious diversion but let it go. "Go on."
Sam gestured with the book. "This is Celia Barnstable's diary from the year her husband died." He opened it to a marked page. "A few days after Reginald's death she wrote, 'This past week has been the hardest of my life. My sons are already moving on, but there is a gaping chasm in my heart I fear will never be filled. I need Reginald's presence to fuel my strength, to help me to keep going.'"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Why do chicks get all flowery like that? Why couldn't she just write 'I miss the old bastard. Wish he was still around.'"
"You have a real way with words, Dean." Sam turned to a second marked page and cleared his throat. "Six weeks later, something had definitely changed. She writes, 'So many times I feared discovery, feared my sons would uncover the truth of my plans and try to stop me, but they are too wrapped up in petty battles over their inheritances to pay me much mind. I know Reginald would approve. His money has been used to reunite us and to buy the continued silence of those who helped restore his rightful place here within his beloved home.'"
Dean sat back. "Okay. So she had him moved back to the house. Think maybe there's a family cemetery or crypt somewhere on those overgrown grounds?"
Sam shook his head. "No. All the Barnstables are either buried in the cemetery where Reginald should be, or their ashes interred in a mausoleum near the cemetery gates. And from what Celia wrote in her diary, her sons knew nothing about her plans. If she was doing something out in the open, they would have seen what was going on."
Sam closed the diary and put it down on the table. "Celia writes about how nice it is to be able to visit him, talk to him on a daily basis. She has to have buried him somewhere where she could move around in relative privacy, without anyone questioning where she was going." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a single sheet of paper. "I found a work order for renovations to the house that coincides with the date in the diary, but it says only 'structural repair'-there's nothing specific as to what the work was or in what part of the house."
Sam handed the paper to Dean and took a sip of his coffee as his brother looked it over. "Her sons' journals make no mention of any renovations, but each writes, at various times, how their mother became more reclusive after Reginald's death, spending more and more time alone in her room."
"I think I have an-" Dean stopped talking as Eve showed up at the table with big platters holding fried chicken, biscuits, mashed potatoes and gravy and, to Dean's apparent surprise, vegetables. He smiled at the waitress. "Looks incredible."
Sam nodded, sliding the diary out of the way. The dinner did actually look great; the food and the plates were hot and the vegetables were crisp and fresh, not the wilted mush that generally passed for veggies at most diners. "Looks great. Thanks."
Eve smiled at Dean. "Enjoy. Anything else I can do for you, just shout."
Dean grinned. "I'll keep that in mind." He stabbed a piece of broccoli suspiciously, then, once Eve was out of earshot, turned to Sam. "I found plans for the house at both the town records office and the Historical Society, but there are some discrepancies between the two. Based on what you've just said, one of those differences could mean something."
He shoved a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth, then reached into his jacket, pulling out a sheaf of papers and shuffling through them until he found the ones he was looking for. Unfolding them, he slid one across the table toward Sam. "Okay, this is the house in 1890, shortly after it was built." He unfolded a second piece of paper and placed it beside the first. "These are plans from 1937, shortly after Celia's death. Reggie and Celia's suite was on the third floor, right?"
Sam nodded.
Dean picked up his knife and fork. "Well, compare the layout in the two sets of plans."
Sam studied the papers. In the earlier drawing, the master suite of rooms consisted of the main bedroom, two dressing rooms and two studies. In the later version, one study had been converted into a bathroom, but the other no longer existed. "It looks like they knocked down the wall between the study and the dressing room and combined them into one large dressing room."
Dean nodded. "Yeah, that's what you're supposed to think. But check out the dimensions."
Sam looked from one set of plans to the other and his eyes widened. "There's almost a 100 square feet of space missing."
Dean smiled. "Yeah. In a house that big, apparently it's pretty easy to hide a ten-by-ten room-big enough for a private chapel or crypt, if that's what floats your boat."
Sam nodded, rubbing his temple absently as his headache spiked again. "This was some plan for Celia to pull off in secret."
Dean shrugged. "Money talks, Sammy, so people won't. And, from the sounds of it, Celia paid well." He frowned. "But why take the secret to the grave? If she went to all this trouble to be with Reggie, keep him close, wouldn't she want to be buried with him?"
Sam tapped the journal. "She thought she had that covered. It's all kind of cryptic but, from what I can tell, she arranged to be cremated so her ashes could be interred with Reginald."
Dean frowned. "How? If nobody knew about the crypt, who was supposed to put them there?"
"Her maid, Marie." Sam reached in his pocket, searching for painkillers, then remembered they were in the computer bag he'd thrown in the car on the way into the diner. "Marie was the one person Celia seemed to trust with all her secrets. Problem is, the two of them were killed in the same car accident so it never happened. Celia's ashes were interred in the family mausoleum as her will stipulated." He picked up the journal. "This is the only diary that makes any reference to moving Reginald, and the only one Celia refused to donate to the library. It was tucked inside the box of legal papers we got from Elliot. I don't think her lawyer had much interest in reading it so, until now, Reginald's crypt remained secret."
With this new information, the brothers began to work out their plan as they finished their dinner, quieting only when Eve approached the table. Her smile fell neatly between shy and seductive. "So, guys, how was your meal?"
Dean sat back in the booth and returned the brunette's smile, his grin widening as his eyes traveled from her pretty face down her curvy frame, lingering just a touch too long on the hint of cleavage teasingly revealed by her V-neck t-shirt. "It was…awesome."
Sam rolled his eyes. Subtle was not one of Dean's strong suits. He pushed his empty plate to the end of the table, then pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing his headache would lift. "It was great, thanks, Eve. We'll take the check now."
The waitress pouted prettily. "No dessert?"
Dean's face fell too. "Yeah, Sammy, what about dessert? You know I love me some pie."
Sam shot a look at his brother, clearing his throat. "We're on the clock, Dean. We-"
"-still have time for pie. Job's waited this long. Another half-hour won't make a difference." Dean turned back to Eve, his smile widening. "What've you got?"
Eve's cleavage deepened as she leaned forward to refill Dean's coffee cup. "There's our famous deep-dish apple pie."
"Tempting." Dean's eyes flashed mischievously. "But somethin' tells me accepting apple pie from a girl named Eve is just askin' for trouble. What else?"
"There's cherry tart-and don't even go there." Eve laughed as she straightened up. "I think you might like the peach cobbler."
Dean grinned. "Sounds good. Two peach cobblers it is. With ice cream."
Sam shook his head. "Just one. I-"
"Two," Dean insisted, shooting a look at his brother. "Sam'll just end up eating half of mine if he doesn't get his own."
Sam glared but said nothing. Eve topped off Sam's cup. "Two peach cobblers it is." She smiled at Sam but, as before, the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Trust me, it's really something."
She picked up their dirty plates and walked to the kitchen. Dean's eyes again traveled down her back, fully appreciating her assets, until Sam kicked him under the table. "Ow. What the hell was that for? It's just pie, Sam."
The clattering of spoon against cup as Sam stirred his coffee was a clear sign of annoyance, especially since he drank it black. "We need to take care of Reginald."
Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's hand. "Dude, it's coffee, not cement. You can quit stirrin' now." He pulled his hand away, staring intently at his brother as he sat back. "You get cranky like this when you're sick. You still hurting?"
Sam's headache was magnifying all the noises of the diner, the happy chatter, the silverware and glasses clinking, the bell that signaled an order was ready, all echoing loudly inside his skull. He sighed, putting down the spoon and scrubbing a hand over his face. "Just my headache."
Dean studied Sam worriedly. "Maybe we should take you to the hospital. Maybe Reggie throwing you down the stairs did more damage than we thought."
Sam shook his head. "No. I don't need a hospital." He pushed himself out of the booth. "I'm just gonna go out to the car, grab the Tylenol. I'll be right back."
Dean leaned forward and grabbed his arm. "Hey. You sure that's all it is? We don't need to do this tonight if you're off your game."
"I'm fine." Sam smiled tiredly at Dean. "Just do me a favor? If you're thinking of hooking up with Eve when we're done, arrange to go back to her place, okay? My back's not up to sleeping in the Impala right now."
Dean glanced over to the counter where Eve was ladling scoops of ice cream onto their dessert. "Nah. Let's get the job done first." He shrugged. "Then we'll see. Take a couple of days off, just hang around here, relax…then maybe Eve and I can get a little somethin' goin' on." He grinned. "Pretty girls and pie, Sammy. Doesn't get much better for fixin' what ails you. Maybe she has a friend?"
Sam rolled his eyes. "I can get my own dates, Dean."
Dean's eyebrows arched. "But you don't. That's the problem."
Sam shook his head. "I'll be right back."
He sighed as he made his way quickly out of the restaurant and across the parking lot. In some ways, he wished he could enjoy uncomplicated relationships like his brother. Dean never led a woman on; if she spent the night with him, she did so fully aware his interest was passion, not picket fences, and there was a good chance he'd be gone before morning. It didn't stop some women from hoping, but they were always disappointed.
He knew there was a part of Dean that craved a normal life, part that, if things were different, would love to settle down. But, as long as hunting was part of the equation, his brother would keep that part of him buried deep inside.
Sam was gone less than five minutes. When he pushed open the door to the diner, another chill ran down his spine. He glanced around and, again, nothing seemed out of place. Eve was chatting with a trucker a few booths down from their table, and Dean was already digging into his dessert. Sam blew out a breath and returned to his seat.
Dean motioned to Sam's dessert with his spoon. "Eve wasn't kidding. This stuff is awesome."
Sam smiled, dumping three pills from the bottle into his hand, tossing them in his mouth, and washing them down with a gulp of coffee. He looked at the dessert in front of him, the aroma of hot fruit and cinnamon tickling his nose. "Smells great."
Dean grinned. "Tastes even better. Dig in."
Fifteen minutes and another cup of coffee later, the brothers were finished their dinner. Dean headed off to the men's room while Sam paid the check. As Eve rang up their bill, she smiled up at Sam. "For someone who really didn't want dessert, you certainly cleaned your plate."
Sam startled. For the briefest of moments, the warmth disappeared from Eve's eyes and was replaced by what he could only describe as hate. It was gone as quickly as it appeared…if it had even been there at all. Sam's eyes narrowed, wondering if he was seeing things. "Dessert was great, thanks." He waved off her attempt to return his change. "Keep it."
She smiled, eyes flashing. "Thanks. Take care." To Sam, the double meaning to her words was clear.
Sam walked away from the counter without turning away from Eve, and bumped into Dean, returning from the men's room. His brother frowned. "Dude, watch where you're goin."
Sam watched Eve walk away and chat pleasantly with a young couple at the counter. "Sorry, it's just…"
"What?" Dean followed Sam's gaze. Eve looked up and gave Dean a seductive wink.
Sam shook his head. "It's, um, nothing…I guess."
"Good." Dean smacked him in the arm. "Come on. Now that we're fueled up, I gotta do the same for the car, then we're on our way."
Dean drove the Impala to the gas station across the street. A large motor home was parked in front of the pumps on the street side, forcing Dean to tuck around behind and pull up on the opposite side of the island. Sam stayed in the car, studying the plans of the Barnstable House while Dean filled up the tank, then went inside to pay. Sam glanced up just as the motor home pulled away, clearing the line of sight to the diner across the street. Movement caught his attention, and his eyes narrowed.
Eve was leaving the diner, in the company of an older man dressed in jeans, flannel shirt, and ball cap. Sam vaguely recalled seeing him in the diner earlier. Eve seemed upset, almost angry, and she turned away from the man and stormed across the parking lot. The older man jogged after her, grabbed her by the arm, and spun her around. She tried to pull away, but he refused to let go.
Despite the pit in his stomach he couldn't pin a cause on, Sam instinctively had his hand on the door, ready to see if she needed help, when the trucker pulled Eve toward him and wrapped her in a tight hug. Sam's confusion grew as, slowly, she returned the man's embrace and he leaned down to kiss the top of her head. Sam's frown deepened. The man's actions weren't aggressive; they were almost fatherly.
Eve stepped back and nodded at the man. He wrapped his arm around her waist, guided her to the passenger side of his pickup truck, and opened the door for her. Once she was safely inside, he closed the door, exhaled noticeably, and walked around the back of his truck to the driver's side. He looked up briefly, and Sam caught a clear glimpse of his face. Sam shuddered, the same chill he'd felt at the diner once again racing up his spine.
Sam couldn't place the face but was convinced he'd seen the man before. He just had no idea where. Without really knowing why, he scrawled down the license plate number of the truck.
The driver's side door opened, hinges groaning loudly, and Dean slid inside. He glanced at his brother and frowned at the puzzled expression on his face. "Sammy?"
Sam watched the truck drive away.
Dean turned to follow Sam's gaze, then smacked his brother on the arm. "Earth to Sam? What?
As the truck disappeared down the road, Sam turned to Dean and shrugged. "Not sure. Could be something, could be nothing." He glanced down at the number he'd just scrawled at the top of the plans he'd been looking at. He ripped off the corner, folded the paper, and shoved it into his jeans pocket. "Just something to check into later."
Dean frowned. "Anything I should know about?"
"Just a bad feeling I got about a guy I saw in the diner." Sam cleared his throat. "Like I said, I'll check into it when we're done with Reginald. If it's anything, you'll be the first to know."
Dean nodded slowly. "Okay then." He turned the ignition. "Let's go take care of Reggie."
xxxXXXxxx
The sun was low in the sky as the brothers walked up the steps to the Barnstable House. This time they each carried a shotgun and a sledgehammer. Dean had the duffel bag containing salt, crowbars, and anything else they thought they might need, slung over his shoulder. Sam carried a large battery-powered camping lantern since they were quickly losing daylight, and a can of gasoline.
Sam opened the front door, and Dean pushed past him, eyes darting around as he took his customary point position. He held his sawed-off shotgun at the ready in his right hand, the long-handled sledgehammer in his left. Sam pocketed the key, picked up the lantern and gas can he'd placed on the step while opening the door and followed him in, kicking the door closed behind him.
Dean scowled, using the back of his hand that held the sledgehammer to rub the bridge of his nose. "Third floor, right?"
Sam caught his brother's grimace but simply nodded. "Yeah. Double doors at the end of the hall."
"Right." Dean shook his head as he began clomping up the stairs. "Be sharp, Sammy. It won't take long for Reggie to figure out what we're up to." He stumbled, falling forward onto his knees and grabbing the railing to regain his balance.
Sam frowned worriedly. "Dean?"
Dean blew out a breath as he hauled himself up and adjusted the duffel on his shoulder. "Chill. I'm good. Load just shifted, that's all." He turned to flash Sam a smirk, then resumed climbing the stairs.
Sam watched him for a moment before following him. Their footsteps echoed eerily as they moved up the three flights of stairs, then walked along the third floor hallway to the double mahogany doors that led to what had been Celia and Reginald's suite. Dean pushed open the doors, coughing at the cloud of dust the movement created, and pointed to the wall at the far end of the room. "If Celia turned the study into a crypt, it should be over here."
Sam glanced around the room. It was impressive by any standards, even in its current neglected state. It was about 30 feet long and 25 feet wide. The walls, papered in deep burgundy stripes, rose 14 feet to an ornate coffered ceiling. Heavy damask drapes in the same jewel-toned burgundy as the wallpaper framed each of the floor-to-ceiling windows that flanked the oversized canopy bed.
A large marble fireplace was the centerpiece of the right wall of the room, fronted by a once elegant settee, chairs, and coffee table, all now partially hidden under large white dust sheets. According to the plans they'd studied, the door to the left of the fireplace led to what had been Celia's dressing room, the door to the right to the study converted into a bathroom.
At the left end of the room, double doors were centered in the wall, flanked by matching dressers. Sam followed Dean across the room, their own footprints from their previous visit still visible in the heavy dust that coated the wide plank wood floors.
Dean allowed the duffel to slide off his shoulder and drop to the floor. He tossed his sledgehammer on top of the bag, then stepped forward and pulled open the dressing room doors. Walking into the room, he whistled. The room was about fifteen-foot square, each wall lined in cedar shelves, drawers, and clothing rails that offered enough space to accommodate the entire inventory of a good-sized boutique.
Dean shook his head. "Damn, Sam. This closet is bigger than most motel rooms we stay in."
Sam smiled as he put the lantern and gas can on the dresser to the right of the doors and followed Dean into the dressing room. "Not everybody can fit their entire wardrobe in a duffel bag, you know."
Dean scowled at him. "Why not? How many pairs of jeans does a person need?"
Sam shook his head as studied the left wall, knowing the secret room, if it existed, lay behind it. He leaned the shotgun and sledgehammer against the shelves, and began opening drawers and tapping the back wall. "There has to be a hidden door here somewhere."
Dean rubbed his forehead in irritation as Sam searched. "This could take all night. I say we just sledgehammer our way in."
"Just give me a minute, okay?" Sam was reaching into his pocket for a lighter when Dean turned impatiently, stumbled, and fell into him. Sam arms shot out, catching his brother as he went down. "Whoa."
Dean pushed himself up, his hands fisting in Sam's jacket as he regained his equilibrium. "I'm good. Just lost my balance."
Sam's worry deepened. "That's twice, Dean…in the last 10 minutes."
Dean screwed his eyes closed, gave his head a shake, then pushed himself off Sam. "Weird."
Sam still held tightly to his brother's arms. His eyes widened as he felt Dean tremble in his hold and realized his breathing was fast and shallow. "What's goin on?"
Dean batted his brother's hands away, swaying slightly but remaining on his feet. "M'okay. Just a headache." He smiled nonchalantly. "Hope you left me some Tylenol."
Sam frowned. "That 'brave-little-soldier' bullshit works both ways, you know?"
"Sam." The growling tone in Dean's voice was a warning not to push it. "Stow the Flo Nightingale routine and find us a way into that room."
Sam's frown remained as he pulled out the lighter, flicked it on, and held it up against the wall, watching for any flicker that might indicate a draft and the presence of a door. There was nothing. He stepped back and studied the shelving that covered the wall. It was divided into three sections, the two outer ones featuring a clothes rail with two large drawers at the bottom and two open shelves at the top. The center section featured drawers at the bottom and shelves at the top. The top drawer was narrower than the rest and the only one that featured a keyhole. Sam gave it a tug; it was locked.
He stretched out his hand to Dean. "I need the lock pick."
"What?" Dean was staring at him puzzled, like he didn't understand the question.
Sam's eyebrows arched. "The lock pick. You brought it, right?"
Dean stared at Sam, uncomprehending, then his mind suddenly seemed to clear. "Um, yeah-it's right here." He reached for his back pocket, pulling out the lock pick set and handing it to Sam.
Sam took it but his eyes stayed on Dean. His brother was grimacing and rubbing his chest. "Dean?"
His brother looked up, waving his hand dismissively. "Must be comin' down with the flu or somethin'. What do you need the lock pick for?"
Sam motioned to the shallow drawer. "This was likely meant for jewelry. It was kept locked in case staff had sticky fingers but…" Sam slipped the picks into the lock, expertly pushing the tumblers into place. "…it also seems like the logical place to hide a lever to a secret door. Less chance of anyone pushing it accidentally."
The tumblers clicked, and Sam slid open the drawer. It was lined in rich claret velvet and divided into numerous compartments of various sizes. Sam put down the lock picks and reached in, but stopped when the temperature in the dressing room plunged suddenly. In one fluid move, he stepped back, grabbed for the shotgun he'd leaned against the shelves, and spun around.
Reginald's spirit materialized suddenly, storming into the room and charging right at Dean. The elder Winchester stumbled backward as the spirit came at him, raising his shotgun to defend himself, but his movements were uncharacteristically sluggish. Reginald barreled into Dean before he had a chance to squeeze the trigger, the blast of cold energy lifting the hunter off the floor and throwing him across the room. Dean crashed into the back wall, wooden shelves cracking and splintering under the force of the collision, and crumpled to the floor. His shotgun skittered across the hardwood, coming to rest in the corner.
Reginald's head whipped around, his rage now directed at Sam. But the younger Winchester had squeezed the trigger at almost the same moment the spirit had attacked Dean. The rock salt shot caught Reginald full in the chest as he turned, and he dissipated with a furious bellow.
Breathing hard, Sam's eyes jumped immediately to his brother.
Dean was still on the floor, conscious but dazed by the attack. He was slumped against the broken shelving, eyes hazy, breathing too rapid, as he struggled to push himself up. "Damn it-that hurt."
Sam was at his side seconds later, hands on Dean's shoulders, steadying him as he helped his brother sit up. "Take it easy. Anything broken?"
Dean screwed his eyes closed. "No. Help me up."
Sam hooked an arm around Dean, grunting as he helped haul him to his feet. Sam's arm stayed around his brother's waist until he was sure he was steady.
Dean wavered but stayed standing. He grimaced as he pushed himself away from Sam, stretching to unkink his back, which had taken the brunt of the attack. "You haven't found the door yet?"
Sam's jaw clenched. "I was a little distracted. You good?"
Dean nodded, and Sam turned back to the jewelry drawer. He slid his hand inside, feeling along the sides, top and back. As his hand reached the back, he turned to smile at Dean. "Got something." It was a small lever. When Sam pulled it forward, he heard a loud click and the whole section of shelving and drawers in the center of the wall slid forward until it cleared the shelves on either side. With a second click, it popped open, and Sam realized the whole section was hinged on the right side. He grabbed the shelf and pulled, and it swung to the side like a heavy door.
Sam swallowed. A hidden door was set in the wall behind it. He moved forward and turned the knob. It was stiff with disuse but opened with gentle force. The door swung inward with a creaking groan, but the room beyond was in complete darkness.
After retrieving his shotgun, Dean staggered up to the doorway. Sam turned back to the bedroom, grabbed the lantern then returned quickly to stand beside his brother. With a quick glance at Dean, he turned on the light and walked into the secret room for the first time. As the lantern lit up the space, his eyes widened.
Dean followed unsteadily. "Whoa."
The room looked like an antechamber of a large cathedral. It was windowless, with dark wooden panels lining the walls. A large stone crypt sat on a platform along the far wall, an ornate crucifix hanging above it and a vase of desiccated flowers sitting on top of it. The only other furniture in the room was a simple church pew that sat parallel to the crypt.
Dean shook his head. "Puts a whole new spin on skeletons in the closet."
Sam moved forward, setting down the lantern on the pew. "Come on. Reginald will be back. We need to get that crypt open."
Sam moved past Dean back into the bedroom, grabbed the duffel bag and gas can, then returned to the crypt. He unzipped the bag, pulled out two crowbars, and handed one to his brother.
Dean took it, swallowed hard, and stumbled to the side of the crypt, propping up his gun against the wall. Sam tracked Dean worriedly. Something was definitely off with him. "Dean, you-"
"Sam." Dean scowled at his brother. "Like you said, Reggie'll be back. Let's do this."
Sam nodded, moving to the far end of the crypt and sliding the flat end of the crowbar underneath the stone lid. Dean did the same. With loud grunts, they shouldered the heavy piece of stone forward until it rested precariously on the edge.
Dean gave it one final shove and gravity took over. The stone lid tipped and fell to the floor with a thunderous crash, cracking into three pieces and sending up a thick cloud of dust.
Sam jumped back, coughing as he breathed in the dust and debris and dragging a hand over his stinging eyes. "Little warning would be nice." His chest tightened when he realized Dean was no longer standing. As the slab crashed to the floor, Dean had fallen back against the wall, slid down it and landed slumped in the corner. In the cloud of dust, he was really struggling to breathe, his hand rubbing against his chest as his face contorted in pain.
Sam stumbled over the broken pieces of stone to get to his brother, and crouched down beside him. "Dean?"
His brother blinked up at him, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "I know you don't like fishing, Sammy, but give it a chance. You have to be quiet for one thing. If you and Dad can't talk, you can't bite each other's head off."
Sam frowned, his eyes glued to his brother. "What?"
Dean clutched again at his chest, his voice raspy. "Look, I know I gave you a hard time about your prom date, but she was way too low rent for you. What were you thinking?"
Sam's heart was hammering. "Okay, Dean. You're really scaring me now. What's goin' on?"
Dean's head rolled toward him, his eyes sliding back into focus. He looked around, confused, as if trying to figure out where he was. When his eyes settled on the crypt beside him, he relaxed slightly. "You torched Reggie yet?"
Sam rested a hand on Dean's shoulder, his brother's confusion and difficulty breathing worrying him far more than the likely return of a pissed-off spirit. "I think we should get you outta here. I can come back-"
"No." Dean shook his head vehemently. His eyes slid shut. "Torch the bastard. Then we go."
Sam's jaw clenched worriedly. He could argue with Dean or just get the job done, and he knew which would get them out of the house fastest. "Okay. But I want you to stay here, sit tight. I'll take care of Reginald, then we'll get you some help."
Dean was struggling to stand up.
"Dean." Sam gently pushed him back down. "Just stay here-can you do that?"
Dean nodded, and the sudden easy acquiescence ratcheted up Sam's worry.
Sam stood up, stepped away from Dean, and then up onto the platform holding the crypt and looked inside. The ornate coffin within was definitely that of a wealthy man. Sam reached down with the crowbar and forced open the lid. He nodded in satisfaction at the one-armed skeleton it held before stepping off the platform and crossing back to the duffel.
He turned toward Dean. "I don't know who John Doe was out at the cemetery but this is definitely Reginald. We can-" Sam's words trailed off as he watched Dean's eyes slide out of focus and listened to the harsh rattle of his labored breathing. "Dean? You still with me?"
Dean's eyes slid closed. "Dad, you gotta let him do this. Sammy just wants to be a normal kid for a while. I'll swing by Stanford, check up on him, make sure he's good…"
Sam, crouched beside the duffel, pulling out salt, and grabbing the gas can, froze at Dean's unguarded words. His brother's delirium offered a rare glimpse into the aftermath of his leaving for college. He'd never seen Dean checking up on him, but he also knew that if his brother didn't want to be seen, he wouldn't be. There had been days at school when he could have sworn he sensed his brother's presence, but always dismissed it as wishful thinking. But if Dean's delirious ramblings were based in truth, then his brother had been off in the distance, watching over him then as he had been most of their lives.
Dean's cough spurred Sam into action. Right now he had to look out for Dean, and that meant getting rid of Reginald. He crossed to the casket, quickly salting the remains and dousing them in gasoline. He capped the gas can, stowed it beside the duffel, picked up his shotgun for reassurance and pulled his lighter from his pocket.
Sam had taken one step toward the crypt when, without warning, a blast of cold energy hit him hard from behind. He toppled forward, shotgun and lighter flying from his hands and head smacking hard against the edge of the stone platform that held the crypt. The blow opened up the cut from the previous day's attack and left Sam dazed and seeing double. He clumsily rolled over and his vision slid slowly into focus as Reginald's spirit lumbered toward him.
Sam's eyes darted round, searching for his gun. It lay on the floor about eight feet from him. He lunged toward it, but Reginald had seen it too and, this time, he was faster. The spirit smirked coldly and waved his hand; the gun slid across the floor, through the doorway and into the dressing room beyond.
In a blink, Reginald was beside Sam, grabbing him by the throat, pulling him to his feet and choking off all ability to breathe. Sam pawed helplessly at the ghostly hand around his neck, his vision blurring from lack of air. Reginald's voice was a deadly whisper. "How dare you trespass here. This is our sanctuary. You-"
The spirit's threat was cut off by a shotgun blast. Sam gasped loudly, suddenly able to breathe again, as he fell to the ground. He coughed as he looked up to see Dean still sitting in the corner, head leaning against the wall and smoking shotgun across his lap.
He nodded at Sam, eyes struggling to stay open. "Good. Got the right one." He waved his hand. "I was seeing two of 'em."
Unsteadily, Sam pushed himself to his feet and nodded at Dean. "Thanks."
Dean's eyes slid closed. "Wanna go home, Sammy. Super Bowl's on tonight."
Sam's jaw clenched as he searched for the lighter he'd dropped when Reginald attacked. "Super Bowl was four months ago, Dean," he muttered quietly. He spotted the lighter, grabbed it, and stepped up on the platform. He flicked on the lighter, locked the flame open and dropped it into the casket. The fire flared hot and bright, quickly consuming the earthly remains of Reginald Barnstable.
As the fire burned, contained within the stone crypt, Sam turned to Dean, his focus now solely on this brother. He didn't care about covering their tracks, collecting their supplies, or even if the whole damn house burned down: Dean needed help.
Sam staggered over to the corner and crouched down beside Dean. He gently pulled the shotgun from Dean's grasp and placed it on the floor. Then he slid an arm around his brother's back, draped Dean's arm around his neck and, with a loud grunt, hefted Dean to his feet. "Time to go."
"Go?" Dean looked around in confusion. "We gonna miss the Super Bowl?"
Sam fought to push back the steadily rising panic over his brother's delirium as he guided Dean out of the house, knowing their next stop was the hospital. "No, Dean. I promise. You won't miss the Super Bowl."
To Chapter 3