fic: Worlds In Collision [3/12]
Series: Parallel Highway
Title: Worlds In Collision
Chapter: Guilt
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Sam & Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore, Andrea & Lucas Barr, Sheriff Devins, Castiel; Sam/Jessica
Rating: T
Word Count: 10,081
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: In 1996 Jimmy Novak disappears on his way back home from Chicago and Castiel asks a dying man permission to use his body. In 1999 Jessica Moore encounters an angel while burning a man’s remains in a Mississippi town, far from the road to Stanford. In 2005 Sam and Dean Winchester return from Jericho with their father’s journal to an apartment on fire, where Sam learns that his girlfriend is a hunter and Dean is pulled out of the flames by something that burned a handprint into his shoulder.
With nowhere to go but to John for the truth the brothers and Jessica take off, following a trail littered with coordinates, newspaper clippings, rumors, phone calls, and messages from an angel of the Lord. Standing in their way are vengeful spirits and tricksters, poltergeists and werewolves, fallen angels and premonitions, demons and family secrets.
And then there’s Azazel.
Author’s Note: Decided to start naming these chapters/episodes after case-related themes. For instance, the retelling of Episode 1.02 "Wendigo" is named "Hunger" to address the Wendigo's hunger for human flesh. This chapter - a rewrite of Episode 1.03 "Dead in the Water" - is titled "Guilt" because of something that happened decades ago in a town called Lake Manitoc...
He’s standing in the middle of a firestorm in Sam’s apartment. He can’t keep his eyes open and every breath he takes is full of thick smoke. Something still compels him to force open his drying eyes and look up at the ceiling, at his mother.
The details are so vivid, like how the ugly red line on her stomach bleeds through the bleached fabric to drip burning blood on his forehead and how she’s sprawled on the ceiling like he’s the one upside down and she’s right side up. She’s the source of the flames; they spread out in writhing waves, covering the ceiling, the walls, the cheap décor and bookcases.
He tries to tell her to stop. Tells her to put it out because it burns him. Because it hurts him.
“Please,” he begs and it’s not his voice. It’s hoarse, rough with smoke, disfigured by fire. He stretches an arm out to her, swallowing scorching mouthfuls of air as he strains to reach her. “Please…please stop.”
His left shoulder burns and he doubles over. The pain brings him crashing down on his knees and Mary disappears in a thick layer of black smoke. The fire roars in his ears and the air is so hot his lungs broil. He’s going to die here.
You will not.
He curls into himself, coughing, blinded by the smoke. He might have cried out, maybe Sam, maybe Dad, maybe Mom, but the fire’s become a deafening roar and he might not have said anything at all.
Breathe, Dean Winchester. You are safe.
The heat and the fire fade; something dry and warm presses to his mouth, flooding it with heady cold mountain air that fills his lungs and lets him breathe. He sobs, reaching out instinctively for its source, trying to crush that life-giving mouth to his, and he sits up with a gasp.
The occupants of the other bed stir and Sam says, “Dean? You okay?”
He’s not. His worn t-shirt sticks to his body, soaked through with sweat; his heart pounds in his chest, his ears, and his head. He feels the adrenaline in his blood, feels his body throb with it; he curls his fingers into the mattress as he tries to ground himself in reality. When his heart starts calming down he remembers that Sam asked him something.
“I’m fine,” he says, and then clears his throat. “Just a nightmare.”
“You want to-”
“Hell no.” He turns on his side, putting his back firmly to his brother, and makes an aborted attempt to untangle himself from the bed sheets.
“Is he okay?” Jessica mumbles.
“He’s fine. Go back to sleep.” A kiss, maybe on the forehead, is followed by a deep sigh.
Dean can’t sleep. He wants to close his eyes but behind the eyelids is Mary’s serene face framed by flames and every exhale reminds him of something breathing air into him, protecting him from the corrosive smoke that destroyed his voice. He’s tempted to touch his bottom lip but he keeps his hands between his knees because it’s a dream and-
“I was the one who breathed life back into you, who pulled you out of the fire and healed the scars in the lungs, who made your heart beat again.”
He stares at the darkest corner of the motel room for the next hour and a half, hearing his lungs rattle as he tries not to panic.
That angel can’t be real. Nobody knows how he got out of the apartment but that angel can’t. Be. Real.
* * *
He reads the newspaper because he does not want to see the two hickeys on Sam’s neck. There are some things he can live without knowing, and his brother’s sex life falls into that category. It’s also a reminder of how much Sam’s changed since he took off after that last fight with John three years ago. What Dean remembers of that night are anger and frustration wearing his brother’s face, but now, when he looks at Sam despite the past few weeks, he sees someone who's both older and happier. The happiness covers him like a second skin.
Or maybe it’s just a post-coital glow, and Dean really needs to stop thinking about Sam’s sex life. Shifting uncomfortably, he crosses out another obit in the paper and turns the page.
“Be right back,” Sam suddenly says and slides off his stool.
Jessica hops one bar stool over and leans on the counter, watching him draw a circle around a back and white photograph of Sophie Carlton. “Looking for a hunt?”
“Something like that,” he says, chewing on the pen cap.
“Do you even know where that pen cap’s been?” she asks and laughs while Dean slowly removes the cap from his mouth. Then she sits up and says, “So how are we finding your dad?”
“Still working on it.”
"So other than the journal you-"
Their conversation gets cut short when their waitress suddenly leans into his space and asks, “Can I get you anything else?”
He glances up at the slow smile on her face, the long bleached hair swaying over her cleavage, and grins in return. He knows that look, revels in it, and leans forward to say-
“Just the check, please,” Sam says, sitting down heavily on Dean’s right.
The waitress’s smile turns cold and courteous; she nods and turns around walk straight to the kitchen in the back. He’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the bounce in her step, or the way her curvy ass moves in the Daisy Dukes. Apparently Jessica isn’t either because she’s laughing at him.
“You just had to, didn’t you?” Dean says, glaring at Sam. “We are allowed to have fun once in a while.”
He looks pointedly at the hickeys and Sam slaps a hand over his neck, completely missing them. Dean rolls his eyes and slides over the newspaper on top of the pile.
“Here, take a look at this. Think I got something - Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin. Last week, Sophie Carlton walks into the lake, doesn’t walk out. Authorities dredged the water, found nothing. She’s the third drowning this year. None of the other bodies were found either.”
“She went swimming in the lake in November?” Jessica asks skeptically.
“Guess the lake was still warm enough to swim in last week,” Dean says. “Or she’s part fish, I don’t know. The point is that her body’s gone missing. We should check it out.”
“But what about Dad?”
The question stops Dean cold, interrupts the momentum he'd been building for his pitch. Slowly he sits back on the stool and flicks the pen against the newspaper.
"What about him?"
Sam rubs his face, then reaches over and takes Dean's mug. He doesn't drink from it, though; he stares down at whatever's left instead and quietly, stubbornly says, "The trail for Dad's getting colder every day."
Jessica shifts uneasily but says nothing. Dean swings his leg, hits one of the stool's legs as he says, "You think I don't know that? Why, what do you want to do?"
"Go after him. There has to be something in the journal-"
"If I found something we'd already be on it. Right now we got nothing except this." Dean presses a finger on Sophie's obituary but Sam refuses to look; he leans in, bumps Sam's shoulder, and makes him look at the newspaper, at him. "Look at me. You don't think I want to find Dad as much as you do?"
"I know you do. It's just-"
"I've been with him for the past three years while you were in college going to pep rallies and making eyes at Jess." She elbows him but Dean doesn't flinch...much. "I swear, if I knew something we'd be on it, but I don't, so until we find something we're killing every evil son of a bitch between here and him. We're hunters, Sam, it's what we do. You got that?"
Sam flicks his eyes down to the newspaper and stares at it with seemingly fresh eyes, then slides it out from under Dean's index finger. Dean sits back and watches him soak in the short obit, and then glances up when an arm reaches in between them to set the receipt down next to a plate of breadcrumbs.
"Your check," the waitress says, her eyes and smile on Dean.
"Thanks, darling."
He doesn't miss the phone number scribbled in a corner of the receipt. He leans back, watches her walk away to tend to another table, and briefly contemplates swinging back here after Manitoc.
He blinks. Something slides along the corner of his eye and he jerks his head around to scan the rest of the diner.
"...Manitoc. Hey!"
Dean catches Jessica rolling her eyes as he tips forward on his seat and turns to Sam, trying to separate what Sam had been saying from a flash of tan fabric. "Huh?"
"How far's Manitoc from here?"
* * * * *
Dean has a strange fixation on little Lucas Barr, and it probably has nothing to do with his “kids are the best” line. By the way, Sam still hasn’t stopped laughing at him for it.
“Swear to god I’m putting itching powder in his underwear,” Jessica hears him mutter while the occupied bathroom echoes with Sam’s muffled laughter. Then Dean crosses the room and bangs on the door. “Alright, doofus, you done?”
“Let me find you the directions to a pickup line first,” Sam says. Jessica snorts, then collapses on one of the queens and laughs into the covers.
“After you find Jesus in the toilet bowl stains, right? Son of a bitch.”
Later, once everyone’s had their turn washing off layers of dirt collected on the way from sunny Nebraska to overcast Wisconsin - “Damn it, did you use all the conditioner again?” “That wasn’t-” “I bought my own at that gas station in Iowa, so don’t look at me.” - they parceled out jobs and hunkered down to research the drowning deaths no one in town would talk about. Jessica’s skimming the local papers but there’s no new information on the three deaths or the draining lake.
“Nothing,” she declares, tossing the papers on the bed. She turned on her side to watch the brothers at the coffee table. Dean’s hovering over Sam’s shoulder as they read the screen. She wonders if this is how they hunt when it’s just the two of them - Dean does the talking, Sam does the research. It’s their most likely modus operandi and it makes her wonder where she fits in. Is she even supposed to?
“Anything else before this year?” Dean asks.
“Uh, yeah…six more spread out over the last thirty-five years. Those bodies were never found either. If something’s out there it’s picking up its pace.”
“What, we got a lake monster on one last binge?”
Sam sighs and sits back, forcing Dean to straighten himself. “This whole lake monster thing…it bugs me.”
“Tell me about it-wait.” Dean leans in again, bumping into Sam’s head as he points at something. “Barr. Christopher Barr.”
Jessica sits up and one of the pillows falls to the floor. “Andrea Barr. That’s how she introduced herself.”
Dean looks over his shoulder at her and she sees something shift in his eyes. They harden, becoming predatory, and she freezes, waits until he turns back to the laptop. She slides off the mattress and kicks aside the pillow as she walks over to the table.
“Christopher Barr. Died in May,” Sam says slowly, clicking a link. “Oh. You’re right; he’s Andrea’s husband.”
“Lucas’s dad,” Dean says and then leans in close to peer at the photograph next to the online article. “They went swimming in the lake.”
“He was on a floating wooden platform when Chris drowned. They didn’t get to him until after two hours,” Sam says quietly. “We have an eyewitness.”
Jessica chews on her bottom lip, tying the new information to the ashen mute kid who wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. How else can he cope with being stuck on a floating platform in the middle of the lake, waiting for his father to surface?
“No wonder he’s so freaked out,” Dean says. “Watching one of your parents die isn’t something you just get over.”
There it is again, a shift in his tone, quiet and adrift in memory. She glances down at Sam but only sees the back of his head; his hands rest on the keyboard as though he’s thinking about it, too.
Her parents come to mind. She hasn't talked with them in half a year, and hadn't seen them in three, and suddenly feels the need to leave the suffocating room. She takes a step away from the brothers' personal bubble, turns, and grabs her cell out of her jacket pocket.
“I’ll…be right back,” she mumbles, swipes a room key from the dresser, and lets herself out.
The Impala groans in protest as she leans against it, scrolling through her contacts list, and her mouth dries as she finds "Mom". The air is humid and the world uncomfortably gray; it reminds her of many days in San Francisco and she tucks her arm in close, wishing she had grabbed her jacket, too. She stares at the three-letter word on the screen, wondering why she hasn’t asked the brothers yet. She’d put two and two together; all she needs is confirmation that everything they do is for their mother, who must've died in some horrible manner years ago that neither of them will talk about. Why else do they only talk about their father and in the present tense? Why else do they hunt?
Jessica pushes the “Talk” button and presses the cell to her ear.
“Hi, this is Julia Moore. If you haven't already noticed I’m busy at the moment. Leave your name, number, and situation, and I'll call back as soon as possible. Jess, if it’s you, we’re proud of whatever you choose to do with your life. Good luck.”
* * *
Sam gives them both weird looks on the way to the park. Dean is oddly quiet, emphasized by the silence in the radio, and Jessica just wants to stare out the window at the lakeside town. She can’t stop looping the addendum to her mother’s voicemail message and their final acceptance of her chosen path. They hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t expected her to go to college after a year hunting alone, thought once she finished high school she’d hunt for years, carry on the family tradition without hesitance.
“Saving people, hunting things. The family business,” Dean had said. She grew up on an ethos like that, to her father showing her how to hold a handgun while quizzing her on the shtriga’s one weakness, to her mother explaining the powers of silver while cleaning the silverware, and understood it both as a way of life and a higher calling. She didn’t have much choice - even if she did turn her back on it she’ll never sleep easy knowing what’s really going on out in the world. If Sam wasn’t already a hunter how was she supposed to explain her habits and possessions to him? She wouldn’t have been able to hide her stash of now-lost firearms for long, and he’s not stupid.
Stanford was supposed to be a detour. A chance to relax, breathe, decide which life she really wants.
Mom, she wants to say, just so you know, I’m hunting again. Well, I’ve been hunting, on weekends when I tell my boyfriend I’m heading to Pat’s apartment to study, but this time’s different. I can’t tell you exactly why, because I still don’t know myself, but I’m on the road. I’m…saving people and hunting things again, just like you taught me. Tell Dad I love him. I miss you guys and hopefully I'll see you soon.
“What are you smiling about?” Sam asks, twisting in his seat to give her another look.
“Nothing,” she says and rests her head against the window, eyes closed, until they pull into the small parking lot next to the park.
They find Andrea sitting on a bench, watching the town’s children run amok at the playground. It’s easy to spot Lucas - he’s the only one kneeling by one of the benches near the sandpit, drawing instead of playing tag or climbing the jungle gym. He makes for a lonely sight and her heart aches, tries to imagine just how horrible it must’ve been for him to shut down so completely.
Dean drifts away and behind them, either unwilling to talk with Andrea again or because his eyes keep sliding over to Lucas rather than his mother, and Sam hesitates. Sighing, she steps up to the plate.
“Can we join you?” she asks as kindly as she can.
Andrea looks up at them skeptically, expression teetering towards annoyance. “I’m here with my son.”
“Oh,” Dean says, like this is news to him. “Mind if I say hi?”
Without waiting for an answer he walks away, making a beeline for the little boy. Andrea gives them a look. “Tell your friend the whole ‘Jerry Maguire’ thing’s not going to work.”
She feels embarrassed for Dean's utterly tasteless comments yesterday, but they didn't know and they're not here today just so he can try to impress her again. She hooks her thumbs on her pockets and opens her mouth but Sam beats her to the punch.
“I don’t think that’s what this is about,” he says, drawing attention away from Dean’s dubious intentions to Dean crouching down in front of Lucas. They’re a strange pair, a silent budding artist of a child and a man in a large leather jacket and torn jeans; they watch Dean wave around one of the little toy soldiers next to Lucas, and then pick up a crayon and a few papers to draw on.
“Is he…?” Jessica looks at Sam, at the confusion on his face as Dean hands Lucas his drawing, stands up, and heads back for them.
Andrea shakes her head. “He hasn’t said a word, not even to me. Not since Chris’s accident.”
“We heard,” Jessica says, resisting the urge to lean into Sam. “We're sorry for your loss.”
There's an awkward silence.
“So…did the doctors say anything?” Sam asks as Dean joins them.
“Just that it’s some kind of post-traumatic stress. That it’s how he copes with...what happened.” She kneads her temple, eyes downcast as she sighs heavily.
“That can’t be easy, for either of you.”
“We moved in with my dad. He helps out a lot, but…when I think about what Lucas went through, what he must’ve seen…” She shakes her head again; her hands tremble and her lips are a thin lipstick line, and Jessica wonders if she’s going to have a breakdown in front of them.
“Hey,” Dean says, dropping his voice to something low and personal. “Kids are strong. You’d be surprised at what they can deal with.”
He says it with such conviction and assurance that Jessica knows it’s not just pep talk. She stares at him and the way his eyes seem to bore into Andrea’s head. Andrea doesn’t notice, is saying, “He used to have such life. He used to be hard to keep up with, to tell you the truth. Now he just sits there, drawing pictures and playing with army men. I don’t even know where that came from. I just wish…he’d say something. Anything-”
Lucas suddenly appears at Dean’s elbow, head bowed, and a piece of paper clutched in his hand.
“Hey, sweetie. What is it?” Andrea says but before she can bend down to try and meet him at eye-level, he thrusts out the drawing to Dean. Startled, Dean looks at Jessica, Sam, and a shocked Andrea before taking it.
“Thanks, Lucas,” he says, turning to watch the kid walk back to the bench and his supply of crayons, papers, and soldiers. Lucas kneels down and picks up another crayon to draw something new.
“I…he never…” Andrea tries to say, stumbling over her shock, and eventually falls silent. She watches Lucas draw and then looks up at Dean with awe. He swallows visibly, embarrassed; for the first time since Jessica met him he seems to be completely out of his element.
“Maybe we’ll see you later,” Sam offers as parting words and Andrea slowly nods.
Dean keeps looking over his shoulder at Lucas as they head back to the Impala, but Jessica’s eyes are on Andrea. She seems torn between watching Lucas and watching Dean.
* * *
They see Andrea sooner than later, when they realize Lucas might've known that Will was going to die. Dean can’t stop staring at the drawing he pressed to the wheel as they drive to the sheriff’s house. Halfway there Sam has to shout to drag Deans attention away from the patchwork of crayons to swerve the Impala back into the lane, so now Jessica’s in possession of Lucas’s artwork. It’s folded and tucked into her pocket by the time they’re knocking on the door but it feels like a weight, like something that holds the answer to the strange deaths under layers of crayon.
“I’m sorry,” Andrea says as soon as she shuts the door behind them, “but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“I just need to talk to him,” Dean says. “Just for a few minutes.”
“He won’t say anything. What good’s it gonna do?”
“We think more people might get hurt,” Sam explains bluntly, because if their hunch is right then more people will die. Of course they might end up getting thrown out of the house instead, but they have to try. “We think something’s happening out there, and Lucas knows what it is.”
She shakes her head. “No. Chris, the others, they drowned. That’s it. That’s all that happened. They're awful, but they're accidents.”
Her resolve is breaking, shaken up by Will’s death, by all the deaths. She looks at them like they’re mad but there’s just a sliver of desperation, a suggestion that she’s teetering towards the impossible answer - the supernatural - and they’re the ones who can provide reason for the madness.
“If that’s what you really believe, then we’ll go. But,” and it’s there again, the steely determination in Dean’s voice, “if you think there’s even a possibility that something else could be going on here, please let me talk to him. Let me talk to your son. That's all I ask.”
She stares at him. Maybe she remembers his sudden fixation with her son when they first met, or the little chat, or maybe when Lucas handed him the drawing of Bill Carlton’s house, but Andrea wilts, nods, and tilts her head towards the staircase. They follow her upstairs and down the hall to one of the rooms, where Lucas is sitting on the floor with an army of toy soldiers, working the crayons down into waxy nubs.
Dean looks at Jessica and gestures with his hand. She pulls the folded drawing out of her pocket, hands it to him, and then watches as he slowly enters the room, making sure Lucas knows he’s there before he crouches down. Then he starts talking.
“Hey, Lucas. Remember me?” He takes a peek at a few drawings lying by the boy. “I, uh…I want to thank you for that last drawing, but the thing is…I need your help again.” He unfolds the drawing and shows it to Lucas. “How did you know about this? Did you know something bad was going to happen? You don’t have to say anything, just nod yes or no.”
Lucas pauses but does neither. Dean is the one who nods, licks his lips, and then says, “You’re scared. It’s okay; I understand. See, when I was your age I saw something real bad happen to my mom, and I was scared, too.”
Jessica feels Sam stiffen at the words and spares a glance at him. The look is back on his face, confused and a little lost. It’s a heartbreaking innocence she rarely sees and for some reason it reminds her of an infant, or a little boy clinging to his big brother’s every word.
“I didn’t feel like talking, just like you. But my mom…I know she wanted me to be brave for my brother. I think about that every day, and I do my best to do just that. And you know…maybe your dad wants you to be brave, too.”
Lucas drops the crayon in his hand and lifts his head up. Jessica doesn’t know what passes between them but he slides across the floor another drawing. Dean gives him a grateful smile.
“Thanks, Lucas.”
Part 2
Title: Worlds In Collision
Chapter: Guilt
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Sam & Dean Winchester, Jessica Moore, Andrea & Lucas Barr, Sheriff Devins, Castiel; Sam/Jessica
Rating: T
Word Count: 10,081
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: In 1996 Jimmy Novak disappears on his way back home from Chicago and Castiel asks a dying man permission to use his body. In 1999 Jessica Moore encounters an angel while burning a man’s remains in a Mississippi town, far from the road to Stanford. In 2005 Sam and Dean Winchester return from Jericho with their father’s journal to an apartment on fire, where Sam learns that his girlfriend is a hunter and Dean is pulled out of the flames by something that burned a handprint into his shoulder.
With nowhere to go but to John for the truth the brothers and Jessica take off, following a trail littered with coordinates, newspaper clippings, rumors, phone calls, and messages from an angel of the Lord. Standing in their way are vengeful spirits and tricksters, poltergeists and werewolves, fallen angels and premonitions, demons and family secrets.
And then there’s Azazel.
Author’s Note: Decided to start naming these chapters/episodes after case-related themes. For instance, the retelling of Episode 1.02 "Wendigo" is named "Hunger" to address the Wendigo's hunger for human flesh. This chapter - a rewrite of Episode 1.03 "Dead in the Water" - is titled "Guilt" because of something that happened decades ago in a town called Lake Manitoc...
He’s standing in the middle of a firestorm in Sam’s apartment. He can’t keep his eyes open and every breath he takes is full of thick smoke. Something still compels him to force open his drying eyes and look up at the ceiling, at his mother.
The details are so vivid, like how the ugly red line on her stomach bleeds through the bleached fabric to drip burning blood on his forehead and how she’s sprawled on the ceiling like he’s the one upside down and she’s right side up. She’s the source of the flames; they spread out in writhing waves, covering the ceiling, the walls, the cheap décor and bookcases.
He tries to tell her to stop. Tells her to put it out because it burns him. Because it hurts him.
“Please,” he begs and it’s not his voice. It’s hoarse, rough with smoke, disfigured by fire. He stretches an arm out to her, swallowing scorching mouthfuls of air as he strains to reach her. “Please…please stop.”
His left shoulder burns and he doubles over. The pain brings him crashing down on his knees and Mary disappears in a thick layer of black smoke. The fire roars in his ears and the air is so hot his lungs broil. He’s going to die here.
You will not.
He curls into himself, coughing, blinded by the smoke. He might have cried out, maybe Sam, maybe Dad, maybe Mom, but the fire’s become a deafening roar and he might not have said anything at all.
Breathe, Dean Winchester. You are safe.
The heat and the fire fade; something dry and warm presses to his mouth, flooding it with heady cold mountain air that fills his lungs and lets him breathe. He sobs, reaching out instinctively for its source, trying to crush that life-giving mouth to his, and he sits up with a gasp.
The occupants of the other bed stir and Sam says, “Dean? You okay?”
He’s not. His worn t-shirt sticks to his body, soaked through with sweat; his heart pounds in his chest, his ears, and his head. He feels the adrenaline in his blood, feels his body throb with it; he curls his fingers into the mattress as he tries to ground himself in reality. When his heart starts calming down he remembers that Sam asked him something.
“I’m fine,” he says, and then clears his throat. “Just a nightmare.”
“You want to-”
“Hell no.” He turns on his side, putting his back firmly to his brother, and makes an aborted attempt to untangle himself from the bed sheets.
“Is he okay?” Jessica mumbles.
“He’s fine. Go back to sleep.” A kiss, maybe on the forehead, is followed by a deep sigh.
Dean can’t sleep. He wants to close his eyes but behind the eyelids is Mary’s serene face framed by flames and every exhale reminds him of something breathing air into him, protecting him from the corrosive smoke that destroyed his voice. He’s tempted to touch his bottom lip but he keeps his hands between his knees because it’s a dream and-
“I was the one who breathed life back into you, who pulled you out of the fire and healed the scars in the lungs, who made your heart beat again.”
He stares at the darkest corner of the motel room for the next hour and a half, hearing his lungs rattle as he tries not to panic.
That angel can’t be real. Nobody knows how he got out of the apartment but that angel can’t. Be. Real.
* * *
He reads the newspaper because he does not want to see the two hickeys on Sam’s neck. There are some things he can live without knowing, and his brother’s sex life falls into that category. It’s also a reminder of how much Sam’s changed since he took off after that last fight with John three years ago. What Dean remembers of that night are anger and frustration wearing his brother’s face, but now, when he looks at Sam despite the past few weeks, he sees someone who's both older and happier. The happiness covers him like a second skin.
Or maybe it’s just a post-coital glow, and Dean really needs to stop thinking about Sam’s sex life. Shifting uncomfortably, he crosses out another obit in the paper and turns the page.
“Be right back,” Sam suddenly says and slides off his stool.
Jessica hops one bar stool over and leans on the counter, watching him draw a circle around a back and white photograph of Sophie Carlton. “Looking for a hunt?”
“Something like that,” he says, chewing on the pen cap.
“Do you even know where that pen cap’s been?” she asks and laughs while Dean slowly removes the cap from his mouth. Then she sits up and says, “So how are we finding your dad?”
“Still working on it.”
"So other than the journal you-"
Their conversation gets cut short when their waitress suddenly leans into his space and asks, “Can I get you anything else?”
He glances up at the slow smile on her face, the long bleached hair swaying over her cleavage, and grins in return. He knows that look, revels in it, and leans forward to say-
“Just the check, please,” Sam says, sitting down heavily on Dean’s right.
The waitress’s smile turns cold and courteous; she nods and turns around walk straight to the kitchen in the back. He’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the bounce in her step, or the way her curvy ass moves in the Daisy Dukes. Apparently Jessica isn’t either because she’s laughing at him.
“You just had to, didn’t you?” Dean says, glaring at Sam. “We are allowed to have fun once in a while.”
He looks pointedly at the hickeys and Sam slaps a hand over his neck, completely missing them. Dean rolls his eyes and slides over the newspaper on top of the pile.
“Here, take a look at this. Think I got something - Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin. Last week, Sophie Carlton walks into the lake, doesn’t walk out. Authorities dredged the water, found nothing. She’s the third drowning this year. None of the other bodies were found either.”
“She went swimming in the lake in November?” Jessica asks skeptically.
“Guess the lake was still warm enough to swim in last week,” Dean says. “Or she’s part fish, I don’t know. The point is that her body’s gone missing. We should check it out.”
“But what about Dad?”
The question stops Dean cold, interrupts the momentum he'd been building for his pitch. Slowly he sits back on the stool and flicks the pen against the newspaper.
"What about him?"
Sam rubs his face, then reaches over and takes Dean's mug. He doesn't drink from it, though; he stares down at whatever's left instead and quietly, stubbornly says, "The trail for Dad's getting colder every day."
Jessica shifts uneasily but says nothing. Dean swings his leg, hits one of the stool's legs as he says, "You think I don't know that? Why, what do you want to do?"
"Go after him. There has to be something in the journal-"
"If I found something we'd already be on it. Right now we got nothing except this." Dean presses a finger on Sophie's obituary but Sam refuses to look; he leans in, bumps Sam's shoulder, and makes him look at the newspaper, at him. "Look at me. You don't think I want to find Dad as much as you do?"
"I know you do. It's just-"
"I've been with him for the past three years while you were in college going to pep rallies and making eyes at Jess." She elbows him but Dean doesn't flinch...much. "I swear, if I knew something we'd be on it, but I don't, so until we find something we're killing every evil son of a bitch between here and him. We're hunters, Sam, it's what we do. You got that?"
Sam flicks his eyes down to the newspaper and stares at it with seemingly fresh eyes, then slides it out from under Dean's index finger. Dean sits back and watches him soak in the short obit, and then glances up when an arm reaches in between them to set the receipt down next to a plate of breadcrumbs.
"Your check," the waitress says, her eyes and smile on Dean.
"Thanks, darling."
He doesn't miss the phone number scribbled in a corner of the receipt. He leans back, watches her walk away to tend to another table, and briefly contemplates swinging back here after Manitoc.
He blinks. Something slides along the corner of his eye and he jerks his head around to scan the rest of the diner.
"...Manitoc. Hey!"
Dean catches Jessica rolling her eyes as he tips forward on his seat and turns to Sam, trying to separate what Sam had been saying from a flash of tan fabric. "Huh?"
"How far's Manitoc from here?"
* * * * *
Dean has a strange fixation on little Lucas Barr, and it probably has nothing to do with his “kids are the best” line. By the way, Sam still hasn’t stopped laughing at him for it.
“Swear to god I’m putting itching powder in his underwear,” Jessica hears him mutter while the occupied bathroom echoes with Sam’s muffled laughter. Then Dean crosses the room and bangs on the door. “Alright, doofus, you done?”
“Let me find you the directions to a pickup line first,” Sam says. Jessica snorts, then collapses on one of the queens and laughs into the covers.
“After you find Jesus in the toilet bowl stains, right? Son of a bitch.”
Later, once everyone’s had their turn washing off layers of dirt collected on the way from sunny Nebraska to overcast Wisconsin - “Damn it, did you use all the conditioner again?” “That wasn’t-” “I bought my own at that gas station in Iowa, so don’t look at me.” - they parceled out jobs and hunkered down to research the drowning deaths no one in town would talk about. Jessica’s skimming the local papers but there’s no new information on the three deaths or the draining lake.
“Nothing,” she declares, tossing the papers on the bed. She turned on her side to watch the brothers at the coffee table. Dean’s hovering over Sam’s shoulder as they read the screen. She wonders if this is how they hunt when it’s just the two of them - Dean does the talking, Sam does the research. It’s their most likely modus operandi and it makes her wonder where she fits in. Is she even supposed to?
“Anything else before this year?” Dean asks.
“Uh, yeah…six more spread out over the last thirty-five years. Those bodies were never found either. If something’s out there it’s picking up its pace.”
“What, we got a lake monster on one last binge?”
Sam sighs and sits back, forcing Dean to straighten himself. “This whole lake monster thing…it bugs me.”
“Tell me about it-wait.” Dean leans in again, bumping into Sam’s head as he points at something. “Barr. Christopher Barr.”
Jessica sits up and one of the pillows falls to the floor. “Andrea Barr. That’s how she introduced herself.”
Dean looks over his shoulder at her and she sees something shift in his eyes. They harden, becoming predatory, and she freezes, waits until he turns back to the laptop. She slides off the mattress and kicks aside the pillow as she walks over to the table.
“Christopher Barr. Died in May,” Sam says slowly, clicking a link. “Oh. You’re right; he’s Andrea’s husband.”
“Lucas’s dad,” Dean says and then leans in close to peer at the photograph next to the online article. “They went swimming in the lake.”
“He was on a floating wooden platform when Chris drowned. They didn’t get to him until after two hours,” Sam says quietly. “We have an eyewitness.”
Jessica chews on her bottom lip, tying the new information to the ashen mute kid who wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. How else can he cope with being stuck on a floating platform in the middle of the lake, waiting for his father to surface?
“No wonder he’s so freaked out,” Dean says. “Watching one of your parents die isn’t something you just get over.”
There it is again, a shift in his tone, quiet and adrift in memory. She glances down at Sam but only sees the back of his head; his hands rest on the keyboard as though he’s thinking about it, too.
Her parents come to mind. She hasn't talked with them in half a year, and hadn't seen them in three, and suddenly feels the need to leave the suffocating room. She takes a step away from the brothers' personal bubble, turns, and grabs her cell out of her jacket pocket.
“I’ll…be right back,” she mumbles, swipes a room key from the dresser, and lets herself out.
The Impala groans in protest as she leans against it, scrolling through her contacts list, and her mouth dries as she finds "Mom". The air is humid and the world uncomfortably gray; it reminds her of many days in San Francisco and she tucks her arm in close, wishing she had grabbed her jacket, too. She stares at the three-letter word on the screen, wondering why she hasn’t asked the brothers yet. She’d put two and two together; all she needs is confirmation that everything they do is for their mother, who must've died in some horrible manner years ago that neither of them will talk about. Why else do they only talk about their father and in the present tense? Why else do they hunt?
Jessica pushes the “Talk” button and presses the cell to her ear.
“Hi, this is Julia Moore. If you haven't already noticed I’m busy at the moment. Leave your name, number, and situation, and I'll call back as soon as possible. Jess, if it’s you, we’re proud of whatever you choose to do with your life. Good luck.”
* * *
Sam gives them both weird looks on the way to the park. Dean is oddly quiet, emphasized by the silence in the radio, and Jessica just wants to stare out the window at the lakeside town. She can’t stop looping the addendum to her mother’s voicemail message and their final acceptance of her chosen path. They hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t expected her to go to college after a year hunting alone, thought once she finished high school she’d hunt for years, carry on the family tradition without hesitance.
“Saving people, hunting things. The family business,” Dean had said. She grew up on an ethos like that, to her father showing her how to hold a handgun while quizzing her on the shtriga’s one weakness, to her mother explaining the powers of silver while cleaning the silverware, and understood it both as a way of life and a higher calling. She didn’t have much choice - even if she did turn her back on it she’ll never sleep easy knowing what’s really going on out in the world. If Sam wasn’t already a hunter how was she supposed to explain her habits and possessions to him? She wouldn’t have been able to hide her stash of now-lost firearms for long, and he’s not stupid.
Stanford was supposed to be a detour. A chance to relax, breathe, decide which life she really wants.
Mom, she wants to say, just so you know, I’m hunting again. Well, I’ve been hunting, on weekends when I tell my boyfriend I’m heading to Pat’s apartment to study, but this time’s different. I can’t tell you exactly why, because I still don’t know myself, but I’m on the road. I’m…saving people and hunting things again, just like you taught me. Tell Dad I love him. I miss you guys and hopefully I'll see you soon.
“What are you smiling about?” Sam asks, twisting in his seat to give her another look.
“Nothing,” she says and rests her head against the window, eyes closed, until they pull into the small parking lot next to the park.
They find Andrea sitting on a bench, watching the town’s children run amok at the playground. It’s easy to spot Lucas - he’s the only one kneeling by one of the benches near the sandpit, drawing instead of playing tag or climbing the jungle gym. He makes for a lonely sight and her heart aches, tries to imagine just how horrible it must’ve been for him to shut down so completely.
Dean drifts away and behind them, either unwilling to talk with Andrea again or because his eyes keep sliding over to Lucas rather than his mother, and Sam hesitates. Sighing, she steps up to the plate.
“Can we join you?” she asks as kindly as she can.
Andrea looks up at them skeptically, expression teetering towards annoyance. “I’m here with my son.”
“Oh,” Dean says, like this is news to him. “Mind if I say hi?”
Without waiting for an answer he walks away, making a beeline for the little boy. Andrea gives them a look. “Tell your friend the whole ‘Jerry Maguire’ thing’s not going to work.”
She feels embarrassed for Dean's utterly tasteless comments yesterday, but they didn't know and they're not here today just so he can try to impress her again. She hooks her thumbs on her pockets and opens her mouth but Sam beats her to the punch.
“I don’t think that’s what this is about,” he says, drawing attention away from Dean’s dubious intentions to Dean crouching down in front of Lucas. They’re a strange pair, a silent budding artist of a child and a man in a large leather jacket and torn jeans; they watch Dean wave around one of the little toy soldiers next to Lucas, and then pick up a crayon and a few papers to draw on.
“Is he…?” Jessica looks at Sam, at the confusion on his face as Dean hands Lucas his drawing, stands up, and heads back for them.
Andrea shakes her head. “He hasn’t said a word, not even to me. Not since Chris’s accident.”
“We heard,” Jessica says, resisting the urge to lean into Sam. “We're sorry for your loss.”
There's an awkward silence.
“So…did the doctors say anything?” Sam asks as Dean joins them.
“Just that it’s some kind of post-traumatic stress. That it’s how he copes with...what happened.” She kneads her temple, eyes downcast as she sighs heavily.
“That can’t be easy, for either of you.”
“We moved in with my dad. He helps out a lot, but…when I think about what Lucas went through, what he must’ve seen…” She shakes her head again; her hands tremble and her lips are a thin lipstick line, and Jessica wonders if she’s going to have a breakdown in front of them.
“Hey,” Dean says, dropping his voice to something low and personal. “Kids are strong. You’d be surprised at what they can deal with.”
He says it with such conviction and assurance that Jessica knows it’s not just pep talk. She stares at him and the way his eyes seem to bore into Andrea’s head. Andrea doesn’t notice, is saying, “He used to have such life. He used to be hard to keep up with, to tell you the truth. Now he just sits there, drawing pictures and playing with army men. I don’t even know where that came from. I just wish…he’d say something. Anything-”
Lucas suddenly appears at Dean’s elbow, head bowed, and a piece of paper clutched in his hand.
“Hey, sweetie. What is it?” Andrea says but before she can bend down to try and meet him at eye-level, he thrusts out the drawing to Dean. Startled, Dean looks at Jessica, Sam, and a shocked Andrea before taking it.
“Thanks, Lucas,” he says, turning to watch the kid walk back to the bench and his supply of crayons, papers, and soldiers. Lucas kneels down and picks up another crayon to draw something new.
“I…he never…” Andrea tries to say, stumbling over her shock, and eventually falls silent. She watches Lucas draw and then looks up at Dean with awe. He swallows visibly, embarrassed; for the first time since Jessica met him he seems to be completely out of his element.
“Maybe we’ll see you later,” Sam offers as parting words and Andrea slowly nods.
Dean keeps looking over his shoulder at Lucas as they head back to the Impala, but Jessica’s eyes are on Andrea. She seems torn between watching Lucas and watching Dean.
* * *
They see Andrea sooner than later, when they realize Lucas might've known that Will was going to die. Dean can’t stop staring at the drawing he pressed to the wheel as they drive to the sheriff’s house. Halfway there Sam has to shout to drag Deans attention away from the patchwork of crayons to swerve the Impala back into the lane, so now Jessica’s in possession of Lucas’s artwork. It’s folded and tucked into her pocket by the time they’re knocking on the door but it feels like a weight, like something that holds the answer to the strange deaths under layers of crayon.
“I’m sorry,” Andrea says as soon as she shuts the door behind them, “but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“I just need to talk to him,” Dean says. “Just for a few minutes.”
“He won’t say anything. What good’s it gonna do?”
“We think more people might get hurt,” Sam explains bluntly, because if their hunch is right then more people will die. Of course they might end up getting thrown out of the house instead, but they have to try. “We think something’s happening out there, and Lucas knows what it is.”
She shakes her head. “No. Chris, the others, they drowned. That’s it. That’s all that happened. They're awful, but they're accidents.”
Her resolve is breaking, shaken up by Will’s death, by all the deaths. She looks at them like they’re mad but there’s just a sliver of desperation, a suggestion that she’s teetering towards the impossible answer - the supernatural - and they’re the ones who can provide reason for the madness.
“If that’s what you really believe, then we’ll go. But,” and it’s there again, the steely determination in Dean’s voice, “if you think there’s even a possibility that something else could be going on here, please let me talk to him. Let me talk to your son. That's all I ask.”
She stares at him. Maybe she remembers his sudden fixation with her son when they first met, or the little chat, or maybe when Lucas handed him the drawing of Bill Carlton’s house, but Andrea wilts, nods, and tilts her head towards the staircase. They follow her upstairs and down the hall to one of the rooms, where Lucas is sitting on the floor with an army of toy soldiers, working the crayons down into waxy nubs.
Dean looks at Jessica and gestures with his hand. She pulls the folded drawing out of her pocket, hands it to him, and then watches as he slowly enters the room, making sure Lucas knows he’s there before he crouches down. Then he starts talking.
“Hey, Lucas. Remember me?” He takes a peek at a few drawings lying by the boy. “I, uh…I want to thank you for that last drawing, but the thing is…I need your help again.” He unfolds the drawing and shows it to Lucas. “How did you know about this? Did you know something bad was going to happen? You don’t have to say anything, just nod yes or no.”
Lucas pauses but does neither. Dean is the one who nods, licks his lips, and then says, “You’re scared. It’s okay; I understand. See, when I was your age I saw something real bad happen to my mom, and I was scared, too.”
Jessica feels Sam stiffen at the words and spares a glance at him. The look is back on his face, confused and a little lost. It’s a heartbreaking innocence she rarely sees and for some reason it reminds her of an infant, or a little boy clinging to his big brother’s every word.
“I didn’t feel like talking, just like you. But my mom…I know she wanted me to be brave for my brother. I think about that every day, and I do my best to do just that. And you know…maybe your dad wants you to be brave, too.”
Lucas drops the crayon in his hand and lifts his head up. Jessica doesn’t know what passes between them but he slides across the floor another drawing. Dean gives him a grateful smile.
“Thanks, Lucas.”
Part 2