Fanfic - SPN: Plain Gold Band - Ch. 7 - The Heart
Title: Plain Gold Band [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Chapter Seven: The Heart
[008.Awake]
"It's flooded."
"What's flooded?" Dean quirked his eyebrow at his brother as Sam approached him in the parking lot. It didn't sound like Sam's recon trip to find out where Richie's mental health notes might be had gone especially well, but flooding was a pretty unexpected hurtle.
"The basement, aka where they keep all their records."
"How did that happen?"
"Apparently, the water-bottling company a block down got caught up in the water debacle and was trying to switch out some pumps or something and they ended up blowing out an old water pipe under the street. This building is the lowest point in the area so … all the water ran here."
"Huh." Dean wasn't really fazed by the fact that there'd be no records to confirm or deny his theory. He'd almost been expecting it, though he didn't know exactly why. So, if there was a puzzled look accompanying his shrug as he lifted up from leaning on the Impala's trunk, it was probably because destruction by water seemed odd. Maybe not in this town, though. Maybe that was why Sam seemed less shocked than bemused. It was kind of funny, ironic really, and Dean found himself chuckling softly as he rounded the car and slid into the driver's seat.
Sam laughed a little, lips twitching as he watched Dean rev up the engine. "What are you laughing at?"
"It's just- …" He could hardly talk for all the bits of half-choked laughter on his tongue. "Everything keeps … catching fire and- … Minnesota, this town, that kid. … It's- … Where the fuck was the water then, huh? … Our luck is shit, dude." His grin was wide, but his head hurt as he shook it and set it against the steering wheel, laughter slowly dying. He knew the situation wasn't really all that humorous, but he wasn't sure he wanted to think about what the situation actually was.
Sam's hand high on his back made Dean's breath pause for a moment, but he pushed the air all the way out and then drew it in again with conscious effort. "Seems that way, doesn't it? But, you know, the universe is funny like that. Sometimes when bad things happen, they make way for good things, know what I mean?" The soothing depth of Sam's voice gave the sense of nurturing, mentorship, and the slide of his hand to Dean's nape only emphasized it. It made Dean wonder when the tables had so thoroughly turned.
"Maybe. Though I'm not sure what good could come out of this." Dean suppressed a shiver and focused on the grounding weight and heat of his brother's hand at the back of his neck. He felt like the worry in his brain and everything he had to do was throbbing inside his skull and he almost wished that the rest of the world would fall away - the case, the Demon, everything - and just let him close his eyes for longer than five minutes and lean into that hand, not needing to worry anymore.
"Hmm. Yeah. It's not always obvious, is it?" Sam nodded slowly and Dean could feel it in the movement of his arm even though he couldn't see. "Still, it does mean we have time for a breakfast that's more than motel lobby finds. Why don't we head to the diner? You liked the breakfast there yesterday, didn't you?"
Dean shrugged his answer as he straightened, the windshield of the car in front of them flickering in and out of view as Sam gave his neck a massaging squeeze and his eyelids fluttered in response. Dean's voice was languid when he spoke, as if his energy had been depleted some time ago in the conversation. "So … we just wait it out then? See if the suicide rate goes down?" It wasn't that Dean didn't have thoughts on how to get at useful information other ways, but he wanted to see what Sam came up with first, just because.
"Yeah. Pretty much."
He took a deep breath, shaking off his brother's hand and reaching to put the car in gear at the same time. "Well, alright then. Back to the diner we go."
---
Dean tried not to feel bad when he'd finished relieving himself and found his cellphone drifting to his ear in the alcove between the bathrooms and the main dining room. As distressed as she still was, Stephanie Lyons was quite willing to help a detective better understand Richie and his situation. She even offered up the new contact information for the Cunninghams, who'd moved into a hotel downtown while they tried to get their lives back together. He was just hanging up the phone with Richie's father, wheels already turning in his mind, when Sam rounded the corner, his head immediately tilting off to one side, eyebrows displaying curiosity.
"Thought you'd fallen in or something." He jutted his chin towards the phone Dean was slipping back into his pocket. "What was that about?"
"Just checking some things. Thought it'd be better not to do it in earshot of anyone else."
"Huh. Why didn't you let me know?"
"I didn't think about it until I was done in the can and I didn't think it would take this long."
Sam's eyes squinted up for a moment, but he eventually sussed out the truth in Dean's words because they were true. Technically. "Well … are you done?"
"Yeah."
"Then you better come eat your food. It's definitely getting cold."
Dean nodded and complied with Sam's gesture for him to lead the way back, sliding in behind a mound of breakfast vittles when they reached the booth. He'd barely had a forkful of his cooling breakfast, though, before Sam was searching for answers.
"So … talk. Who was on the phone and what did you find out?"
"Stephanie Lyons, Richard Cunningham senior, and everything you always - or never - wanted to know about Richie."
Sam took in a breath with a slow blink and his head slightly askew, but he nodded. "What did they say?"
"Twenty-four was too young to die." He snagged the pepper and shook it onto his eggs before reaching for the salt. "He'd been fine until two years ago when he started having nightmares about a man chasing him. Then he started to feel like there was something wrong with his music, that people felt it too deeply." He covered the plate with salt, enough for him to see, and licked his fingers clean when some spilled as he was putting the shaker back. "No one could convince him that it was just because he was a good musician. He thought that the man who'd been chasing him had infected him with something and that was what made his music wrong." His fork shoveled food into his mouth and he chewed around his words, Sam's disgruntled faces notwithstanding. "Apparently, he tried to quit the band and music in general several times but just couldn't let it go. He still thought it was wrong somehow, but he was as bound up in it as any addict, so he went through cycles of guilt on top of his paranoia."
"Interesting." Sam lips were turned down so far that Dean could practically hear the 'and … ?' that he was likely thinking.
"Very." Dean's eyebrows rose a little, a hint in Sam's direction. "Maybe especially considering how familiar pieces of that sound."
Sam slowed his own chewing and swallowed. "What do you mean?"
"He was your age, Sam, born the same year, and he started to feel chased and abnormal two years ago, like he had power he shouldn't. That doesn't sound familiar to you?" Did there really need to be a blinking neon sign?
Sam's eyes held his for a moment before dropping to his food as he scooped up a spoonful of eggs. "Maybe."
Dean shifted, trying to catch Sam's eye, though he knew it would only happen if Sam wanted it to. "You even had an immediately negative reaction to him, something about clashing energies, right?"
Sam shrugged, watching his fork stab into food he was no longer eating. "Yeah. I guess I did."
"Then, it's probably because he was like you, but, you know, a bad guy. I'd say he was like Ansem, but his letter showed remorse and he obviously felt bad enough to execute himself, so … a little more like Max then, maybe?" He blinked, trying not to wonder why all these kids kept dying, kept having to die. It made him think about Andy and the necessary threat still on the table. His head shook as he worked to refocus on the case. "I dunno, but … it works."
"How'd he choose his victims, though?" Sam's eyes lifted with the shift of his shoulders. "I mean … he was on stage for almost the whole night whenever he played there and even if he did talk to the victims some time while they were at Kismet, 'oh and by the way I'm dating a married guy' isn't going to be part of common conversation."
Dean grimaced at Sam's disbelief-tinged apathy. "True, but this isn't that big of a town, not to mention that the jazz-loving community is probably pretty small. He may have just heard enough rumors and pieced them together with all the evidence he had from seeing the victims with married people at the lounge." He washed down more food with his nowhere-near-hot coffee. "And besides, if he was really observant, one with a ring and one without could be enough, even if he didn't know anything else about them."
"But why would he have done it?" Sam wrapped a hand around his mug, but didn't drink, seeming to prefer watching the dark liquid slosh around inside. "Max and Ansem both went after people who they felt had hurt them. If what you're saying is true, then Richie went after other people in his same situation. It doesn't make any sense."
"Well, it's different, but … the suicides started after Arturo broke up with him, right? And he was pretty damn unstable already, so … I dunno." Dean shook his head, forehead wrinkling as he thought. "He probably took it really hard, so maybe- … maybe he assumed that they were all hurting like him and tried to give them peace, put them out of their misery or something."
"Could be." Sam nodded but didn't seem remotely convinced and Dean fought the buildup of irritation threatening to spill out and confront Sam about how unhelpful he'd been since this case started to involve Richie Cunningham.
"Listen. I know there are still a hell of a lot of maybes floating around, and you know me, I like clean lines and shit, but … this case doesn't make any sense unless it's centered around Richie." Dean's hands were out, animated by the intensity of his speech, and he snapped his fingers in Sam's direction, trying to find something Sam would understand. "It's like that guy with the razor you used to talk about sometimes."
"Guy with a razor?" Dean might as well have said 'guy with a reindeer' for all of Sam's tired but half-amused confusion.
"Yeah, some guy with a razor who figured out that the simplest answer was probably the true one."
"Occam's Razor, and it's not actually a- … Never mind." Sam snorted, tossing his hair. "Really, though, Occam would probably just say all the suicides were an unfortunate grouping of regular plain-old suicides. His whole philosophy was about making the smallest number of assumptions possible to get to an answer. Half your theory is assumptions."
Dean huffed. "You have a better idea?"
"Not particularly."
"Then I say we run with this." In the absence of a really good plan, a mediocre one was better than nothing. "We'd already planned to stay in town a few more days and to check out Kismet again, so this doesn't change that. It just gives the case the usual suspect-based structure, which does make more sense than just saying the suicides were caused by something, though we don't know the what or the why, and then they suddenly stopped, again for some reason we don't know. All that is true, but Richie's story fits in all those blanks pretty damn well."
"Okay, but … if he really was like me, that would be the first hit like that for either of us in months, wouldn't it?" Sam's eyes were trained on him, an emphasis for his words. "And we only stumbled across it; we weren't even looking for it. That seems more than a little odd."
"Yeah, I know, but they didn't all just disappear or something, so … it really shouldn't be a surprise that we'd run into one of them eventually, right?" Dean shrugged and tipped back the rest of his coffee, trying to shake the chill that had settled just under his shoulder blades.
Sam stretched his jaw, maintaining the intensity of the moment a little while longer before finally letting it fall away. "I suppose."
"It sounded like Richie was a good kid, though, and yeah, he kinda lost it, but … from the way they talked about him, even when he was a mess, he wasn't violent against anyone but himself. Even at Kismet the other night he gave me the creeps, sure, but not the angry-gonna-kill-someone kind, more the … dead-inside-from-grief kind, ya know?" Dean looked down at his hands for a long moment, concerned and quietly musing. "I mean he'd be the first of these special serial killers to really apologize, but … it just seems like it's hard for these kids to keep their heads on straight after the twenty-two year mark."
"It is." Sam was looking down again, but Dean could still feel the immense weight of those two tiny words.
"Is it hard for you?" Even though he was breathing, the tightness in his chest made it feel like he was holding his breath.
Sam's head angled left then right, neither a shake or a nod, as his gaze rose slowly. "Everybody's got a breaking point, Dean, and when it feels like you're stuck between a gun and a canon, it's hard to think about anything other than how not to get shot."
"Is that really what it's like?" He knew Sam was stressed out and had every right to be, but the example brought the extent of that stress into high focus.
"Every day." The way Sam's eyes fogged and his voice wobbled added dimension to his words. Sam seemed like he was barely keeping it together, because that's all he felt like he could do under the circumstances, walking a path he hoped would trigger neither the gun nor the canon.
"How do you manage it? I mean, you seem to have- …"
"Honestly?" Sam's lips pursed as he rolled his shoulders. "I don't know if I do, but … I try to keep in mind that even when it's hard, I'm doing the right thing, doing what needs to be done."
"Which is what?" The question sounded odd when it hit the air, but Dean really didn't know the answer and wanted to hear it directly from Sam.
"Helping as many people as I can without getting myself killed … and trying to make sure that you don't get yourself killed in the process either." It could've been a halfway joking answer, but the way Sam said it, eyes level and lips tight when he was done, was nothing less than solemn.
Dean didn't know what was brewing under the surface of things, but he pushed his half-eaten food away and nodded slowly. "Seems fair."
"Then we shouldn't have to fight about it, right?"
"Right." His answer was immediate, but he couldn't help feeling like he'd committed to something a lot deeper than hunting and basic survival.
Sam's nodded "good" didn't help either. He'd been doing that a lot lately and every time Dean heard it, it felt like he'd passed some little test, jumped another hurdle in a pony show or something, and earned himself a treat. Hell, with the way Sam talked about leaving and staying and what Dean had to offer or not, maybe he was, earning points towards keeping Sam or some other such junk, fucked up though it seemed when he thought about it like that. He wouldn't tempt either fate or Sam, though, so he just cleared his throat and suggested they adjourn to the motel to wait for Kismet to open and look for their next hunt.
---
They dragged their way through local and national papers and hit up the internet via what seemed like the slowest dial-up on planet Earth, but all they found were bits and pieces, nothing that jumped out and screamed 'case'. The room was mostly quiet but for the hum of reran nothing on the tube and the crunch of day-old pizza mixed in with the crinkling of papers and the clack of keys, but it was an easier quiet than they'd had in the days before. Sometimes Dean would catch Sam watching him, but the moment always passed quickly enough, Sam returning to his work as if the look wasn't anything more than his eyes wandering. Dean knew better, but since he didn't know what Sam was thinking and Sam had said he wasn't willing to talk, he left it alone and just tried not to be the first to turn away as if he was bothered or had something to hide.
There was a deep itch somewhere between his shoulders, though, one that only got more pronounced as evening approached and it propelled his hand to the cell phone in his pocket more and more frequently. The fidgeting distracted him from his search enough such that the local seven o'clock news found him tossing away the paper and getting up to shake his muscles out for the fourth time.
"What's the problem, Dean?" Sam was already exasperated with him and he'd barely done anything. Well, except for all the theoretically unnecessary movement, including the current bit of pacing.
"Uh … nothing." He felt his eyebrows knit together as he turned the corner on the far end of his pacing path. When he got back to the other end, though, he nearly ran into the tower of his brother, coming up short.
"Talk."
For a moment, he thought he knew why the hint of anger in Sam's voice made his body tense up instantly, but he wasn't thinking right then. He was held hostage by Sam's eyes and he felt his mouth moving almost before his ears registered the sound. "This case. It's- … I know what I said … about that Richie kid … and it's the answer that makes the most sense, but … I dunno. I feel like I'm missing something, like- … like even if the suicides stop with Richie's death that it still might not mean that we solved this case. I mean, what about- …" He stopped mid-thought as his mind flashed through bits of remembered conversations and visuals of burnings, of Sam freaking out, of Sam keeping time like a broken clock, of Sam handing him the newspaper that led them here.
Blinking once, he shook his head, imagining that mix of skewed thoughts falling out and onto the floor to be forgotten. Sam was a good kid. He knew that. He trusted him.
"What about what?"
"What about … the Demon?" It was a good question, a reasonable question, and he was surprised he hadn't thought of it before now. "If Richie was a special kid that the Demon was messing with then maybe he's resurfaced. We should probably check with Ash, see if there've been any omens in the last month."
Sam's nose crinkled up like he might question Dean's honesty, but he just shrugged and eased down again. "You can check if you want, but I didn't come back to hunt- … the Demon. So, unless he's in the room next door, I don't know what you're going to do with the information, and even then all we could really do is run."
"But the Demon's at the heart of all this." Dean's fingers found his hair and he stepped around his brother, continuing to pace. "If we could just- …"
"How do you know?"
"What?" He turned to look quizzically back at Sam.
"How do you know that the Demon is the main guy or that there even is a main guy?" Sam's eyes were pinched and intense as he watched Dean. "I mean … what do you really know about what he's trying to do or why? Other than the remnants of Dad's narrow-minded obsession drilled into our brains since before kindergarten, that is. What real proof is there that killing the Demon will do anything more than fulfill Dad's lifelong vengeance dream?"
Dean shrugged, his head tilting with a shake as he tried to understand. "He said he had plans for you and the other kids, Sam. That hardly seems like something we should ignore."
"I didn't say anything about ignoring what he said, but even that's a slim bit of information to go on." Sam slowly drew closer to Dean as he spoke, his tone one of coddling and gently persuasive logic. "If you remember the last time we talked about this, I'm pretty sure I pointed out that not knowing what the plan is means we don't know what helps it and what hurts it … me hunting the Demon, for example."
Dean still couldn't completely wrap his brain around Sam's argument, the Demon just was the central malicious figure in his mind, but he wasn't blind to their lack of information. He'd kind of hoped, though, that Sam's studies had led him to something more than they'd had before the break. "You didn't learn anything new? I thought you'd found all kinds of answers while you were gone."
Sam stalled in his tracks. He kept their gazes locked for another moment, but eventually looked away and back after a blink. "My information doesn't help anything, but if you can give me some proof - more than the guy being a bastard and talking shit about plans - then I'm happy to back you up. I just don't think there is any."
It was Dean's turn to take a step deeper into the ring, his brain in overdrive, untangling all the half-sensible strains of data whizzing by. "How could your information not help anything? Aren't you the one talking about how we need to know more before we act?"
Sam's jaw shifted, clenching and unclenching. "My information doesn't tell us how to act, or … maybe it does, but … not in any way that would work for you." Sam seemed so certain, like he could see everything clearly, but Dean wasn't sure of anything, it all looked foggy on his end.
"Yeah? Why is that?"
"I already told you!" Sam flung a hand towards Dean before swinging around to stalk in the other direction. "Everything I know says, whatever the- …" He was spinning around again in two steps, though. "You know what? He has a name. His name is Azazel and I'm kinda sick of calling him The Demon as if he's the only one or the only important one. But … yeah … everything I know says that whatever his plans were or are, they're already in motion, unstoppable, and the end product will come. It's inevitable. Which, if memory serves, wasn't an answer you liked when I mentioned it a few days ago."
Plans in motion, yeah, inevitable ends, yeah yeah yeah, but- … "You know his name?"
"Honestly? I'm surprised that we haven't been using it all along." Sam was clearly exasperated, his words huffed and rushed, his arms flying with the force of his voice. "Maybe Dad didn't know for sure, but it wasn't all that difficult to figure out which major demonic players didn't fit this guy's M.O."
"And you're just telling me this now?" If anyone had the right to be pissed, Dean was pretty sure it wasn't Sam.
"What were you going to do with the information? I've already looked up damn near everything available on the guy and- … and I still haven't found a way out." There was a hitch there, and something else, but Sam ploughed right through it, unrepentant and arrogant as his volume rose. "He's been at this a long time and there might be a loophole somewhere, but I sure as hell can't find it. So … what were you gonna do with some stupid name?"
"I don't care about the name. I'll call that yellow-eyed piece of scum whatever-the-fuck I want to call him. But really?" He moved closer to his brother, a hand indicating himself, then Sam, then back again. "Trust is supposed to go both ways here. I'm trying to keep everything above board this time, but you're Secret Agent Man all of a sudden."
Sam's breathing slowed visibly and when he spoke, the words were equally paced. "It's not about keeping secrets, Dean. I just know how you work and we're trying to stay focused on the case right now, so … I'm sure things will come up at some point and I'll talk about what I know. … Then."
Dean stared his brother down, looking for a twitch or a flinching glance, but all he got was honest, tired eyes and a slight nod of acknowledgment. It wasn't a promise, but Sam clearly had intentions to talk at some point and as much as it drove Dean crazy, they did have a case to wrap up and since he'd been the one to trigger all their trust issues, he would try his best to wait until Sam felt ready to talk. Sam had to come around soon, though, or his meager bit of patience would completely wear out. "Fine."
"Fine."
They stood looking at each other for another long moment and Dean was the first to break away, turning to sigh and run fingers through his hair as he checked the clock. "We should go."
"We should change."
"Yeah, that too."
The feel of the room transformed in the instant before Sam slid around behind him, crackling and warm like the last embers of a fire, as Sam molded his body to Dean's with his lips just above Dean's ear. "Wear the blue shirt. You know which one I like." Then Sam moved away again, the nearby rustling suggesting that he was making his own clothing choices as Dean worked to breathe.
He could feel the air jumping in and out of his lungs at odd intervals, trying to handle the way his body shook internally every time Sam pressed in close. Hadn't they just been fighting? Or … something? Sam's moods shifted lightening quick, leaving Dean buzzed or burned in their wake, and Dean's shielding, mental, physical, or anything else, just … wasn't enough anymore.
When he could free himself of Sam's lingering spell, he didn't even bother bitching about being told what to wear. It didn't really matter to him and if Sam- … He just shrugged to himself and kept his eyes down as he went to find the requested shirt and get ready for their second night out at the Kismet lounge.
Prologue - One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight - Epilogue
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Chapter Seven: The Heart
[008.Awake]
"It's flooded."
"What's flooded?" Dean quirked his eyebrow at his brother as Sam approached him in the parking lot. It didn't sound like Sam's recon trip to find out where Richie's mental health notes might be had gone especially well, but flooding was a pretty unexpected hurtle.
"The basement, aka where they keep all their records."
"How did that happen?"
"Apparently, the water-bottling company a block down got caught up in the water debacle and was trying to switch out some pumps or something and they ended up blowing out an old water pipe under the street. This building is the lowest point in the area so … all the water ran here."
"Huh." Dean wasn't really fazed by the fact that there'd be no records to confirm or deny his theory. He'd almost been expecting it, though he didn't know exactly why. So, if there was a puzzled look accompanying his shrug as he lifted up from leaning on the Impala's trunk, it was probably because destruction by water seemed odd. Maybe not in this town, though. Maybe that was why Sam seemed less shocked than bemused. It was kind of funny, ironic really, and Dean found himself chuckling softly as he rounded the car and slid into the driver's seat.
Sam laughed a little, lips twitching as he watched Dean rev up the engine. "What are you laughing at?"
"It's just- …" He could hardly talk for all the bits of half-choked laughter on his tongue. "Everything keeps … catching fire and- … Minnesota, this town, that kid. … It's- … Where the fuck was the water then, huh? … Our luck is shit, dude." His grin was wide, but his head hurt as he shook it and set it against the steering wheel, laughter slowly dying. He knew the situation wasn't really all that humorous, but he wasn't sure he wanted to think about what the situation actually was.
Sam's hand high on his back made Dean's breath pause for a moment, but he pushed the air all the way out and then drew it in again with conscious effort. "Seems that way, doesn't it? But, you know, the universe is funny like that. Sometimes when bad things happen, they make way for good things, know what I mean?" The soothing depth of Sam's voice gave the sense of nurturing, mentorship, and the slide of his hand to Dean's nape only emphasized it. It made Dean wonder when the tables had so thoroughly turned.
"Maybe. Though I'm not sure what good could come out of this." Dean suppressed a shiver and focused on the grounding weight and heat of his brother's hand at the back of his neck. He felt like the worry in his brain and everything he had to do was throbbing inside his skull and he almost wished that the rest of the world would fall away - the case, the Demon, everything - and just let him close his eyes for longer than five minutes and lean into that hand, not needing to worry anymore.
"Hmm. Yeah. It's not always obvious, is it?" Sam nodded slowly and Dean could feel it in the movement of his arm even though he couldn't see. "Still, it does mean we have time for a breakfast that's more than motel lobby finds. Why don't we head to the diner? You liked the breakfast there yesterday, didn't you?"
Dean shrugged his answer as he straightened, the windshield of the car in front of them flickering in and out of view as Sam gave his neck a massaging squeeze and his eyelids fluttered in response. Dean's voice was languid when he spoke, as if his energy had been depleted some time ago in the conversation. "So … we just wait it out then? See if the suicide rate goes down?" It wasn't that Dean didn't have thoughts on how to get at useful information other ways, but he wanted to see what Sam came up with first, just because.
"Yeah. Pretty much."
He took a deep breath, shaking off his brother's hand and reaching to put the car in gear at the same time. "Well, alright then. Back to the diner we go."
---
Dean tried not to feel bad when he'd finished relieving himself and found his cellphone drifting to his ear in the alcove between the bathrooms and the main dining room. As distressed as she still was, Stephanie Lyons was quite willing to help a detective better understand Richie and his situation. She even offered up the new contact information for the Cunninghams, who'd moved into a hotel downtown while they tried to get their lives back together. He was just hanging up the phone with Richie's father, wheels already turning in his mind, when Sam rounded the corner, his head immediately tilting off to one side, eyebrows displaying curiosity.
"Thought you'd fallen in or something." He jutted his chin towards the phone Dean was slipping back into his pocket. "What was that about?"
"Just checking some things. Thought it'd be better not to do it in earshot of anyone else."
"Huh. Why didn't you let me know?"
"I didn't think about it until I was done in the can and I didn't think it would take this long."
Sam's eyes squinted up for a moment, but he eventually sussed out the truth in Dean's words because they were true. Technically. "Well … are you done?"
"Yeah."
"Then you better come eat your food. It's definitely getting cold."
Dean nodded and complied with Sam's gesture for him to lead the way back, sliding in behind a mound of breakfast vittles when they reached the booth. He'd barely had a forkful of his cooling breakfast, though, before Sam was searching for answers.
"So … talk. Who was on the phone and what did you find out?"
"Stephanie Lyons, Richard Cunningham senior, and everything you always - or never - wanted to know about Richie."
Sam took in a breath with a slow blink and his head slightly askew, but he nodded. "What did they say?"
"Twenty-four was too young to die." He snagged the pepper and shook it onto his eggs before reaching for the salt. "He'd been fine until two years ago when he started having nightmares about a man chasing him. Then he started to feel like there was something wrong with his music, that people felt it too deeply." He covered the plate with salt, enough for him to see, and licked his fingers clean when some spilled as he was putting the shaker back. "No one could convince him that it was just because he was a good musician. He thought that the man who'd been chasing him had infected him with something and that was what made his music wrong." His fork shoveled food into his mouth and he chewed around his words, Sam's disgruntled faces notwithstanding. "Apparently, he tried to quit the band and music in general several times but just couldn't let it go. He still thought it was wrong somehow, but he was as bound up in it as any addict, so he went through cycles of guilt on top of his paranoia."
"Interesting." Sam lips were turned down so far that Dean could practically hear the 'and … ?' that he was likely thinking.
"Very." Dean's eyebrows rose a little, a hint in Sam's direction. "Maybe especially considering how familiar pieces of that sound."
Sam slowed his own chewing and swallowed. "What do you mean?"
"He was your age, Sam, born the same year, and he started to feel chased and abnormal two years ago, like he had power he shouldn't. That doesn't sound familiar to you?" Did there really need to be a blinking neon sign?
Sam's eyes held his for a moment before dropping to his food as he scooped up a spoonful of eggs. "Maybe."
Dean shifted, trying to catch Sam's eye, though he knew it would only happen if Sam wanted it to. "You even had an immediately negative reaction to him, something about clashing energies, right?"
Sam shrugged, watching his fork stab into food he was no longer eating. "Yeah. I guess I did."
"Then, it's probably because he was like you, but, you know, a bad guy. I'd say he was like Ansem, but his letter showed remorse and he obviously felt bad enough to execute himself, so … a little more like Max then, maybe?" He blinked, trying not to wonder why all these kids kept dying, kept having to die. It made him think about Andy and the necessary threat still on the table. His head shook as he worked to refocus on the case. "I dunno, but … it works."
"How'd he choose his victims, though?" Sam's eyes lifted with the shift of his shoulders. "I mean … he was on stage for almost the whole night whenever he played there and even if he did talk to the victims some time while they were at Kismet, 'oh and by the way I'm dating a married guy' isn't going to be part of common conversation."
Dean grimaced at Sam's disbelief-tinged apathy. "True, but this isn't that big of a town, not to mention that the jazz-loving community is probably pretty small. He may have just heard enough rumors and pieced them together with all the evidence he had from seeing the victims with married people at the lounge." He washed down more food with his nowhere-near-hot coffee. "And besides, if he was really observant, one with a ring and one without could be enough, even if he didn't know anything else about them."
"But why would he have done it?" Sam wrapped a hand around his mug, but didn't drink, seeming to prefer watching the dark liquid slosh around inside. "Max and Ansem both went after people who they felt had hurt them. If what you're saying is true, then Richie went after other people in his same situation. It doesn't make any sense."
"Well, it's different, but … the suicides started after Arturo broke up with him, right? And he was pretty damn unstable already, so … I dunno." Dean shook his head, forehead wrinkling as he thought. "He probably took it really hard, so maybe- … maybe he assumed that they were all hurting like him and tried to give them peace, put them out of their misery or something."
"Could be." Sam nodded but didn't seem remotely convinced and Dean fought the buildup of irritation threatening to spill out and confront Sam about how unhelpful he'd been since this case started to involve Richie Cunningham.
"Listen. I know there are still a hell of a lot of maybes floating around, and you know me, I like clean lines and shit, but … this case doesn't make any sense unless it's centered around Richie." Dean's hands were out, animated by the intensity of his speech, and he snapped his fingers in Sam's direction, trying to find something Sam would understand. "It's like that guy with the razor you used to talk about sometimes."
"Guy with a razor?" Dean might as well have said 'guy with a reindeer' for all of Sam's tired but half-amused confusion.
"Yeah, some guy with a razor who figured out that the simplest answer was probably the true one."
"Occam's Razor, and it's not actually a- … Never mind." Sam snorted, tossing his hair. "Really, though, Occam would probably just say all the suicides were an unfortunate grouping of regular plain-old suicides. His whole philosophy was about making the smallest number of assumptions possible to get to an answer. Half your theory is assumptions."
Dean huffed. "You have a better idea?"
"Not particularly."
"Then I say we run with this." In the absence of a really good plan, a mediocre one was better than nothing. "We'd already planned to stay in town a few more days and to check out Kismet again, so this doesn't change that. It just gives the case the usual suspect-based structure, which does make more sense than just saying the suicides were caused by something, though we don't know the what or the why, and then they suddenly stopped, again for some reason we don't know. All that is true, but Richie's story fits in all those blanks pretty damn well."
"Okay, but … if he really was like me, that would be the first hit like that for either of us in months, wouldn't it?" Sam's eyes were trained on him, an emphasis for his words. "And we only stumbled across it; we weren't even looking for it. That seems more than a little odd."
"Yeah, I know, but they didn't all just disappear or something, so … it really shouldn't be a surprise that we'd run into one of them eventually, right?" Dean shrugged and tipped back the rest of his coffee, trying to shake the chill that had settled just under his shoulder blades.
Sam stretched his jaw, maintaining the intensity of the moment a little while longer before finally letting it fall away. "I suppose."
"It sounded like Richie was a good kid, though, and yeah, he kinda lost it, but … from the way they talked about him, even when he was a mess, he wasn't violent against anyone but himself. Even at Kismet the other night he gave me the creeps, sure, but not the angry-gonna-kill-someone kind, more the … dead-inside-from-grief kind, ya know?" Dean looked down at his hands for a long moment, concerned and quietly musing. "I mean he'd be the first of these special serial killers to really apologize, but … it just seems like it's hard for these kids to keep their heads on straight after the twenty-two year mark."
"It is." Sam was looking down again, but Dean could still feel the immense weight of those two tiny words.
"Is it hard for you?" Even though he was breathing, the tightness in his chest made it feel like he was holding his breath.
Sam's head angled left then right, neither a shake or a nod, as his gaze rose slowly. "Everybody's got a breaking point, Dean, and when it feels like you're stuck between a gun and a canon, it's hard to think about anything other than how not to get shot."
"Is that really what it's like?" He knew Sam was stressed out and had every right to be, but the example brought the extent of that stress into high focus.
"Every day." The way Sam's eyes fogged and his voice wobbled added dimension to his words. Sam seemed like he was barely keeping it together, because that's all he felt like he could do under the circumstances, walking a path he hoped would trigger neither the gun nor the canon.
"How do you manage it? I mean, you seem to have- …"
"Honestly?" Sam's lips pursed as he rolled his shoulders. "I don't know if I do, but … I try to keep in mind that even when it's hard, I'm doing the right thing, doing what needs to be done."
"Which is what?" The question sounded odd when it hit the air, but Dean really didn't know the answer and wanted to hear it directly from Sam.
"Helping as many people as I can without getting myself killed … and trying to make sure that you don't get yourself killed in the process either." It could've been a halfway joking answer, but the way Sam said it, eyes level and lips tight when he was done, was nothing less than solemn.
Dean didn't know what was brewing under the surface of things, but he pushed his half-eaten food away and nodded slowly. "Seems fair."
"Then we shouldn't have to fight about it, right?"
"Right." His answer was immediate, but he couldn't help feeling like he'd committed to something a lot deeper than hunting and basic survival.
Sam's nodded "good" didn't help either. He'd been doing that a lot lately and every time Dean heard it, it felt like he'd passed some little test, jumped another hurdle in a pony show or something, and earned himself a treat. Hell, with the way Sam talked about leaving and staying and what Dean had to offer or not, maybe he was, earning points towards keeping Sam or some other such junk, fucked up though it seemed when he thought about it like that. He wouldn't tempt either fate or Sam, though, so he just cleared his throat and suggested they adjourn to the motel to wait for Kismet to open and look for their next hunt.
---
They dragged their way through local and national papers and hit up the internet via what seemed like the slowest dial-up on planet Earth, but all they found were bits and pieces, nothing that jumped out and screamed 'case'. The room was mostly quiet but for the hum of reran nothing on the tube and the crunch of day-old pizza mixed in with the crinkling of papers and the clack of keys, but it was an easier quiet than they'd had in the days before. Sometimes Dean would catch Sam watching him, but the moment always passed quickly enough, Sam returning to his work as if the look wasn't anything more than his eyes wandering. Dean knew better, but since he didn't know what Sam was thinking and Sam had said he wasn't willing to talk, he left it alone and just tried not to be the first to turn away as if he was bothered or had something to hide.
There was a deep itch somewhere between his shoulders, though, one that only got more pronounced as evening approached and it propelled his hand to the cell phone in his pocket more and more frequently. The fidgeting distracted him from his search enough such that the local seven o'clock news found him tossing away the paper and getting up to shake his muscles out for the fourth time.
"What's the problem, Dean?" Sam was already exasperated with him and he'd barely done anything. Well, except for all the theoretically unnecessary movement, including the current bit of pacing.
"Uh … nothing." He felt his eyebrows knit together as he turned the corner on the far end of his pacing path. When he got back to the other end, though, he nearly ran into the tower of his brother, coming up short.
"Talk."
For a moment, he thought he knew why the hint of anger in Sam's voice made his body tense up instantly, but he wasn't thinking right then. He was held hostage by Sam's eyes and he felt his mouth moving almost before his ears registered the sound. "This case. It's- … I know what I said … about that Richie kid … and it's the answer that makes the most sense, but … I dunno. I feel like I'm missing something, like- … like even if the suicides stop with Richie's death that it still might not mean that we solved this case. I mean, what about- …" He stopped mid-thought as his mind flashed through bits of remembered conversations and visuals of burnings, of Sam freaking out, of Sam keeping time like a broken clock, of Sam handing him the newspaper that led them here.
Blinking once, he shook his head, imagining that mix of skewed thoughts falling out and onto the floor to be forgotten. Sam was a good kid. He knew that. He trusted him.
"What about what?"
"What about … the Demon?" It was a good question, a reasonable question, and he was surprised he hadn't thought of it before now. "If Richie was a special kid that the Demon was messing with then maybe he's resurfaced. We should probably check with Ash, see if there've been any omens in the last month."
Sam's nose crinkled up like he might question Dean's honesty, but he just shrugged and eased down again. "You can check if you want, but I didn't come back to hunt- … the Demon. So, unless he's in the room next door, I don't know what you're going to do with the information, and even then all we could really do is run."
"But the Demon's at the heart of all this." Dean's fingers found his hair and he stepped around his brother, continuing to pace. "If we could just- …"
"How do you know?"
"What?" He turned to look quizzically back at Sam.
"How do you know that the Demon is the main guy or that there even is a main guy?" Sam's eyes were pinched and intense as he watched Dean. "I mean … what do you really know about what he's trying to do or why? Other than the remnants of Dad's narrow-minded obsession drilled into our brains since before kindergarten, that is. What real proof is there that killing the Demon will do anything more than fulfill Dad's lifelong vengeance dream?"
Dean shrugged, his head tilting with a shake as he tried to understand. "He said he had plans for you and the other kids, Sam. That hardly seems like something we should ignore."
"I didn't say anything about ignoring what he said, but even that's a slim bit of information to go on." Sam slowly drew closer to Dean as he spoke, his tone one of coddling and gently persuasive logic. "If you remember the last time we talked about this, I'm pretty sure I pointed out that not knowing what the plan is means we don't know what helps it and what hurts it … me hunting the Demon, for example."
Dean still couldn't completely wrap his brain around Sam's argument, the Demon just was the central malicious figure in his mind, but he wasn't blind to their lack of information. He'd kind of hoped, though, that Sam's studies had led him to something more than they'd had before the break. "You didn't learn anything new? I thought you'd found all kinds of answers while you were gone."
Sam stalled in his tracks. He kept their gazes locked for another moment, but eventually looked away and back after a blink. "My information doesn't help anything, but if you can give me some proof - more than the guy being a bastard and talking shit about plans - then I'm happy to back you up. I just don't think there is any."
It was Dean's turn to take a step deeper into the ring, his brain in overdrive, untangling all the half-sensible strains of data whizzing by. "How could your information not help anything? Aren't you the one talking about how we need to know more before we act?"
Sam's jaw shifted, clenching and unclenching. "My information doesn't tell us how to act, or … maybe it does, but … not in any way that would work for you." Sam seemed so certain, like he could see everything clearly, but Dean wasn't sure of anything, it all looked foggy on his end.
"Yeah? Why is that?"
"I already told you!" Sam flung a hand towards Dean before swinging around to stalk in the other direction. "Everything I know says, whatever the- …" He was spinning around again in two steps, though. "You know what? He has a name. His name is Azazel and I'm kinda sick of calling him The Demon as if he's the only one or the only important one. But … yeah … everything I know says that whatever his plans were or are, they're already in motion, unstoppable, and the end product will come. It's inevitable. Which, if memory serves, wasn't an answer you liked when I mentioned it a few days ago."
Plans in motion, yeah, inevitable ends, yeah yeah yeah, but- … "You know his name?"
"Honestly? I'm surprised that we haven't been using it all along." Sam was clearly exasperated, his words huffed and rushed, his arms flying with the force of his voice. "Maybe Dad didn't know for sure, but it wasn't all that difficult to figure out which major demonic players didn't fit this guy's M.O."
"And you're just telling me this now?" If anyone had the right to be pissed, Dean was pretty sure it wasn't Sam.
"What were you going to do with the information? I've already looked up damn near everything available on the guy and- … and I still haven't found a way out." There was a hitch there, and something else, but Sam ploughed right through it, unrepentant and arrogant as his volume rose. "He's been at this a long time and there might be a loophole somewhere, but I sure as hell can't find it. So … what were you gonna do with some stupid name?"
"I don't care about the name. I'll call that yellow-eyed piece of scum whatever-the-fuck I want to call him. But really?" He moved closer to his brother, a hand indicating himself, then Sam, then back again. "Trust is supposed to go both ways here. I'm trying to keep everything above board this time, but you're Secret Agent Man all of a sudden."
Sam's breathing slowed visibly and when he spoke, the words were equally paced. "It's not about keeping secrets, Dean. I just know how you work and we're trying to stay focused on the case right now, so … I'm sure things will come up at some point and I'll talk about what I know. … Then."
Dean stared his brother down, looking for a twitch or a flinching glance, but all he got was honest, tired eyes and a slight nod of acknowledgment. It wasn't a promise, but Sam clearly had intentions to talk at some point and as much as it drove Dean crazy, they did have a case to wrap up and since he'd been the one to trigger all their trust issues, he would try his best to wait until Sam felt ready to talk. Sam had to come around soon, though, or his meager bit of patience would completely wear out. "Fine."
"Fine."
They stood looking at each other for another long moment and Dean was the first to break away, turning to sigh and run fingers through his hair as he checked the clock. "We should go."
"We should change."
"Yeah, that too."
The feel of the room transformed in the instant before Sam slid around behind him, crackling and warm like the last embers of a fire, as Sam molded his body to Dean's with his lips just above Dean's ear. "Wear the blue shirt. You know which one I like." Then Sam moved away again, the nearby rustling suggesting that he was making his own clothing choices as Dean worked to breathe.
He could feel the air jumping in and out of his lungs at odd intervals, trying to handle the way his body shook internally every time Sam pressed in close. Hadn't they just been fighting? Or … something? Sam's moods shifted lightening quick, leaving Dean buzzed or burned in their wake, and Dean's shielding, mental, physical, or anything else, just … wasn't enough anymore.
When he could free himself of Sam's lingering spell, he didn't even bother bitching about being told what to wear. It didn't really matter to him and if Sam- … He just shrugged to himself and kept his eyes down as he went to find the requested shirt and get ready for their second night out at the Kismet lounge.
Prologue - One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight - Epilogue