FIC: No Fortress is So Strong (1/9)
Title: No Fortress is So Strong
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: Parts 1 and 2 are rated R for language, rating changes to NC-17 as of Part 3 for continued cursing, dirty talk, and the pr0n
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OFC, Dean and Sam, gen/het
SPOILERS: through AHBL 2
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
State: Michigan
Summary: Sibling relationships - and 80 percent of Americans have at least one - outlast marriages, survive the death of parents, resurface after quarrels that would sink any friendship. They flourish in a thousand incarnations of closeness and distance, warmth, loyalty and distrust. - Erica E. Goode, "The Secret World of Siblings," U.S. News & World Report, 10 January, 1994
Pertinent A/N: Written for spn_50states . Um…this has become my new multi-chap, folks. I didn’t intend for it to be so long, but it is. It’s a WIP, but completely figured out. I’ll post a chapter every Tuesday and Saturday until it’s complete. Outline tells me 6 parts, and I’m sticking with that. Immeasurable thanks to my betas hiyacynth , quellefromage , and everybetty . You guys tighten my loose words, clean up my grammar, redress my punctuation, and sometimes let me BEAM. I laugh, I cry, I shake my head and refuse - but I am a better writer for all of your help.
Ramble-y A/N: This story takes place in my hometown - which I left at the age of eighteen - so it’s probably more honest to say this story takes place in the hometown of my memory. It’s not the same place it was…Thomas Wolfe was right. Facts have been twisted to suit the story, and I expect the same can be said about my memories. The tale of the brotherly ghosts is true, in as much as it was told to me as a ghost story in my youth.
Dean was about as tired as he could be and still keep the Impala on the road. They’d just come off a string of jobs with Bobby and Ellen and a hunter named Fiske, taking out nests of demons - and a few solos - that never quite got their spook asses out of Wyoming. Ten or so jobs like that since the gate had been opened, and he and Sam had been at the head of the pack the whole time.
When Bobby suggested they take a cool down and handle a haunting for him in Michigan, Sam jumped at the chance to put some miles between them and the cowboy graveyard. Dean could tell Sam was itching to get his research-fu on, too; some down time to find a way to slither around the deal with that Crossroads bitch. Besides, it would be kind of nice to take out something with rock salt and fire instead of Latin. Dean wasn’t going to argue the location.
So they pretty much drove zombie-style; forward motion, no stopping. Took I-80 straight through Nebraska and Iowa, crossed into Illinois and hopped onto 94. Headed east where Old US 12 intersected, just outside of New Buffalo; Dean wanted to take the scenic route so he could lay some lead on the flat, cornfield-bordered straightaways of the back highway.
Sam slept almost the whole trip, catching up on some much needed rest. He’d been chasing away one of those summer colds that come on like hay fever but intensify and stick with you. He’d been horking up green stuff for the better part of a week, and Dean figured, yeah, they could both use a chance to slow down.
He woke Sam once they were on M-50, having made a mental note of how close they were to Michigan International Speedway. He remembered Tim Molitor in Sylvania telling him it was a pretty slick track. Summer sun, beer, the smell of gasoline and hot rubber. Oh! Pit girls… Of course, the yellow-gray skies above the green cornfields, and the fat smoky clouds, and the ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-NINE PERCENT HUMIDITY didn’t exactly smack of a fun day at the races.
Dean got frustrated with the semis and occasional tractors, and the unforgivable lack of sufficient passing zones on the two-lane highway. He kept an eye out for the nearest, best prospect for caffeine and rolled the Impala to a stop in the parking lot of the Midway Market and Convenience Store.
“If I don’t get some coffee and take a piss - in that order - I swear I’m gonna…fall asleep and wet my pants.” Jesus, was he tired.
“Dude, why didn’t you just wake me up?” Sam asked, following when Dean slid himself out of the car.
“Figured you needed your beauty rest. You’re gonna have to do the fancy book learnin’ on this one. Bobby didn’t give us shit.”
Sam sniffed back some snot and laid a loogie to the side. It caught along the top of the wet weeds off the lot, clung and bounced like hot taffy.
“Nice one,” smiled Dean with a 12-year-old’s admiration. He swung the driver’s side door closed and started toward the mini mart, dodging orphaned rain puddles.
“So, how far out are we?” Sam asked, matching Dean’s stride as they entered the florescent-lit store.
“I dunno, half hour? Maybe forty-five minutes.” He turned to the teenager behind the register. “Where’s your coffee?”
“Uh…”
“Dude, just…point me in the direction.”
The teen rammed a finger into the corner of his eye, worked out something that made Dean shiver a little, and then flicked it away. “Coffee maker’s busted. We got Red Bull, though.”
Dean’s face screwed up. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
“Nope,” said the kid, and shuffled slightly behind the counter.
Dean turned and hollered at Sam, standing in front of the beverage cooler. “Dude. Get me like, five Red Bulls. And a Mountain Dew.”
Sam rolled his eyes and nodded, the nod morphing into a head shake that translated loosely as ‘You’re such an idiot.’ Dean knew it well.
He turned back to the kid. “Just gimme the bathroom key.”
The teen stared at him blank-faced for a few seconds. “It doesn’t have a key.”
Dean blew out a breath and then smiled again, so he wouldn’t punch the kid. “Again, you wanna just point me in the direction?”
“Bathroom’s for the express use of employees only.”
“How ‘bout you gimme an application, then,” he ground out, and then Sam was stepping between him and register boy, dropping an armload of energy drinks and neon pop on the counter.
“It’s fine,” Sam said, and made all civil and nice with the little punk. “Just this, thanks.”
Sam turned and flashed him the ‘Would you please SHUT UP?’. Dean had names for all of Sam’s looks and pissy noises. It was quite a catalog.
When the drinks had been paid for, Sam pulled Dean to the exit by the shoulder of his t-shirt.
“Come on. You can piss on the side of the road.”
“I should piss on the side of the building, is what I should do!” he said loudly and over his shoulder as Sam lead him across the parking lot.
“Dude, you need to get some sleep. You’re getting punch drunk.”
“Yeah, I oughtta punch somethin’,” he mumbled, stepping to the edge of the lot behind the Impala and unbuttoning his jeans.
Sam climbed into the driver’s seat without a word, and Dean knew he was probably working up some kind of girly huff fit. But, what the hell? No coffee and no bathroom? How the fuck do you call that a convenience store? How is that CONVENIENT? He was shaking off and tucking in when a semi rolled by and double honked. He flipped off the truck as it blew past, and then climbed into the Impala.
“Man, I hate Michigan. Nothin’ good ever happens in Michigan.”
“Always love the optimism, Dean,” said Sam, and held out his hand. “Keys?”
He handed over the key ring and dug out the Mountain Dew from the plastic bag on the seat between them. “You know what the state animal is?”
“The wolverine.”
The Impala hopped in and out of a pothole as Sam pulled back onto M-50, and Dean lost a half swallow of Dew on his chin.
“Dude!”
“Sorry,” Sam said.
Dean wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Anyway, yeah. The wolverine. The most vicious, evil, sinister little creature in the woods. What fuckin’ state picks somethin’ like that for their mascot?”
“Michigan?”
He shook his head and took another swallow of pop. “This is gonna be a long gig.”
*******************************************************************
He was dreaming about pie when Sam nudged him in the shoulder. Homemade cherry pie with golden crust and coarse sugar sprinkled across the top. And a huge cup of coffee, dark and rich. Steam rising just off the brim.
“We crossed the city limit,” said Sam.
Dean scooted himself up straight in the seat, scrubbed a hand over his face. Those five Red Bulls and the Mountain Dew hadn’t done shit to keep him awake. But he sure had to piss again. And the rain smacking against the windshield and racing horizontally across the side window wasn’t helping much.
“Pull over.”
“Why?”
“Because I gotta piss again, that’s why.”
“What’re you, marking your territory as we make our way through the state?”
“Just pull over, damn it.”
Sam eased the Impala to the berm and Dean tumbled out.
God, he hated Michigan.
There was that summer in Mancelona when he was fourteen and nearly taken out by a Nix. And Melissa, that hippie chick from Boulder…she’d been from Michigan originally. What a whack-job SHE was. But good in the sack. Oh, fuck, yeah.
He and Sam had done what they could to avoid Michigan since Saginaw; fucked up Max and the beginning of the fucked up line of meeting more fucked up Special Kids. A line that ended at a brick wall covered in a whole hell of a lot of blood and bad memories and tough shakes. So, not a lot of good memories associated with the mitten-shaped state.
God, he hated mittens, too.
Dean climbed back into the car and shook off the rain like a just-bathed dog.
“All better now, Fido?” asked Sam. “Or, did you maybe want to dig a hole…bury a bone.”
“Oh, you’re hilarious. Really. We oughtta find you an open-mic night.”
It had been like this between them since Wyoming. All light jibes back and forth, bobbing and weaving and trying not to get too deep into much of anything beyond the most trivial. They’d had a hell of a discussion in a bar outside of Cody about who’d win in a fight between The Incredible Hulk and Superman; had almost come to blows. But they didn’t talk about what Dean had done - about the deal he’d made - and what Sam was going to do to stop the countdown clock that had started ticking two and a half months ago.
“First motel we pass, let’s just check in,” said Dean. “I’m beat.”
They both made silent note of the cemetery at the M-50/M-52 junction - despite the lack of signage and the mostly low stones - because that’s what they’d been trained to do. There wasn’t a lot else to see. A few houses, cornfields, a tackle shop, corn. A few more houses and small businesses, and more corn. And possibly soybeans.
Dean perked up when he saw the Big Boy. One of the few fond Michigan connections he had. He remembered the restaurant chain - with its freaking CREEPTACULAR trademark statue of the Kewpie-doll kid in checkered overalls with a giant hamburger - used to have a breakfast buffet on weekends. And that meant all the bacon you could eat.
And right across from it was a motel called the Tecumseh Inn.
“Dude!” he said, slapping Sam on the shoulder as the Impala rumbled on past.
“Calm down.”
“Says the guy who snored his way from East Jesus, Wyoming to Wherethefuckarewe, Michigan. I’m tired, man!”
“Can we just get a lay of the land? From the looks of it, it’ll take all of ten minutes. I saw the motel. And I saw the Big Boy, okay?”
“Fine. Ten minutes.”
M-50 turned into Chicago Boulevard after a brief, modern business section; fast food joints, grocery stores, a couple of big name drugstores and a gas station or two. Then huge maples overtook the sides of the road, natural fencing for lines of old houses and green lawns; Midwest Americana that made Dean ache with jealousy and roll his eyes at the same time.
Chicago Boulevard took them through the older downtown area. It had obviously been refurbished and restored; smacked of ‘Oh, yes, we’re historic…’ with a little ‘But you can rent porn at the local video store, too’ mixed in. After a couple of blocks, brick and showcase windows gave way to houses again. They drove passed the PO and the local PD, went another quarter mile, and turned around in the parking lot of a community center that housed a rusted, though probably once functional, water wheel. The low white-washed building sat along a muddy expanse of water that Sam informed him was the Raisin River.
“’S brown like a fuckin’ raisin.”
“Maybe that’s why they named it that,” said Sam, pulling back onto the main road.
“Looks like what happens to ya if you eat too many raisins.”
“You know what I wish?”
“That you were half as cool as me?”
“That you could act twenty-seven instead of seven.”
Whatever. “You know what I wish? That we’da stopped back at the motel, and that I was sleeping right now.”
“We’re going, Dean.”
“’S about time.”
“Whiner,” said Sam under his breath.
Ten minutes later, Sam was hauling their duffels to their second floor room, and Dean was exchanging pleasantries with the desk clerk. The middle-aged guy made a remark about the name on the VISA card - Idiot. Usin’ the Bob Seger card in Michigan. - and Dean laughed it off. “Yeah, I get that a lot in these parts.”
He paid a curious eye to the bar off the lobby on his way through; cringed at the 70’s tiki-lounge décor, but figured it’d be nice to have stumbling distance between their room and a beer or two, should such a thing be required during their stay. Which it more than likely would.
Sam was in the shower by the time Dean got into the room. The place was clean enough, though the color scheme was for shit. But there were two doubles and a mini-fridge, a TV, plus free Wi-Fi, and that was really all they needed. He dropped down on the bed furthest from the door, kicked off his boots, and was asleep before Sam ever left the bathroom.
*******************************************************************
Dean woke up around six the next morning. His mouth was pasty, his head hurt, his neck was stiff, and his stomach growled like a grizzly. The A/C was cranking out frigid air, and he rubbed down goose flesh as he scooted between the wall unit and Sam’s bed to notch up the temperature a few digits.
He caught a shower, a shit, and a shave without Sam waking up. Decided to let him sleep when he noticed Sam had gathered a pile of research about the town and its history. Dean walked across M-50 to the Big Boy for breakfast.
He scarfed down a plate of chicken fried steak and eggs - no buffet on weekdays - mixed his hash browns with ketchup, cleaned the whole plate with a biscuit. He said no thanks to a fifth refill of coffee, asked for his check, and picked up take-out for Sam at the register. He’d ordered him something called the Big Boy Scramble. So what. I’m seven. Who cares. It wasn’t that Dean thought it was what his brother would have ordered, just that he relished handing Sam the Styrofoam container and saying, ‘I got you a Big Boy Scramble, big boy.’ He chuckled to himself while he waited for a Busch’s Grocery delivery truck to pass, then jogged back across the highway to the motel.
When he opened the door, Sam was at the small table by the window, full complement of proper breakfast laid out in front of him on a couple of trays.
“This place has room service?” he asked incredulously.
“Oh, yeah,” said Sam, smiling over his milky, probably-all-sugary girl coffee. “What’s in there?”
Dean looked down when Sam motioned at the take-out container. “A Big Boy Scramble.”
“For big boys?”
He could tell Sam was doing everything in his power not to smile. Asshole. “Hmm. Yeah. Anyway,” he said, dropping the Styrofoam clamshell on the table and swinging a leg over the chair across from Sam. He picked up a fork and speared a crescent of muskmelon, waved it over the stack of papers and books by the laptop. “What’d you find out, geekboy?”
“I went to the public library while you were sleeping. Got some background on the town. Trolled the archives of the local newspaper. Dug around old city maps and police reports in public domain.”
“And?”
“Dude. This place is crazy haunted.”
“Yeah? Like what?” Dean asked, unraveling the outer edge of a cinnamon roll.
“Like sordid 19th century murders - Lizzie Borden kind of stuff. And part of the Underground Railroad ran through here. Some of the houses on the boulevard still have tunnels underneath them.”
“Huh.”
“The town pops up on over a hundred websites about paranormal activity and ghost sightings--”
“Sounds like a hunter’s paradise.” Mow the lawn, drink a beer, kill a ghost, hit the breakfast buffet on the weekends.
“And a ghost paradise. At least fifteen ghost stories covering a span of a hundred and thirty-four years have been repeated for different locations around this town, half with traceable lineage.”
“Any of those belong to this--”
“Talullah Logan,” said Sam, pulling his notepad closer to him. “Yeah. The woman Bobby knows. She owns these two houses--”
“Two houses, huh? What’re we gettin’ paid for this gig?” He popped a strawberry in his mouth. “Also? Talullah?”
Sam ignored him, slid a map across the table and pointed out an intersection. “These two houses. We passed them when we drove through town yesterday. On the northwest and southwest corners of Union and Chicago Boulevard Identical. Built by two brothers, architects, who killed themselves.”
“Creepy,” he said around a mouthful of bacon. “And these are the two houses this Logan woman owns.”
“Yeah.”
“How does Bobby know her?”
“He said she’s done research for him before. Historical stuff. I think she’s a professor or something. But she’s obviously cool with the supernatural stuff.”
Oh, that’s great. “Super.”
“What?”
“Nothin’. Just now I get to spend the next however many days with you - my brainiac brother - and some Madam Zora, rich, old cat lady, watching you two bond over…books and…”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever, dude. And what makes you think she’s a cat lady?”
“Oh, she’ll have cats. You watch.”
“Anyway. We’re supposed to meet her in ten minutes.” Sam stood and took a gulp of his coffee. Started gathering up his research.
“Why do we have to meet her so early, anyway?”
“Are you gonna be like this for the whole job?”
“Like what?”
“Like, all whiney and annoying.”
He brought up his right eyebrow. “Now that’s a little pot callin’ the kettle, isn’t it?”
“I mean, I get we’ve been running ourselves ragged, and slowing down right now…stuff is bound to come up--”
“Sam.” It was a caution.
“Just… Now that we have time to talk and think--”
“Sam, I swear to God, if you get all touchy-feely on me right now--”
Sam put down his research and put up his hands. “Fine. Fine. I’m just putting it out there, okay?”
“Well, just…stop. Stop putting it places. It’s fine where it is.” Because he didn’t want to think about the nine months and eleven days he had left. And he definitely didn’t want to talk about it.
“Dean, I--”
“Sam, I’m serious. Knock it off, or I swear I’ll get in the Impala and leave your ass.”
“No you won’t.”
Damn it. “Fine. I won’t. But I will make it a point to whine about everything, and to be extra annoying. Constantly.”
Sam bit at the corner of his mouth and nodded. Dean knew he’d won.
“Yeah, you would. That I believe.”
“Come on,” he said, tossing the packaged Big Boy Scramble into the mini-fridge. He grabbed his keys off the dresser. “Let’s go meet Professor Cat Lady.”
*******************************************************************
Dean parked the Impala on Union Street They got out of the car, mutually noted the church directly across the street, and strolled around to the sidewalk that ran along Chicago Boulevard Took a look at both houses.
The one they’d parked next to, the one on the northwest lot, had definitely gone through some renovations; a large front porch had been added, and what they guessed was a sunroom off the back.
But it was eerie. Other than those changes, and a terrible dusty blue paint job on the one, the houses were exactly the same. And it stuck out because it wasn’t like those tract home subdivisions with cookie cutter floor plans laid next to each other as far as the eye could see. These houses were identical - mirror images - only to one another. All the other houses for blocks were a mishmash of architectural styles, from Victorian to Federalist to Colonial, and a few eras in between.
“So, which house are we sposta meet her at?”
Sam pawed through the notepad at the top of his bundle of research. He compared house numbers and pointed to the blue one they’d parked beside. “Looks like this one.”
They walked up the steps and onto the porch. The floor boards were gray and untreated, warped and springy from the rainfall yesterday and last night.
The hunt took them to a lot of small towns. Dean could never get over how, in today’s day and age, people could still be so trusting, could still think small and close meant safe; the front door to the house was wide opened, just a flimsy screen door keeping out the world. He rapped his knuckles against the hollow black metal frame.
“Hang on!” they heard a woman shout, irritated, from the back of the house.
“Oh, she sounds like a charmer,” said Dean.
“Would you just chill?”
Footsteps clunked across hardwood and a woman dressed in jeans and a worn out, hooded, U of M sweatshirt entered the foyer. She had a cell phone clapped to her ear and barely gave Sam and Dean a second glance. Just opened the door, waved them in, and kept right on talking.
“You don’t know where Dave is? Well, I’ll tell you where he’s not. He’s not here. Which is where he should have been half an hour ago. And he’s certainly not driving the crown molding I didn’t order back to the shop to pick up the crown molding I did order, because I’m standing in my living room right now, staring at the goddamned crown molding I didn’t order!”
Oh, yeah. LOVE workin’ for a bitch. Dean covertly slapped the back of his hand against Sam’s arm and got a harshly barked ‘Dude!’ in response.
The woman was pacing slowly, shaking her head, eyes closed and jaw tense. “What?” she said with disbelief. She raised her hand, palm forward, and waved it back and forth. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Fuck that noise.”
Fuck. That. Noise. Oh, yeah. Dean raised his eyebrows and gave Sam a head jerk; an entry from his own catalog of looks: You’re DEFINITELY handlin’ all the HR with this one, little brother.
“You tell Dave, when you see him, that he’d better haul ass over here with the right molding in the next--” she checked her watch “--thirty-five minutes. Or I’ll be getting my wood someplace else.”
Heh. Gettin’ her wood-- Dean didn’t even realize he was smiling until Sam smacked him on the shoulder.
“Just remind him I’m the one paying, so I’m the one calling the shots.”
Christ.
The woman snapped the phone closed, turned to them and smiled. “Hi. I’m sorry. That sucked. I’m really sorry. This Talullah?” she said, holding the phone aloft and jabbing it with her finger, “is the really angry Talullah who’s been dealing with stoned contractors and retarded suppliers for two months.” She waggled the phone again. “This is ‘I am woman, hear me roar’ Talullah, don’t-yank-me-around-just-because-I-don’t-have-a-dick Talullah.
“But this Talullah…,” she said, slipping the phone into the kangaroo pocket of her sweatshirt and laying her other hand on her chest. “Well, shit. I used to be nice, sweet, meek little Lu. Now I’m just mean and bitchy and tired of dealing with douches. And I really, really need some fucking coffee.”
She ran both hands through her curly brown hair and tucked a wayward strand behind her ear, blushing and suddenly self-aware. “Please tell me you guys are Sam and Dean Winchester.”
*******************************************************************
Talullah made good coffee. Dean had a cup, despite already having had four with breakfast. He didn’t want to piss her off by refusing. They were sitting at the kitchen table, half of it taken over by musty books and blueprints and a couple of pizza boxes from a place called Brownie’s.
“Anyway,” she said, clanking her spoon against the edge of her mug, “I’m sorry we had to meet so early. It’s just, I was waiting for Dave, and then I have to drive to Ann Arbor for some stupid departmental meeting even though I’m supposed to be on sabbatical. I feel like fucking Pacino, you know? I think I’m out, but they keep pullin’ me back in.”
Sam snorted a little laugh Dean didn’t care much for and said, “I know what you mean.”
“So,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Bobby Singer said maybe you guys could help me out.”
“How is it you know Bobby?” Dean asked.
“I met him about…ten years ago. Shit.” She paused. “Wow. Ten years. Huh.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Anyway. He did this presentation at U of M on the Ojibwe Ghost Dance--”
“Bobby?” they asked in unison.
“He blew my mind. I’m sitting in the lecture hall, and he comes out and I’m thinking, ‘Oh, Christ. Billy-Bob’s gonna learn us somethin’.” She shook her head. “Beard and ball cap be damned. Guy knows his Mystic Studies.”
“Yeah, he sure does,” said Sam.
Dean nodded with reverence. The wonders of Bobby never cease.
“I hung out afterward and talked to him for a couple hours. He got my number through my professor at the time. Knocked me up for some research about three months later.”
Knocked her up. Heh. And then Dean quickly forced the folly from his head because it involved Bobby Singer naked, doing it with this chick.
Talullah shrugged her shoulders. “Ancient history, so to speak. Anyway. I’ve never handled a haunting from the hauntee end before. Or the…unhauntifying end. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, jumping to conclusions based on what I’ve learned, what I know…but ever since I started tearing up the houses? All kinds of weird shit has been happening.”
“Weird shit like what?” Dean asked.
“Um, lemme see,” she said and took a swallow from her mug. “Cold spots, doors opening and closing by themselves, phantom footsteps. Stuff I put away in one place shows up some place else.”
Dean tried to keep his face blank but his lips pursed of their own accord; everything she’d mentioned could be explained away.
“I know, I know,” she said, and rose from the chair. Walked over to the sink and leaned against the counter with her cup balanced in her hands. “All stuff that can be explained naturally. I know. But it’s like I told Bobby on the phone, this…feels like something, you know? I mean, it’s not just drafty old houses settling, and cross breezes, and me being careless with my car keys.”
Dean was in a t-shirt and was sweaty; the mugginess even this early like Vaseline on his skin. But he couldn’t miss the shiver that passed through the woman in a long-sleeved sweatshirt on the other side of the kitchen.
Sam shot him a glance. He’d seen it, too.
“Talullah, is there something else you’re not telling us? It’s really important you be…” Sam’s words faded as Talullah shook her head and screwed up her face.
“No. No, it’s stupid, and I’m like, so womany right now because of the fucking contractors and the university and the crazy stuff with…” She let out an exasperated sigh. Set down her cup and looked at both of them, her hands coming to her chest and worrying there. “It’s my gut instinct, okay? Call it women’s intuition, or an educated guess, or whatever. But whatever’s happening here and across the street? It just feels…bad. Off.”
Yeah, I know that feeling. Dean nodded lightly. “Okay.”
“We understand,” said Sam with a light smile. “Look, it’s what we do. And if there’s something…off…happening? We’ll find it. We’ll help you figure it out.”
An exhalation of relief pushed past her lips and she nodded. “Okay. Thanks. I really appreciate it. And I’m sorry about before. At the door? And me with the phone and the being a bitch?”
Sam chuckled. “It’s okay. Really.”
She gathered her brown hair into a ponytail and snatched a rubber band off the knob on the cabinet below the sink. “I just… I’ve been nuts the past couple of weeks with the construction and the permits and trying to tie things up at U of M. I just… I need the ghosts gone, if they’re here in the first place.”
She dropped her eyes to her watch and pushed herself off the counter. “Shit! I gotta boogie.” In a few quick strides she was back at the table, shuffling through the stacks of books.
She pulled out a hulking manila folder, gripped it like a proselyte’s first bible. “Okay. This is all the history on the houses. I put together some stuff on the brothers and the construction of the houses, plus whatever I could find for the years leading up to the suicides. I was gonna cross reference reported oral history of ghost activity with home sales and possible renovations, but I got kind of…” she dropped the file on the table in front of Sam and flapped her hands at the sides of her head. “Whatever.”
Dean eyed the thick folder and figured Sam was probably getting a hard on. It was DAYS worth of research, and cut their bookwork in half, if not eliminating the need altogether. He looked at his brother’s wide eyes and slack mouth and smirked.I bet downstairs brain AND upstairs brain are CONCRETE right now. Freak.
Talullah grabbed her purse from the floor, dug out a set of keys and worked one off the ring.
“Here,” she said, handing it to Dean.
It bugged him that she’d dropped the research in front of Sam and given him the key. Like she was making assumptions.
“This is the key for Squire’s house. Uh, that’s the one across the street. I keep it locked because I‘m over here most of the time. Just…go ahead and do your thing. Zelda Rubenstein the place. Send them to the light, whatever. Um. This place can stay unlocked. I’ve got drywall guys who are supposed to be here at eleven. There’s beer in the fridge. Maybe stuff for turkey sandwiches. I dunno. Help yourself. If a big, fat, slow-talking guy with blood-shot eyes shows up--”
“Dave?” Dean asked.
“Yeah. He doesn’t get a beer. Unless he has eighty-four feet of mahogany Richmond Egg and Dart crown molding.”
“You got it,” said Sam.
And then they were watching her rush out the door.
Dean knew Sam would be itching to get into the research Tallulah had left - Man, what a piece of work SHE is… - so he volunteered to scout out the house across the street while his brother hung back and got his dork on.
“You think it’s safe going over there alone?” Sam asked.
“It’s fine. We don’t even know there’s actually anything goin’ on.”
Sam shrugged. “I dunno. She seemed sincere.”
“Yeah, and not at all nutto.”
“Well, either way, she saved us a couple days of research.”
“Hope you can still say that after you read it. It might be all--” He wagged his hands at either side of his head. “--womany.”
Dean predicted an eye roll and was proved wise.
“I thought she was kinda cute.”
Fiery, maybe. “Yeah, whatever, dude. Look. I’m just gonna go over there, do a sweep with the EMF, maybe take some video, poke around.”
“All right,” said Sam, settling down at the table with Tallulah’s folder. “But keep your cell phone on.”
“Yes, mom.”
“Shut up. I’m just…”
Sam had been ‘just’ since the deal; just a little bit over-protective, just a bit more cautious. Just more worried. Dean knew it didn’t have anything to do with Sam doubting his abilities, questioning his motivations. It was about being careful with the time they had left. The time HE had left. No sense putting yourself in unnecessary danger when you knew eminent death was around the corner. Especially when it was such a short block.
Dean pulled his cell from his back pocket and held it out for his brother to see. “I got my cell. I got the sawed-off loaded with rock salt, and there’s spare shells packed in the duffel. Don’t worry unless you hear a shotgun blast.”
“Ha, ha.”
Dean took a few backward steps down the hall that lead to the foyer. “And if the research is really good, and you have a sudden desire to touch yourself inappropriately?”
“G’bye, Dean.”
His pointing finger traveled in an arc around the kitchen, pointing at the windows that ran the length of both outside walls. “Remember, there’s always a nosey neighbor in small towns like these.”
“Goodbye, Dean!”
*******************************************************************
He was fascinated and a little freaked out when he walked into Squire’s house. It wasn’t just that the LAYOUT was exactly the same as the one across the street, but also the woodwork, the ornamentation, the FEEL of the place. It was disorienting, like a photograph haunted by double exposure. Dean paused for a moment in the foyer to acquaint himself with the new, yet familiar, space. It was easily twenty degrees hotter in this house than the other. By the time he’d dug the shot gun and EMF out of the duffel and loaded the front pockets of his jeans with extra rock salt shells, he was covered in a sheen of sweat.
The floor plan was boxy like it always was in older homes; small rooms with pocket doors, practicality, and a utilitarian flow. Same as the house across the street, this one had a living room off the right of the foyer, a parlor to the left. Stairs to the second floor directly in front of the door, and a hallway that ran along the right of the staircase.
It was pretty clear Tallulah had started work on this house first; the wood floors were stripped, as was all the wood around the doorframes and windows. The stairs were down to naked pine, too, and although there were vertical balusters installed, there was no handrail to make a proper banister.
Dean flipped on the EMF and swayed his way through the parlor and the living room, passed through a kind of closet/coatroom into what, at Tallulah’s place, was set up as a formal dining room.
Nothin’. It wasn’t that he wanted there not to be anything. Tallulah was balls out and all, but she seemed decent enough. Either way. Whatever. They could use the money.
He passed from the dining room to the kitchen, took a swing down into the basement - fuckin’ HATE Michigan basements - with dirt floors and stone walls. Low, cobwebby ceilings. Fuckin’ HATE spiders.
The air in the house was growing stifling as the sun rose higher. The EMF was giving him squat, and his ass crack had more moisture than an icehouse sluice shute. Hope research boy is nice and cool. Didn’t really matter that it had been Dean’s idea for Sam to stay behind in the much cooler house across the street; Dean was fucking BROILING. He made his way carefully up the main staircase, dreading the fact the second floor would be even hotter.
He felt a little dizzy from the heat and paused, halfway up, to steady his head. Fuckin’ hot as HELL up he-- and there was a catch in his chest that accompanied the thought, and then he sent it flying away like a goddamned rocket. Stomped his way up the rest of the stairs.
He got through all three bedrooms, a sitting room, and a bathroom with nothing more than a blip on the EMF, and that type of light activity could be completely environmental; old houses were lousy with copper wiring.
The door that he figured would open on a closet actually led to a short staircase ending at floor level in a shaft of bright light. As he made his way up the stairs, his feet shot whorls of dust like a blizzard through the sunshine. He stepped into a small room; eight foot by eight foot, maybe. Huge windows taking up each wall. Dean sneezed twice, rubbed a sweaty hand under his nose. He could see up and down Chicago Boulevard over the tops of the huge, leafy maples. The town was kind of pretty. He glanced across the street and saw he was directly facing another room exactly like this one on the roof of the blue house.
The only piece of furniture in the room was a drawing desk with a slanted top. Dean remembered Sam mentioning the brothers who built the houses were architects, wondered if maybe it had been Squire’s drawing table. Squire. What a stupid fuckin’ name… Dean walked over and ran his hand along the dark, smooth wood. Opened one of the drawers.
A yellow pencil rolled forward with a hollow clatter and gave him a small start, but otherwise the drawer was empty. When he tried to slide it back in, the drawer jammed and stuck. He wiggled it left and right, up and down, but it didn’t move an inch - just knocked a few salty drops of sweat from his forehead into his eyes. He rubbed at the sting, cursed, and was starting for the stairs when the EMF went off. Lit up and whistled like a fireworks display.
Every drop of moisture on Dean’s skin seemed to frost over, and he heard the desk drawer behind him slam shut. He turned slowly, shotgun rising to his shoulder as he listened to the pencil hop around inside the drawer. He scanned the room rapidly but couldn’t see anything.
A sudden blast of chilled air passed through him, turning the dampness on his scalp to ice. He locked his knees so he wouldn’t stumble back.
“Hey!”
Then as quickly as it had come on, the coolness was gone. The heat settled and the EMF blinked out. Dean held still for a ten count, blew out a breath and lowered the sawed-off to his side.
So maybe crazy Tallulah ain’t so crazy after all.
click for 2
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: Parts 1 and 2 are rated R for language, rating changes to NC-17 as of Part 3 for continued cursing, dirty talk, and the pr0n
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OFC, Dean and Sam, gen/het
SPOILERS: through AHBL 2
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
State: Michigan
Summary: Sibling relationships - and 80 percent of Americans have at least one - outlast marriages, survive the death of parents, resurface after quarrels that would sink any friendship. They flourish in a thousand incarnations of closeness and distance, warmth, loyalty and distrust. - Erica E. Goode, "The Secret World of Siblings," U.S. News & World Report, 10 January, 1994
Pertinent A/N: Written for spn_50states . Um…this has become my new multi-chap, folks. I didn’t intend for it to be so long, but it is. It’s a WIP, but completely figured out. I’ll post a chapter every Tuesday and Saturday until it’s complete. Outline tells me 6 parts, and I’m sticking with that. Immeasurable thanks to my betas hiyacynth , quellefromage , and everybetty . You guys tighten my loose words, clean up my grammar, redress my punctuation, and sometimes let me BEAM. I laugh, I cry, I shake my head and refuse - but I am a better writer for all of your help.
Ramble-y A/N: This story takes place in my hometown - which I left at the age of eighteen - so it’s probably more honest to say this story takes place in the hometown of my memory. It’s not the same place it was…Thomas Wolfe was right. Facts have been twisted to suit the story, and I expect the same can be said about my memories. The tale of the brotherly ghosts is true, in as much as it was told to me as a ghost story in my youth.
Dean was about as tired as he could be and still keep the Impala on the road. They’d just come off a string of jobs with Bobby and Ellen and a hunter named Fiske, taking out nests of demons - and a few solos - that never quite got their spook asses out of Wyoming. Ten or so jobs like that since the gate had been opened, and he and Sam had been at the head of the pack the whole time.
When Bobby suggested they take a cool down and handle a haunting for him in Michigan, Sam jumped at the chance to put some miles between them and the cowboy graveyard. Dean could tell Sam was itching to get his research-fu on, too; some down time to find a way to slither around the deal with that Crossroads bitch. Besides, it would be kind of nice to take out something with rock salt and fire instead of Latin. Dean wasn’t going to argue the location.
So they pretty much drove zombie-style; forward motion, no stopping. Took I-80 straight through Nebraska and Iowa, crossed into Illinois and hopped onto 94. Headed east where Old US 12 intersected, just outside of New Buffalo; Dean wanted to take the scenic route so he could lay some lead on the flat, cornfield-bordered straightaways of the back highway.
Sam slept almost the whole trip, catching up on some much needed rest. He’d been chasing away one of those summer colds that come on like hay fever but intensify and stick with you. He’d been horking up green stuff for the better part of a week, and Dean figured, yeah, they could both use a chance to slow down.
He woke Sam once they were on M-50, having made a mental note of how close they were to Michigan International Speedway. He remembered Tim Molitor in Sylvania telling him it was a pretty slick track. Summer sun, beer, the smell of gasoline and hot rubber. Oh! Pit girls… Of course, the yellow-gray skies above the green cornfields, and the fat smoky clouds, and the ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-NINE PERCENT HUMIDITY didn’t exactly smack of a fun day at the races.
Dean got frustrated with the semis and occasional tractors, and the unforgivable lack of sufficient passing zones on the two-lane highway. He kept an eye out for the nearest, best prospect for caffeine and rolled the Impala to a stop in the parking lot of the Midway Market and Convenience Store.
“If I don’t get some coffee and take a piss - in that order - I swear I’m gonna…fall asleep and wet my pants.” Jesus, was he tired.
“Dude, why didn’t you just wake me up?” Sam asked, following when Dean slid himself out of the car.
“Figured you needed your beauty rest. You’re gonna have to do the fancy book learnin’ on this one. Bobby didn’t give us shit.”
Sam sniffed back some snot and laid a loogie to the side. It caught along the top of the wet weeds off the lot, clung and bounced like hot taffy.
“Nice one,” smiled Dean with a 12-year-old’s admiration. He swung the driver’s side door closed and started toward the mini mart, dodging orphaned rain puddles.
“So, how far out are we?” Sam asked, matching Dean’s stride as they entered the florescent-lit store.
“I dunno, half hour? Maybe forty-five minutes.” He turned to the teenager behind the register. “Where’s your coffee?”
“Uh…”
“Dude, just…point me in the direction.”
The teen rammed a finger into the corner of his eye, worked out something that made Dean shiver a little, and then flicked it away. “Coffee maker’s busted. We got Red Bull, though.”
Dean’s face screwed up. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
“Nope,” said the kid, and shuffled slightly behind the counter.
Dean turned and hollered at Sam, standing in front of the beverage cooler. “Dude. Get me like, five Red Bulls. And a Mountain Dew.”
Sam rolled his eyes and nodded, the nod morphing into a head shake that translated loosely as ‘You’re such an idiot.’ Dean knew it well.
He turned back to the kid. “Just gimme the bathroom key.”
The teen stared at him blank-faced for a few seconds. “It doesn’t have a key.”
Dean blew out a breath and then smiled again, so he wouldn’t punch the kid. “Again, you wanna just point me in the direction?”
“Bathroom’s for the express use of employees only.”
“How ‘bout you gimme an application, then,” he ground out, and then Sam was stepping between him and register boy, dropping an armload of energy drinks and neon pop on the counter.
“It’s fine,” Sam said, and made all civil and nice with the little punk. “Just this, thanks.”
Sam turned and flashed him the ‘Would you please SHUT UP?’. Dean had names for all of Sam’s looks and pissy noises. It was quite a catalog.
When the drinks had been paid for, Sam pulled Dean to the exit by the shoulder of his t-shirt.
“Come on. You can piss on the side of the road.”
“I should piss on the side of the building, is what I should do!” he said loudly and over his shoulder as Sam lead him across the parking lot.
“Dude, you need to get some sleep. You’re getting punch drunk.”
“Yeah, I oughtta punch somethin’,” he mumbled, stepping to the edge of the lot behind the Impala and unbuttoning his jeans.
Sam climbed into the driver’s seat without a word, and Dean knew he was probably working up some kind of girly huff fit. But, what the hell? No coffee and no bathroom? How the fuck do you call that a convenience store? How is that CONVENIENT? He was shaking off and tucking in when a semi rolled by and double honked. He flipped off the truck as it blew past, and then climbed into the Impala.
“Man, I hate Michigan. Nothin’ good ever happens in Michigan.”
“Always love the optimism, Dean,” said Sam, and held out his hand. “Keys?”
He handed over the key ring and dug out the Mountain Dew from the plastic bag on the seat between them. “You know what the state animal is?”
“The wolverine.”
The Impala hopped in and out of a pothole as Sam pulled back onto M-50, and Dean lost a half swallow of Dew on his chin.
“Dude!”
“Sorry,” Sam said.
Dean wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Anyway, yeah. The wolverine. The most vicious, evil, sinister little creature in the woods. What fuckin’ state picks somethin’ like that for their mascot?”
“Michigan?”
He shook his head and took another swallow of pop. “This is gonna be a long gig.”
*******************************************************************
He was dreaming about pie when Sam nudged him in the shoulder. Homemade cherry pie with golden crust and coarse sugar sprinkled across the top. And a huge cup of coffee, dark and rich. Steam rising just off the brim.
“We crossed the city limit,” said Sam.
Dean scooted himself up straight in the seat, scrubbed a hand over his face. Those five Red Bulls and the Mountain Dew hadn’t done shit to keep him awake. But he sure had to piss again. And the rain smacking against the windshield and racing horizontally across the side window wasn’t helping much.
“Pull over.”
“Why?”
“Because I gotta piss again, that’s why.”
“What’re you, marking your territory as we make our way through the state?”
“Just pull over, damn it.”
Sam eased the Impala to the berm and Dean tumbled out.
God, he hated Michigan.
There was that summer in Mancelona when he was fourteen and nearly taken out by a Nix. And Melissa, that hippie chick from Boulder…she’d been from Michigan originally. What a whack-job SHE was. But good in the sack. Oh, fuck, yeah.
He and Sam had done what they could to avoid Michigan since Saginaw; fucked up Max and the beginning of the fucked up line of meeting more fucked up Special Kids. A line that ended at a brick wall covered in a whole hell of a lot of blood and bad memories and tough shakes. So, not a lot of good memories associated with the mitten-shaped state.
God, he hated mittens, too.
Dean climbed back into the car and shook off the rain like a just-bathed dog.
“All better now, Fido?” asked Sam. “Or, did you maybe want to dig a hole…bury a bone.”
“Oh, you’re hilarious. Really. We oughtta find you an open-mic night.”
It had been like this between them since Wyoming. All light jibes back and forth, bobbing and weaving and trying not to get too deep into much of anything beyond the most trivial. They’d had a hell of a discussion in a bar outside of Cody about who’d win in a fight between The Incredible Hulk and Superman; had almost come to blows. But they didn’t talk about what Dean had done - about the deal he’d made - and what Sam was going to do to stop the countdown clock that had started ticking two and a half months ago.
“First motel we pass, let’s just check in,” said Dean. “I’m beat.”
They both made silent note of the cemetery at the M-50/M-52 junction - despite the lack of signage and the mostly low stones - because that’s what they’d been trained to do. There wasn’t a lot else to see. A few houses, cornfields, a tackle shop, corn. A few more houses and small businesses, and more corn. And possibly soybeans.
Dean perked up when he saw the Big Boy. One of the few fond Michigan connections he had. He remembered the restaurant chain - with its freaking CREEPTACULAR trademark statue of the Kewpie-doll kid in checkered overalls with a giant hamburger - used to have a breakfast buffet on weekends. And that meant all the bacon you could eat.
And right across from it was a motel called the Tecumseh Inn.
“Dude!” he said, slapping Sam on the shoulder as the Impala rumbled on past.
“Calm down.”
“Says the guy who snored his way from East Jesus, Wyoming to Wherethefuckarewe, Michigan. I’m tired, man!”
“Can we just get a lay of the land? From the looks of it, it’ll take all of ten minutes. I saw the motel. And I saw the Big Boy, okay?”
“Fine. Ten minutes.”
M-50 turned into Chicago Boulevard after a brief, modern business section; fast food joints, grocery stores, a couple of big name drugstores and a gas station or two. Then huge maples overtook the sides of the road, natural fencing for lines of old houses and green lawns; Midwest Americana that made Dean ache with jealousy and roll his eyes at the same time.
Chicago Boulevard took them through the older downtown area. It had obviously been refurbished and restored; smacked of ‘Oh, yes, we’re historic…’ with a little ‘But you can rent porn at the local video store, too’ mixed in. After a couple of blocks, brick and showcase windows gave way to houses again. They drove passed the PO and the local PD, went another quarter mile, and turned around in the parking lot of a community center that housed a rusted, though probably once functional, water wheel. The low white-washed building sat along a muddy expanse of water that Sam informed him was the Raisin River.
“’S brown like a fuckin’ raisin.”
“Maybe that’s why they named it that,” said Sam, pulling back onto the main road.
“Looks like what happens to ya if you eat too many raisins.”
“You know what I wish?”
“That you were half as cool as me?”
“That you could act twenty-seven instead of seven.”
Whatever. “You know what I wish? That we’da stopped back at the motel, and that I was sleeping right now.”
“We’re going, Dean.”
“’S about time.”
“Whiner,” said Sam under his breath.
Ten minutes later, Sam was hauling their duffels to their second floor room, and Dean was exchanging pleasantries with the desk clerk. The middle-aged guy made a remark about the name on the VISA card - Idiot. Usin’ the Bob Seger card in Michigan. - and Dean laughed it off. “Yeah, I get that a lot in these parts.”
He paid a curious eye to the bar off the lobby on his way through; cringed at the 70’s tiki-lounge décor, but figured it’d be nice to have stumbling distance between their room and a beer or two, should such a thing be required during their stay. Which it more than likely would.
Sam was in the shower by the time Dean got into the room. The place was clean enough, though the color scheme was for shit. But there were two doubles and a mini-fridge, a TV, plus free Wi-Fi, and that was really all they needed. He dropped down on the bed furthest from the door, kicked off his boots, and was asleep before Sam ever left the bathroom.
*******************************************************************
Dean woke up around six the next morning. His mouth was pasty, his head hurt, his neck was stiff, and his stomach growled like a grizzly. The A/C was cranking out frigid air, and he rubbed down goose flesh as he scooted between the wall unit and Sam’s bed to notch up the temperature a few digits.
He caught a shower, a shit, and a shave without Sam waking up. Decided to let him sleep when he noticed Sam had gathered a pile of research about the town and its history. Dean walked across M-50 to the Big Boy for breakfast.
He scarfed down a plate of chicken fried steak and eggs - no buffet on weekdays - mixed his hash browns with ketchup, cleaned the whole plate with a biscuit. He said no thanks to a fifth refill of coffee, asked for his check, and picked up take-out for Sam at the register. He’d ordered him something called the Big Boy Scramble. So what. I’m seven. Who cares. It wasn’t that Dean thought it was what his brother would have ordered, just that he relished handing Sam the Styrofoam container and saying, ‘I got you a Big Boy Scramble, big boy.’ He chuckled to himself while he waited for a Busch’s Grocery delivery truck to pass, then jogged back across the highway to the motel.
When he opened the door, Sam was at the small table by the window, full complement of proper breakfast laid out in front of him on a couple of trays.
“This place has room service?” he asked incredulously.
“Oh, yeah,” said Sam, smiling over his milky, probably-all-sugary girl coffee. “What’s in there?”
Dean looked down when Sam motioned at the take-out container. “A Big Boy Scramble.”
“For big boys?”
He could tell Sam was doing everything in his power not to smile. Asshole. “Hmm. Yeah. Anyway,” he said, dropping the Styrofoam clamshell on the table and swinging a leg over the chair across from Sam. He picked up a fork and speared a crescent of muskmelon, waved it over the stack of papers and books by the laptop. “What’d you find out, geekboy?”
“I went to the public library while you were sleeping. Got some background on the town. Trolled the archives of the local newspaper. Dug around old city maps and police reports in public domain.”
“And?”
“Dude. This place is crazy haunted.”
“Yeah? Like what?” Dean asked, unraveling the outer edge of a cinnamon roll.
“Like sordid 19th century murders - Lizzie Borden kind of stuff. And part of the Underground Railroad ran through here. Some of the houses on the boulevard still have tunnels underneath them.”
“Huh.”
“The town pops up on over a hundred websites about paranormal activity and ghost sightings--”
“Sounds like a hunter’s paradise.” Mow the lawn, drink a beer, kill a ghost, hit the breakfast buffet on the weekends.
“And a ghost paradise. At least fifteen ghost stories covering a span of a hundred and thirty-four years have been repeated for different locations around this town, half with traceable lineage.”
“Any of those belong to this--”
“Talullah Logan,” said Sam, pulling his notepad closer to him. “Yeah. The woman Bobby knows. She owns these two houses--”
“Two houses, huh? What’re we gettin’ paid for this gig?” He popped a strawberry in his mouth. “Also? Talullah?”
Sam ignored him, slid a map across the table and pointed out an intersection. “These two houses. We passed them when we drove through town yesterday. On the northwest and southwest corners of Union and Chicago Boulevard Identical. Built by two brothers, architects, who killed themselves.”
“Creepy,” he said around a mouthful of bacon. “And these are the two houses this Logan woman owns.”
“Yeah.”
“How does Bobby know her?”
“He said she’s done research for him before. Historical stuff. I think she’s a professor or something. But she’s obviously cool with the supernatural stuff.”
Oh, that’s great. “Super.”
“What?”
“Nothin’. Just now I get to spend the next however many days with you - my brainiac brother - and some Madam Zora, rich, old cat lady, watching you two bond over…books and…”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever, dude. And what makes you think she’s a cat lady?”
“Oh, she’ll have cats. You watch.”
“Anyway. We’re supposed to meet her in ten minutes.” Sam stood and took a gulp of his coffee. Started gathering up his research.
“Why do we have to meet her so early, anyway?”
“Are you gonna be like this for the whole job?”
“Like what?”
“Like, all whiney and annoying.”
He brought up his right eyebrow. “Now that’s a little pot callin’ the kettle, isn’t it?”
“I mean, I get we’ve been running ourselves ragged, and slowing down right now…stuff is bound to come up--”
“Sam.” It was a caution.
“Just… Now that we have time to talk and think--”
“Sam, I swear to God, if you get all touchy-feely on me right now--”
Sam put down his research and put up his hands. “Fine. Fine. I’m just putting it out there, okay?”
“Well, just…stop. Stop putting it places. It’s fine where it is.” Because he didn’t want to think about the nine months and eleven days he had left. And he definitely didn’t want to talk about it.
“Dean, I--”
“Sam, I’m serious. Knock it off, or I swear I’ll get in the Impala and leave your ass.”
“No you won’t.”
Damn it. “Fine. I won’t. But I will make it a point to whine about everything, and to be extra annoying. Constantly.”
Sam bit at the corner of his mouth and nodded. Dean knew he’d won.
“Yeah, you would. That I believe.”
“Come on,” he said, tossing the packaged Big Boy Scramble into the mini-fridge. He grabbed his keys off the dresser. “Let’s go meet Professor Cat Lady.”
*******************************************************************
Dean parked the Impala on Union Street They got out of the car, mutually noted the church directly across the street, and strolled around to the sidewalk that ran along Chicago Boulevard Took a look at both houses.
The one they’d parked next to, the one on the northwest lot, had definitely gone through some renovations; a large front porch had been added, and what they guessed was a sunroom off the back.
But it was eerie. Other than those changes, and a terrible dusty blue paint job on the one, the houses were exactly the same. And it stuck out because it wasn’t like those tract home subdivisions with cookie cutter floor plans laid next to each other as far as the eye could see. These houses were identical - mirror images - only to one another. All the other houses for blocks were a mishmash of architectural styles, from Victorian to Federalist to Colonial, and a few eras in between.
“So, which house are we sposta meet her at?”
Sam pawed through the notepad at the top of his bundle of research. He compared house numbers and pointed to the blue one they’d parked beside. “Looks like this one.”
They walked up the steps and onto the porch. The floor boards were gray and untreated, warped and springy from the rainfall yesterday and last night.
The hunt took them to a lot of small towns. Dean could never get over how, in today’s day and age, people could still be so trusting, could still think small and close meant safe; the front door to the house was wide opened, just a flimsy screen door keeping out the world. He rapped his knuckles against the hollow black metal frame.
“Hang on!” they heard a woman shout, irritated, from the back of the house.
“Oh, she sounds like a charmer,” said Dean.
“Would you just chill?”
Footsteps clunked across hardwood and a woman dressed in jeans and a worn out, hooded, U of M sweatshirt entered the foyer. She had a cell phone clapped to her ear and barely gave Sam and Dean a second glance. Just opened the door, waved them in, and kept right on talking.
“You don’t know where Dave is? Well, I’ll tell you where he’s not. He’s not here. Which is where he should have been half an hour ago. And he’s certainly not driving the crown molding I didn’t order back to the shop to pick up the crown molding I did order, because I’m standing in my living room right now, staring at the goddamned crown molding I didn’t order!”
Oh, yeah. LOVE workin’ for a bitch. Dean covertly slapped the back of his hand against Sam’s arm and got a harshly barked ‘Dude!’ in response.
The woman was pacing slowly, shaking her head, eyes closed and jaw tense. “What?” she said with disbelief. She raised her hand, palm forward, and waved it back and forth. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Fuck that noise.”
Fuck. That. Noise. Oh, yeah. Dean raised his eyebrows and gave Sam a head jerk; an entry from his own catalog of looks: You’re DEFINITELY handlin’ all the HR with this one, little brother.
“You tell Dave, when you see him, that he’d better haul ass over here with the right molding in the next--” she checked her watch “--thirty-five minutes. Or I’ll be getting my wood someplace else.”
Heh. Gettin’ her wood-- Dean didn’t even realize he was smiling until Sam smacked him on the shoulder.
“Just remind him I’m the one paying, so I’m the one calling the shots.”
Christ.
The woman snapped the phone closed, turned to them and smiled. “Hi. I’m sorry. That sucked. I’m really sorry. This Talullah?” she said, holding the phone aloft and jabbing it with her finger, “is the really angry Talullah who’s been dealing with stoned contractors and retarded suppliers for two months.” She waggled the phone again. “This is ‘I am woman, hear me roar’ Talullah, don’t-yank-me-around-just-because-I-don’t-have-a-dick Talullah.
“But this Talullah…,” she said, slipping the phone into the kangaroo pocket of her sweatshirt and laying her other hand on her chest. “Well, shit. I used to be nice, sweet, meek little Lu. Now I’m just mean and bitchy and tired of dealing with douches. And I really, really need some fucking coffee.”
She ran both hands through her curly brown hair and tucked a wayward strand behind her ear, blushing and suddenly self-aware. “Please tell me you guys are Sam and Dean Winchester.”
*******************************************************************
Talullah made good coffee. Dean had a cup, despite already having had four with breakfast. He didn’t want to piss her off by refusing. They were sitting at the kitchen table, half of it taken over by musty books and blueprints and a couple of pizza boxes from a place called Brownie’s.
“Anyway,” she said, clanking her spoon against the edge of her mug, “I’m sorry we had to meet so early. It’s just, I was waiting for Dave, and then I have to drive to Ann Arbor for some stupid departmental meeting even though I’m supposed to be on sabbatical. I feel like fucking Pacino, you know? I think I’m out, but they keep pullin’ me back in.”
Sam snorted a little laugh Dean didn’t care much for and said, “I know what you mean.”
“So,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Bobby Singer said maybe you guys could help me out.”
“How is it you know Bobby?” Dean asked.
“I met him about…ten years ago. Shit.” She paused. “Wow. Ten years. Huh.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Anyway. He did this presentation at U of M on the Ojibwe Ghost Dance--”
“Bobby?” they asked in unison.
“He blew my mind. I’m sitting in the lecture hall, and he comes out and I’m thinking, ‘Oh, Christ. Billy-Bob’s gonna learn us somethin’.” She shook her head. “Beard and ball cap be damned. Guy knows his Mystic Studies.”
“Yeah, he sure does,” said Sam.
Dean nodded with reverence. The wonders of Bobby never cease.
“I hung out afterward and talked to him for a couple hours. He got my number through my professor at the time. Knocked me up for some research about three months later.”
Knocked her up. Heh. And then Dean quickly forced the folly from his head because it involved Bobby Singer naked, doing it with this chick.
Talullah shrugged her shoulders. “Ancient history, so to speak. Anyway. I’ve never handled a haunting from the hauntee end before. Or the…unhauntifying end. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, jumping to conclusions based on what I’ve learned, what I know…but ever since I started tearing up the houses? All kinds of weird shit has been happening.”
“Weird shit like what?” Dean asked.
“Um, lemme see,” she said and took a swallow from her mug. “Cold spots, doors opening and closing by themselves, phantom footsteps. Stuff I put away in one place shows up some place else.”
Dean tried to keep his face blank but his lips pursed of their own accord; everything she’d mentioned could be explained away.
“I know, I know,” she said, and rose from the chair. Walked over to the sink and leaned against the counter with her cup balanced in her hands. “All stuff that can be explained naturally. I know. But it’s like I told Bobby on the phone, this…feels like something, you know? I mean, it’s not just drafty old houses settling, and cross breezes, and me being careless with my car keys.”
Dean was in a t-shirt and was sweaty; the mugginess even this early like Vaseline on his skin. But he couldn’t miss the shiver that passed through the woman in a long-sleeved sweatshirt on the other side of the kitchen.
Sam shot him a glance. He’d seen it, too.
“Talullah, is there something else you’re not telling us? It’s really important you be…” Sam’s words faded as Talullah shook her head and screwed up her face.
“No. No, it’s stupid, and I’m like, so womany right now because of the fucking contractors and the university and the crazy stuff with…” She let out an exasperated sigh. Set down her cup and looked at both of them, her hands coming to her chest and worrying there. “It’s my gut instinct, okay? Call it women’s intuition, or an educated guess, or whatever. But whatever’s happening here and across the street? It just feels…bad. Off.”
Yeah, I know that feeling. Dean nodded lightly. “Okay.”
“We understand,” said Sam with a light smile. “Look, it’s what we do. And if there’s something…off…happening? We’ll find it. We’ll help you figure it out.”
An exhalation of relief pushed past her lips and she nodded. “Okay. Thanks. I really appreciate it. And I’m sorry about before. At the door? And me with the phone and the being a bitch?”
Sam chuckled. “It’s okay. Really.”
She gathered her brown hair into a ponytail and snatched a rubber band off the knob on the cabinet below the sink. “I just… I’ve been nuts the past couple of weeks with the construction and the permits and trying to tie things up at U of M. I just… I need the ghosts gone, if they’re here in the first place.”
She dropped her eyes to her watch and pushed herself off the counter. “Shit! I gotta boogie.” In a few quick strides she was back at the table, shuffling through the stacks of books.
She pulled out a hulking manila folder, gripped it like a proselyte’s first bible. “Okay. This is all the history on the houses. I put together some stuff on the brothers and the construction of the houses, plus whatever I could find for the years leading up to the suicides. I was gonna cross reference reported oral history of ghost activity with home sales and possible renovations, but I got kind of…” she dropped the file on the table in front of Sam and flapped her hands at the sides of her head. “Whatever.”
Dean eyed the thick folder and figured Sam was probably getting a hard on. It was DAYS worth of research, and cut their bookwork in half, if not eliminating the need altogether. He looked at his brother’s wide eyes and slack mouth and smirked.I bet downstairs brain AND upstairs brain are CONCRETE right now. Freak.
Talullah grabbed her purse from the floor, dug out a set of keys and worked one off the ring.
“Here,” she said, handing it to Dean.
It bugged him that she’d dropped the research in front of Sam and given him the key. Like she was making assumptions.
“This is the key for Squire’s house. Uh, that’s the one across the street. I keep it locked because I‘m over here most of the time. Just…go ahead and do your thing. Zelda Rubenstein the place. Send them to the light, whatever. Um. This place can stay unlocked. I’ve got drywall guys who are supposed to be here at eleven. There’s beer in the fridge. Maybe stuff for turkey sandwiches. I dunno. Help yourself. If a big, fat, slow-talking guy with blood-shot eyes shows up--”
“Dave?” Dean asked.
“Yeah. He doesn’t get a beer. Unless he has eighty-four feet of mahogany Richmond Egg and Dart crown molding.”
“You got it,” said Sam.
And then they were watching her rush out the door.
Dean knew Sam would be itching to get into the research Tallulah had left - Man, what a piece of work SHE is… - so he volunteered to scout out the house across the street while his brother hung back and got his dork on.
“You think it’s safe going over there alone?” Sam asked.
“It’s fine. We don’t even know there’s actually anything goin’ on.”
Sam shrugged. “I dunno. She seemed sincere.”
“Yeah, and not at all nutto.”
“Well, either way, she saved us a couple days of research.”
“Hope you can still say that after you read it. It might be all--” He wagged his hands at either side of his head. “--womany.”
Dean predicted an eye roll and was proved wise.
“I thought she was kinda cute.”
Fiery, maybe. “Yeah, whatever, dude. Look. I’m just gonna go over there, do a sweep with the EMF, maybe take some video, poke around.”
“All right,” said Sam, settling down at the table with Tallulah’s folder. “But keep your cell phone on.”
“Yes, mom.”
“Shut up. I’m just…”
Sam had been ‘just’ since the deal; just a little bit over-protective, just a bit more cautious. Just more worried. Dean knew it didn’t have anything to do with Sam doubting his abilities, questioning his motivations. It was about being careful with the time they had left. The time HE had left. No sense putting yourself in unnecessary danger when you knew eminent death was around the corner. Especially when it was such a short block.
Dean pulled his cell from his back pocket and held it out for his brother to see. “I got my cell. I got the sawed-off loaded with rock salt, and there’s spare shells packed in the duffel. Don’t worry unless you hear a shotgun blast.”
“Ha, ha.”
Dean took a few backward steps down the hall that lead to the foyer. “And if the research is really good, and you have a sudden desire to touch yourself inappropriately?”
“G’bye, Dean.”
His pointing finger traveled in an arc around the kitchen, pointing at the windows that ran the length of both outside walls. “Remember, there’s always a nosey neighbor in small towns like these.”
“Goodbye, Dean!”
*******************************************************************
He was fascinated and a little freaked out when he walked into Squire’s house. It wasn’t just that the LAYOUT was exactly the same as the one across the street, but also the woodwork, the ornamentation, the FEEL of the place. It was disorienting, like a photograph haunted by double exposure. Dean paused for a moment in the foyer to acquaint himself with the new, yet familiar, space. It was easily twenty degrees hotter in this house than the other. By the time he’d dug the shot gun and EMF out of the duffel and loaded the front pockets of his jeans with extra rock salt shells, he was covered in a sheen of sweat.
The floor plan was boxy like it always was in older homes; small rooms with pocket doors, practicality, and a utilitarian flow. Same as the house across the street, this one had a living room off the right of the foyer, a parlor to the left. Stairs to the second floor directly in front of the door, and a hallway that ran along the right of the staircase.
It was pretty clear Tallulah had started work on this house first; the wood floors were stripped, as was all the wood around the doorframes and windows. The stairs were down to naked pine, too, and although there were vertical balusters installed, there was no handrail to make a proper banister.
Dean flipped on the EMF and swayed his way through the parlor and the living room, passed through a kind of closet/coatroom into what, at Tallulah’s place, was set up as a formal dining room.
Nothin’. It wasn’t that he wanted there not to be anything. Tallulah was balls out and all, but she seemed decent enough. Either way. Whatever. They could use the money.
He passed from the dining room to the kitchen, took a swing down into the basement - fuckin’ HATE Michigan basements - with dirt floors and stone walls. Low, cobwebby ceilings. Fuckin’ HATE spiders.
The air in the house was growing stifling as the sun rose higher. The EMF was giving him squat, and his ass crack had more moisture than an icehouse sluice shute. Hope research boy is nice and cool. Didn’t really matter that it had been Dean’s idea for Sam to stay behind in the much cooler house across the street; Dean was fucking BROILING. He made his way carefully up the main staircase, dreading the fact the second floor would be even hotter.
He felt a little dizzy from the heat and paused, halfway up, to steady his head. Fuckin’ hot as HELL up he-- and there was a catch in his chest that accompanied the thought, and then he sent it flying away like a goddamned rocket. Stomped his way up the rest of the stairs.
He got through all three bedrooms, a sitting room, and a bathroom with nothing more than a blip on the EMF, and that type of light activity could be completely environmental; old houses were lousy with copper wiring.
The door that he figured would open on a closet actually led to a short staircase ending at floor level in a shaft of bright light. As he made his way up the stairs, his feet shot whorls of dust like a blizzard through the sunshine. He stepped into a small room; eight foot by eight foot, maybe. Huge windows taking up each wall. Dean sneezed twice, rubbed a sweaty hand under his nose. He could see up and down Chicago Boulevard over the tops of the huge, leafy maples. The town was kind of pretty. He glanced across the street and saw he was directly facing another room exactly like this one on the roof of the blue house.
The only piece of furniture in the room was a drawing desk with a slanted top. Dean remembered Sam mentioning the brothers who built the houses were architects, wondered if maybe it had been Squire’s drawing table. Squire. What a stupid fuckin’ name… Dean walked over and ran his hand along the dark, smooth wood. Opened one of the drawers.
A yellow pencil rolled forward with a hollow clatter and gave him a small start, but otherwise the drawer was empty. When he tried to slide it back in, the drawer jammed and stuck. He wiggled it left and right, up and down, but it didn’t move an inch - just knocked a few salty drops of sweat from his forehead into his eyes. He rubbed at the sting, cursed, and was starting for the stairs when the EMF went off. Lit up and whistled like a fireworks display.
Every drop of moisture on Dean’s skin seemed to frost over, and he heard the desk drawer behind him slam shut. He turned slowly, shotgun rising to his shoulder as he listened to the pencil hop around inside the drawer. He scanned the room rapidly but couldn’t see anything.
A sudden blast of chilled air passed through him, turning the dampness on his scalp to ice. He locked his knees so he wouldn’t stumble back.
“Hey!”
Then as quickly as it had come on, the coolness was gone. The heat settled and the EMF blinked out. Dean held still for a ten count, blew out a breath and lowered the sawed-off to his side.
So maybe crazy Tallulah ain’t so crazy after all.
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