Driver Picks the Music for rainylemons 2/2
Part Three
Sam felt horrible.
His head was pounding like he had a whole herd of horses in there. His neck ached...come to think of it, all his joints did. He had pillows piled at his back or he couldn’t have sat up straight. He clutched the bowl of soup Doctor Scully had given him, afraid it would fall from his hands at any moment. The soup smelled good, but Sam had no appetite. She made him drink something else earlier: a clear liquid that tasted sickly sweet and made him want to hurl. She told him it would help.
Doctor Scully sat in an armchair on the other side of the room. Beside her, Mulder was fiddling with the music centre. Dean was sitting on the floor beside the couch, as close as he could get to Sam without sharing the couch.
Sam handed the soup bowl to him. “I’m gonna drop it.”
Dean took it and set it on the floor beside him. He said something as he did so, but Sam found it impossible to concentrate on his words. That tune was still playing in his head, the same melody over and over and over. Sam couldn’t rest because the music never stopped. If he slept, the music invaded his dreams. It was making him crazy!
Gentle hands covered Sam’s, carefully drawing his hands away from his ears. It was Dean. Sam hadn’t seen Dean move. He hadn’t been aware of what he was doing.
“Sammy, stop,” Dean ordered.
Sam clasped his hands together in his lap. It was pointless to cover his ears. The music wasn’t in his ears. It was in his head.
“Sam, listen to this,” Mulder said.
Sam started to explain that he couldn’t listen to anything, but suddenly the music filled the room. It was the same music, the same haunting melody, but different somehow. Sam heard a flute and something like a guitar. There was even percussion. It had never been so real before. Without thinking, Sam covered his ears again, clutching the sides of his head in a futile effort to block the sound.
“No,” he moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. He shook his head, his fingernails digging into his temples. “No, no, no, no.”
It stopped.
Sam looked up, but didn’t lower his hands.
“Was that it?” Mulder asked him. “Was that your music?”
“Make it stop,” Sam begged. He knew how pathetic he sounded and he didn’t care. “Please make it stop.”
“I think that’s a yes,” Scully said.
*
“I have two theories,” Mulder announced, “and they aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but he did understand what the phrase meant. “I’m listenin’.” He was holding both of Sam’s hands to stop him scratching his face again. Already there was blood on Sam’s cheeks.
“Just one question first. Where were you when Sam first got sick?”
“Wyoming,” Dean answered at once, then he reconsidered. “No, wait. It started in California. He had headaches. He started singing there, too.”
“California,” Mulder nodded with satisfaction.
Dean wanted to punch him. Get to the point already!
“Were you anywhere near Tule Lake?”
Dean almost let go of Sam’s hands. “Yes! How did you know?”
“You gave me two clues: the insanity at the house in Rodanthe that began a little over thirty years ago, and a piece of Japanese folk music. There was only one connection that made sense. A Colonel Hector Brand who took command of the Tule Lake internment camp in 1942. How’s your history?”
Lousy, Dean thought, but he reported what he remembered: “1942. Pearl Harbour. We were at war with Japan.” Though what that had to do with a lake in California, he had no clue.
Mulder nodded. “All along the Pacific coast of the USA, Japanese immigrants and Americans with Japanese ancestry were rounded up and sent to internment camps. Not our country’s finest hour.”
“Cut to the chase, Mulder.” Dean snapped impatiently. “What’s your theory?”
“You need to understand the history if you’re going to fight it, Dean. You see, the government was afraid of Japanese spies. People were interred without warning, taken from their homes to relocation camps and from there many were moved to camps in the midwestern states. But they weren’t told where they were going. When winter came, a lot of the internees died because they weren’t prepared for how cold it gets out there. The camps were...well, they were prison camps.”
“Concentration camps,” Sam said hoarsely.
Dean looked up, surprised Sam had heard enough to make a contribution. That was good, wasn’t it?
“A few were that bad,” Mulder agreed. “The Tule Lake internment camp housed the Japanese whom the government designated high risk. The ones they had real evidence against, though I can’t say how good the evidence really was. There were certainly genuine spies among them, but it’s very likely many of them were innocent. Loyal Americans, even, imprisoned just because their parents came from Japan.”
“And they died in camp?” Dean guessed. “Or, they were killed?” That was all it would take to create an angry spirit.
“Yes, people died in the camps. In the midwest mainly from the cold and winter flu. In Tule Lake...it’s hard to say. There was some violence.”
“You mean torture,” Dean guessed, thinking of Sam’s statement that they were concentration camps. Sam wasn’t usually wrong about these things.
“If there was torture, there’s no record of it. Harsh treatment and neglect, yes, and racism consistent with the times, but not the kind of mistreatment that was happening in Europe. As I was saying, Colonel Brand ran the camp from 1942 until it was closed at the end of the war. In 1960 he retired from army life and in 1966 he moved in with his married daughter and her family. They lived in the house in Rodanthe.”
Dean nodded, beginning to see the picture. “So the spirit is this Colonel?”
“No. It’s not a spirit, Dean. It’s a curse. That’s why your father needed help to finish it when you were in Rodanthe.” Mulder shook his head. “He called me just as I was leaving the island and asked me for help. He said his son was sick and that was more important than the hunt, but he didn’t feel right leaving it unfinished. Since I was there and he thought I owed him a favour, he passed the job to me.”
“Why’d you owe him a favour?”
“Long story. John asked me to make sure all the contents of the house were destroyed. I didn’t have to do much: the fire he set destroyed almost everything.”
“But if there was a cursed object in the house, and it was destroyed...”
“Why is Sam affected now?” Mulder asked. “As I said, I have two theories.”
“Tell me!”
“First, I don’t think Sam’s illness is part of the curse.” He looked at Scully. “Scully is a good doctor and she’s seen her share of the paranormal. Scully thinks this is simple flu, and I trust her judgement.”
“Sam was sick in Rodanthe,” Dean objected.
“Yes, and it saved his sanity. You took him away from the island and forced John to accelerate his plans and conclude his investigation quickly. Flu lowers the defences, Dean, both physical and mental. It may be that being ill made Sam more susceptible, but the others who were affected by the curse didn’t get sick like this. That’s just Sam.”
“Okay. So if you’re right, what does that mean?”
“It means Sam needs medical treatment, not some hunter solution.”
Oh. Right. Dean looked up at his brother. He’d been so sure this was supernatural...Sam might have died. He swallowed back his guilt. Time for that later.
Mulder went on. “Sam was touched by this curse when you were in Rodanthe ten years ago. I think that the curse originated in the Tule Lake camp. So even though the object carrying the curse is gone, when you both went there, the latent curse within Sam was reactivated. It recognised its origin.”
Dean nodded. It was weird, even for them, but it made sense.
“The victims of this curse react in different ways, but the music Sam is hearing makes sense of that. I think they were all hearing it. Some committed suicide to get away from the music. Some never did make it stop: they went crazy. Others reacted violently and killed others, maybe blaming them for the orhwurm, or perhaps in the irrational belief that the act of murder would silence the music. In Sam’s case...well, he’s not there yet. This flu may be a blessing in disguise: it buys you time.”
“So, how do we break the curse?” Dean asked.
At that, Mulder shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not a hunter, Dean. I’ve given you all I can. The rest is up to you.”
*
It went against Dean’s instincts to accept that Sam’s flu was just that: plain, mundane influenza. Scully offered to run labs to prove it, but that would have taken too long. Once Sam accepted the theory, it didn’t really matter what Dean thought. Sick or not, Sam was a stubborn s.o.b. So Dean listened to Doctor Scully’s instructions on how to care for Sam. It boiled down to make sure he takes his meds, keep warm, drink lots of water and don’t be a moron. None of it sounded too complicated.
They stayed overnight at Scully’s insistence; she wouldn’t release “her patient” until morning. She offered Dean the guest bed; Sam was staying on the couch, mostly because he felt too weak to move. The medication was helping, but Sam wasn’t out of danger. It felt strange to sleep in a room without Sam in the next bed and Dean had a restless night. In the morning, the first thing he did was check on Sam.
Sam looked no better, but he smiled when he saw Dean. “You’re up early.”
“Yeah.” Wild hell hounds wouldn’t have dragged from Dean the admission that he couldn’t sleep without Sam in the room. “How are you feelin’?”
“A bit better.”
“What about the music?”
“Bad. It gets quiet sometimes, like now. When it’s loud I can’t hear anything else.” Sam nodded toward a chair. “Mulder left that for you. He must have been working most of the night.”
Dean saw a red cardboard document folder on the chair and picked it up. It was full of papers, untidily stacked, and a pink post-it stuck to the top page. The post-it read Everything I could find about Japanese ghosts. See onryō. F.M.
Dean sighed. Research. He hated research. He sat down and began to read.
By the time Scully came in to check on Sam, Dean was halfway through the file.
Scully did all the things doctors usually do and sat down beside Sam and looked at him intently. “Your lungs are still congested, Sam. It’s not pneumonia, but it could be an early warning of it. You need to be very careful. If you have any trouble breathing, or that cough gets worse, check yourself into a hospital or you could die. Do you understand me?”
Sam nodded.
“I know you think this illness is some curse, but the existence of things we cannot scientifically explain does not invalidate science. You can’t cure this with a magic spell.”
Sam returned her gaze for a moment, studying her. “Doctor Scully, I know we come across as superstitious hicks, but we’re not. I went to Stanford. I get it.”
Dean was surprised. It wasn’t like Sam to boast about his education, but perhaps among these people it made sense. Scully was a doctor, Mulder just as highly educated. They might respect Sam’s credentials in a way their usual associates never would.
Scully put her equipment away. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said sternly. “Take care of yourself, Sam.” To Dean, she added, “If Mulder is willing, you can stay. Sam isn’t really fit to travel.”
“I know,” Dean admitted, “but we’ve got another problem and...” he indicated the file he held, “it looks like we can only take care of it back in California.”
Dean could see Scully wasn’t entirely disappointed. She picked up her bag. “I must go or I’ll be late. God be with you both.” She was gone before Dean could thank her.
*
California, 2007
So, here was the deal.
Back in the 1940’s, someone interned at Tule Lake died believing that Colonel Brand did him a great injustice. It was probably true. The Japanese and Japanese Americans forced into the internment camps after Pearl Harbour were mostly innocent of any crime against the US. Many were loyal Americans, as outraged by the Japanese attack as their white neighbours. They were rounded up and imprisoned, their belongings stripped from them at five cents on the dollar, for the “crime” of having Japanese ancestry. However, a general injustice by the state would not have provoked the curse that this unknown inmate laid upon Colonel Brand. This was something more personal. Since the curse was originally tied to some object, it was perhaps something the Colonel stole.
The curse was never meant to be fatal: it was intended to make him suffer, or possibly to make it impossible for him to forget the one he wronged. The Colonel lived with the ohrwurm until he died. Then, as happens with cursed objects, it moved on to the next person who owned or touched it. Either it gained strength over the years or the later victims were less able to withstand it, because the music literally drove them all crazy. They became violent, either killing themselves or trying to harm others.
The final victim of the curse was Sam, in 1997. Had Sam not become ill at the same time, the curse might have ended the same way for him. Instead, Sam’s illness prompted John to destroy the house and all its contents. Though he didn’t know it at the time, the fire destroyed the cursed object, and thus broke its power over Sam. But although Sam was freed from the ohrwurm, the curse had not run its course. It was not gone, only dormant.
Fast-forward ten years and Sam and Dean stopped for a quiet beer on the shores of Tule Lake after a hunt. They must have been close enough to the site of the old internment camp for the spirit - whose human remains had to be buried there - to “recognise” Sam as someone he had cursed. This kicked the original curse back into full gear. By supernatural means or coincidence - Dean was unconvinced either way - Sam got sick again at the same time.
It was a good working theory, but it was a bit thin on actual evidence. There were a lot of problems with it, too. It got them no closer to identifying the spirit, and there had to be a lot of bodies buried at the camp. It wasn’t a death camp, like the Nazi concentration camps in Europe, but conditions had been harsh and medical help for the inmates minimal. Most of the deaths in the official record were listed as natural causes, but there were too many of them for “natural” to be strictly accurate. Something hinky could have been happening there.
Mulder’s research turned up several Japanese items Colonel Brand owned, including a kind of Japanese flute, but there was no way to trace the original owners. Nor was there any obvious suspect in what little of the camp’s records could be found online. And they couldn’t salt and burn an entire boneyard.
On the long drive back to California, Sam and Dean discussed several options. The journey took twice as long as usual, because Sam was sick. They made regular stops for food and drink. Dean wouldn’t let Sam eat in the car for fear he would throw up. They also stopped early each night, because Dean couldn’t trade off the driving with Sam.
An onryō could be repelled or even destroyed by using an ofuda which was some kind of sacred writing. But neither Sam nor Dean had any idea how to go about finding one.
It was just as they reached the California state line that Sam offered what had to be the craziest idea Dean had ever heard. Sam wanted to go to the camp and use a séance ritual he’d found to make the spirit manifest. So they could talk to it!
“It’s not that insane, Dean,” Sam began. He was recovering from his flu, but now he was talking loudly, as if Dean were hard of hearing. Or maybe as if he couldn’t hear his own voice.
“Yeah, it is! You want to summon a pissed-off, homicidal spirit that’s got you in its crosshairs and serve it tea and cookies!”
“According to the lore, you can lay an onryō to rest by giving it what it wants. Don’t you think the best way to find out what it wants is to, you know, ask?”
“We know what it wants, Sam. It wants you dead or crazy!”
“No.” Sam shook his head, a little wildly. “I’d be dead by now. It wants something else.”
“Like what?”
Sam shrugged and turned the volume up on the Motorhead tape. They had discovered that if they played a tape loudly enough, it gave Sam some relief from the music in his head. In spite of his increasing worry for Sam, Dean was taking full advantage of his uncharacteristic enthusiasm for loud rock music, knowing that when this was over Sam would go right back to bitching about his tapes.
But damn if this wasn’t the most ridiculous, suicidal idea Sam ever had.
*
The Tule Lake internment camp had been preserved as a monument to what happened there. It was federal land, and neither of them wanted to risk being picked up by the feds. They settled for getting as close to the edges of the camp as they could. The spirit had tied itself to Sam; it should be enough.
Sam insisted on providing food for the ghost; it was a sign of respect and he hoped it would establish they weren’t too hostile. Dean thought the idea was nuts. But he located a Japanese-run food store and, feeling like a prize idiot, asked the proprietor what would be appropriate. He came away with powdered stuff that was supposed to be tea, rice and some weird pink balls that just had to be a practical joke. Joke or not, it would have to do.
They found a place near the camp where they wouldn’t be seen or disturbed. Dean insisted on shotguns for both of them. Sam laid out the food and some candles and began to read from the journal.
Dean wasn’t sure a Japanese ghost would respond to a Christian summoning ritual, but it was the only one they had. Sam read the words aloud but he sounded less confident than usual. Perhaps it was the aftermath of his illness.
A ghostly light began to form around Sam, as if his body was glowing white. Sam saw it, too. His eyes widened and he looked freaked, but though his voice faltered a little he didn’t quit reading. As he reached the end of the ritual, the light moved away from him. For a moment it looked like a cartoon ghost - a floating white sheet. Then it coalesced and the glow faded, leaving what appeared to be a solid figure in its place.
It was a woman! There had been no reason to assume the spirit was male, but Dean hadn’t considered anything else. She was dressed all in white, her gown a formal kimono with the sash tied at the back. Her sleeves were narrow at the shoulders and widened to a flare at the wrists, almost covering her hands. Her hands were strange. The fingers were unnaturally long and thin, the fingernails black and pointed. She had very long hair, but it hung around her face in thick ropes, as if it was wet. Her face was a perfect oval, her mouth a crimson rosebud.
She faced Sam and began to raise her arms, her weird hands hanging limp.
Dean raised his shotgun, taking aim.
Sam gestured, telling Dean to hold fire. To the spirit he said, “Wait. Please wait. I just want to talk.” He moved to stand beside the food they’d prepared.
The onryō regarded the food haughtily, then turned her gaze upon Sam again. She cried out in Japanese. It sounded like a question, but Dean didn’t understand a word. How could they talk to it if they didn’t even have a common language? This plan was looking worse and worse.
“What are we gonna do if she can’t even speak American?” Dean asked. His finger tightened on the shotgun’s trigger.
But Sam made that ‘stop’ gesture again. “It’s okay, Dean. I understood her.”
*
Sam’s knowledge of Japanese extended no further than the names of various sushi dishes, but though the spirit wasn’t speaking in English somehow the meaning of her words was clear to him.
Sam was used to weird. Weird was his life.
They already knew the spirit was tethered to him in some way. How else had it followed him from California to the East Coast and back? But when it stepped out from inside him, Sam still had a moment of freak-out.
As it began to solidify, the persistent music in Sam’s head faded to silence. It was such a blessed relief. He could hear again. He could think again!
The spirit turned to attack. Sam expected that: spirits always did. He moved closer to the food offering they’d prepared. She did stop when he asked her to wait, and she acknowledged the offering. When she looked back at him, Sam saw something new in her deep-sunken eyes.
Her voice was strong and demanding. “You promised me my daughter! Where is my daughter!”
Sam understood the words, but the question made no sense. Neither did Dean’s question, because Sam had understood her perfectly. Not until Dean asked did Sam realise her words weren’t English.
Dean was on-edge already. He was about to fire, and if he did they would lose any chance of talking to the spirit. So, keeping his focus on the onryō, Sam raised a hand to warn Dean to stay calm. “It’s okay, Dean. I understood her.”
“What? How?”
“I don’t know.” Sam addressed the spirit. “Who are you? Can you tell me your name?”
His words seemed to calm her. Perhaps all she needed was to be acknowledged. She gave a stiff little bow and answered, “Ishii Sumiko. I am the wife of Ishii Kamejiro. We are from Hiroshima.”
Sam flinched when she mentioned Hiroshima. He wondered if she’d died before the bombing. If not, he was screwed. She would have no reason to show mercy to an American if she knew what they’d done there
Sam struggled to remember the little he knew of Japanese culture and made his voice as respectful as he could. “Ishii-san, is it your music I hear?”
She smiled maliciously. “To remind you of your promise!”
“Ishii-san, I am Sam Winchester. I never made you any promise.” He was about to add that he wanted to help anyway, but she lunged at him. Her long fingers closed around his neck. Sam staggered backwards. Her cold touch cut off his air and his lungs weren’t in the best shape anyway. His foot caught on something and he pinwheeled for a few seconds before he fell.
“Sammy!” Dean yelled.
The spirit moved with him. Her hair fell around them in a thick curtain. Her eyes glowed white.
The blast of Dean’s shotgun shattered the quiet of the night and the onryō was gone.
As the echoes of the shotgun died away, Sam’s head filled with music again.
“Well, that was a giant waste of time.” Dean offered his hand to Sam, who grasped it and let Dean haul him upright.
“It’s not a waste,” Sam told him, automatically covering his ears. “We know what she wants. I just hope we can give it to her.”
*
“Her daughter?” Dean repeated, shouting to be heard over the tape. It was Metallica this time.
Sam nodded, not trying to speak.
“Dude, she died in the 1940’s! If her daughter is still alive, she’s a grandmother by now.”
Sam tossed the file of Mulder’s research onto the bed between them. “We have her name now, and her husband’s name. We need to find out what happened to their family.”
“Why not just dig her up?” Dean suggested.
Sam wasn’t thinking straight. Of course, now they had her name, they could locate her grave. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. You see if you can find where she’s buried.”
Dean frowned. “What are you gonna do?”
“Call Ash for help. I’d search the records myself but I can’t concentrate worth a damn with this tune in my head!”
“Sam, settle down. We’ll beat the bitch.”
Sam wasn’t sure bitch applied. Wrongfully imprisoned for the crime of being Japanese, losing her daughter (how? Did the army force families to split up?) and then dying in prison. Sumiko was entitled to be pissed off. But not at him! None of Sam’s ancestors did this to her and he himself wasn’t even born when it happened.
He turned the radio off and dialled Harvelle’s Roadhouse.
It was a difficult conversation. Sam could barely hear Ash over the music in his head, and though he knew he was probably yelling he couldn’t seem to stop. He couldn’t judge the volume of his own voice lately. But Sam managed to get his need across to Ash...and also his urgency.
Ash extracted from Sam a promise of some time behind the wheel of “that bitchin’ car” if he could deliver before sundown the next day. Sam was careful not to include access to the keys in his promise. When he was done, he turned off his phone, cycled through the radio channels to find something more relaxing than classic rock and tried to get some sleep.
*
The old internment camp was well signposted for the tourists so Dean had no trouble finding it. The camp was surrounded by a high fence and Dean watched for a while to check out the security before he attempted entry. He saw no sign of surveillance cameras, only a guard on patrol. Once the guard had gone by on his rounds, Dean considered it safe to enter.
He found the cemetery behind one of the main buildings. It was a fenced-off area with neatly trimmed, green grass and rows and rows of stones. His heart sank. This wasn’t a boneyard. The stones might not mark bodies; it could be simply a memorial. If there were remains here, they had to be cremated remains, buried in their urns.
Even so, Dean searched for the stone that marked their onryō’s grave. But there was worse to come. Each stone marker had a name carved into it, but half of them were in Japanese script. Dean couldn’t read it.
What a stupid fucking waste of a trip! How were they going to save Sam now?
*
Part Four
Even from outside the motel room, Dean could hear the music. Sam had found an opera on the radio and it was going full-blast.
The weirdness of that suddenly struck Dean. He hadn’t seen it before, because in the beginning they’d both believed this was a curse. But now they knew it was a spirit. So how in hell did it still affect Sam when he was in the motel room, protected behind their usual lines of salt?
When they summoned it, the spirit manifested out of Sam’s body. It wasn’t possessing him. Ghost possession was really rare and Dean was sure he would have noticed if his brother started behaving like a Japanese woman from the 1940’s. But it was riding him somehow.
Dad always said the salt-and-burn was the only way to be sure with ghosts. But it wasn’t the only way to deal with them. Sam’s plan to give the spirit what she wanted might be their best shot...if nothing horrible had happened to the daughter. But even if the woman was still alive, how were they supposed to bring her here? And how could Dean protect Sam in the meantime?
A ghost couldn’t cross a salt line, but if it was inside Sam, would it have to? They laid down salt once they were inside the room, so...
Oh, shit. Instead of keeping it out, the salt trapped the spirit in the room. With Sam!
Dean pushed the door open and the sound hit him like a solid wall. A soprano was singing; it sounded like someone strangling a cat. He didn’t really expect Sam to be sleeping in that din, but Sam wasn’t even in bed. He was sitting in the corner of the room, his legs drawn up to his chest. He was shaking his head constantly, occasionally punctuating a shake by banging his head against the wall.
“Sammy!” Dean crossed the room swiftly and crouched beside him, pulling his brother into his arms. “Sam, stop it. Stay with me, dude.”
“Can’t...make it...stop,” Sam mumbled.
Dean saw the blood on Sam’s face and knew he’d been hurting himself again. “Did you call Ash?” he asked and hoped like hell that Sam’s nod meant yes, and wasn’t just Sam shaking his head again. Dean pulled out his cell phone and turned the radio off. For a second, he just savoured the blessed quiet. Then he pulled up the number for Harvelle’s Roadhouse. It was nearly three in the morning; he was going to wake Ellen. But looking at Sam, dishevelled and miserable, blood running down his face, he knew Ellen would forgive him.
Ellen answered on the second ring. “What?” she demanded. She didn’t sound sleepy. She sounded pissed.
“Wow. Something wrong, Ellen?”
There was a pause, then, “Oh. Dean. I was expecting someone else.” No apology, but Dean wouldn’t expect one from Ellen.
“That’s a relief,” Dean admitted. He wouldn’t like that tone directed at him. “Ellen, Sam called earlier to ask Ash to find some info for us. I really need it right now.”
“I’ll get him.” Ellen moved the phone away from her mouth and bellowed, “Ash! Get your butt out here!”
Moments later, Ash came on the line. “What’s up? Sam gave me twenty four hours.”
“We don’t have that long. Have you found anything, Ash? It’s life or death.”
Ash grunted. “Well, I got something, but I don’t think it’s what Sam wants.”
“Shit. Hit me.”
“Kamejiro Ishii was a Japanese spy. He was making maps of the northern California coastline and imprisoned before he could pass them on. His wife went with him to Tule Lake, but their kid didn’t. She must have seen the cops coming and hid; they didn’t find her. Smart for a three year old.”
“What happened to her?”
“Another Japanese family took her in, and she went with them to a different camp. After the war...”
Dean interrupted. “I ain’t got time for her life story. Where is she now?”
“Dead. Cancer. 1979.”
Dean closed his eyes. At least she didn’t die in the camps. That was the worst case scenario. But this wasn’t much better. He took a breath to steady himself and grasped at the only straw he had left. “Ash, can you email me everything you’ve got? I’ll come up with something.”
“No problemo.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“Yes, you do.” Ash hung up the phone.
Dean pocketed his cell, went over to the laptop and turned it on. An idea was beginning to form in his mind, but it was a temporary fix at best, unless he could find something useful in Ash’s information. He opened his email and left it to download while he went to Sam’s side. Sam was still in the corner.
“Come on, Sam.” Dean bent down to help him up.
Sam allowed Dean to drag him to his feet. “I know why the people in Rodanthe went crazy,” he said, still shaking his head. His eyes were bloodshot. “I can’t take this any more, Dean. I’m about ready to put a gun to my head.”
Dean stiffened. “Dude, that is so not an option!” He shook Sam, hard. “Don’t you even think about that, you hear me?” He led Sam to the bed. Sam immediately reached for the radio, but Dean stopped him. “Hang in there, Sammy. I’ve got an idea. I just need Ash to come through.”
Sam shook his head. “What? What about Ash?”
He couldn’t hear. Dean pointed to the bed and said loudly, “Sit and wait. I’ve got a plan.”
Sam sat down obediently.
Dean returned to the laptop. There were six emails from Ash, each with several attachments. Dean scanned through them quickly, looking for anything about the daughter. He hit paydirt on the third email: the first two were camp records about Kamejiro and Sumiko Ishii.
Sakura Ishii was legally adopted in 1946 by the Japanese-American couple who had taken her in after her parents were arrested. In spite of the adoption, she kept her original name. She grew up in Seattle and there met the man she later married. Together, they ran a successful business: a small chain of clothing stores. They had four children before she was diagnosed with cancer in 1976. She died three years later, in 1979, 40 years old. There was a photo of her with her children. She looked happy.
Would that be enough? Dean fervently hoped so.
He could not wait any longer. Sam was right on the edge; Dean wasn’t going to wait for him to break. He would have to do this now. Here in the motel room.
There was no time to explain it to Sam. Sam could barely understand him now; discussion and debate was out of the question. Dean had everything he needed in the room. First, he loaded a shotgun with rock salt and left it on the bed where he could reach it easily. Next, he opened the journal to the right page. Then he deliberately broke the salt lines around the room and created a fresh salt circle in the clear space between the beds and the door. He directed Sam to stand within the circle.
Sam looked puzzled. “Dean, I don’t think that’s gonna - ”
“Trust me, Sam,” Dean insisted.
Sam still looked dubious, but he obeyed. Dean rolled his eyes. It would be nice if Sam has just a little bit more faith in him. But Dean said nothing; he just picked up the journal and began the summoning ritual again.
As before, an eerie white glow formed around Sam before it drifted away from him, as if it was a part of Sam detaching itself from his body. Before it could coalesce into the woman’s form, Dean grabbed Sam’s arm and pulled him out of the circle. Sam looked annoyed for an instant - idiot! - then he got it. He managed a half-smile before the onryō started screaming.
The sound was horrible, a piercing wail of despair and frustration that went on and on. The onryō moved around the salt circle, her strange hands pounding on thin air as if it were glass.
“You with me, Sam?” Dean yelled over the noise.
Sam was standing straight, smiling. “I’m good. But we still have to - ”
“Shut her the hell up?”
Sam stepped forward, placing himself very close to the salt line but not quite close enough to risk contact with the spirit. “Ishii-san!”
Her scream cut off abruptly. The sudden silence was almost painful.
“Good. Now we can talk,” Sam told her.
She replied in Japanese. It sounded like she was swearing, but of course, Dean couldn’t understand a word.
“Dean,” Sam said tensely, “did Ash find her kid?”
Dean carried the laptop over to the salt circle. The laptop was open, the screen filled with the photograph of Sakura Ishii taken in 1975, before the cancer took hold of her body. In the photograph she was smiling, a newborn baby in her arms and three other children surrounding her. The photograph had been taken on a sunny day in a green garden.
“This is Sakura Ishii,” Dean said to the onryō. “She was your daughter, wasn’t she?”
The pale spirit reached out toward the computer screen, but was stopped by the salt barrier. She didn’t answer Dean’s question - perhaps she hadn’t understood him - but her gesture was answer enough.
“She lived a happy life,” Dean said, hoping it was true. “She had many children, but she’s gone now. She’s waiting for you.”
The onryō said something to Sam, her voice very soft and low.
Sam answered, “Yes. Beyond the rising sun.”
The onryō raised her face and for a moment Dean thought he saw a glitter in her sunken eyes, almost like tears. The glow began in her face and flowed down her body as it intensified. For an instant, the sun itself was in their motel room. Then she was gone.
Sam sank to the floor. He looked absolutely exhausted.
Dean helped his brother to the bed. Sam fell asleep almost before he was lying down.
*
It was late morning when they finally left the motel. Sam strode ahead of Dean to the Impala and waited by the driver’s side door.
Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “Sure you’re up to driving, Sam?”
“I’m sure. The curse is gone and I had the best night’s sleep of my life. I’m fine.”
A little reluctantly, Dean handed over the keys. While Sam fired up the engine, Dean slipped a tape into the stereo and pushed the play button. Music blasted out! Dean turned the volume down before Sam could complain.
For a while, everything was good. Sam’s driving was smooth and steady. Dean saw no sign of the shakes or distraction. Satisfied Sam was okay, Dean leaned back in his seat and relaxed.
It wasn’t until they reached the highway that Dean realised Sam had a more nefarious purpose in mind, because that was when Sam leaned over and casually popped the AC/DC tape out. He tuned the radio to a station that made Dean want to barf.
“Jeez, Sam. Seriously?”
Sam gave him a narrow-eyed look. “You know what, Dean? I know you were enjoying having this at full volume the last few days.”
Dean could not deny it. “That doesn’t mean I enjoyed you being sick!”
“Bite me. I’ve spent the past two weeks with some Japanese crap stuck in my head. Driver picks the music.”
By the time they reached Nebraska, Dean had planned a hundred different ways to hunt down Taylor Swift and salt and burn her bones.
~ End ~