FIC: No Fortress Is So Strong (2/9)
Title: No Fortress Is So Strong
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: R for language, eventually NC-17 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
A/N: Written for spn_50states . Chapters post Tuesdays and Saturdays. Immeasurable thanks to my betas hiyacynth , quellefromage , and everybetty . 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.
Click here for supplemental dorkitude, including floorplans of the houses.
Our siblings push buttons that cast us in roles we felt sure we had let go of long ago - the baby, the peacekeeper, the caretaker, the avoider… It doesn’t seem to matter how much time has elapsed or how far we’ve traveled. - Jane Mersky Leder
Dean decided he’d earned a beer. Sure it was only ten o’clock in the morning, but he was hot. Besides, he figured he was still on Wyoming time, and there was nothing wrong with having a beer for lunch. Or breakfast. Whatever fucking time it was. Just - Beer. And there was possibly stuff for turkey sandwiches in Tallulah’s fridge.
There was a crappy old pick-up parked behind the Impala, close enough so Dean couldn’t stow the duffel in the trunk. Close enough to piss him off and wipe a hand across the chrome of the bumper with a gentle caress. The fainted paint on the door of the truck said TAYLOR TRIMS AND PROFESSIONAL FINISHES. Dean figured fat stoned Dave’s last name was probably Taylor.
“Sam?” Dean called as he stalked through the hall to the kitchen in back. He heard a grunt and the clink of glass. “Sammy?”
A big - huge guy - in overalls and a ratty t-shirt came around the bluff of the opened refrigerator door, a bottled beer in his hand.
“Dave?” asked Dean, sizing up the guy. What a fuckin’ gorilla. Took in his bloodshot eyes. And stoned outta his mind. Jesus. See what you get when you don’t lock your front door?
“Who’re you?”
“My name’s Dean. You Dave Taylor?”
“Yeah.”
“Tallulah said you’d be stoppin’ by. You bring the…Richman…pointy egg stuff?”
Dave squinted, dark irises peeking through pie slits in his puffy pink face. “Who’re you again?”
“Dean. Me and my brother are-- You seen my brother?” Dean’s hand rose to a spot just above his head. “Ginormous guy? Big like you, but less apey?”
Dave cocked his head like he was considering whether or not to take Dean’s description as an insult or a compliment. He screwed the top off the beer he was holding and pointed up with a finger like a polska kielbasa. “Went up to the cupola.”
Cupola. That’s what those little windowed rooms were called. He knew there was a reason he had lines from ‘Apocolypse Now’ going through his head.
Dave took a swig off the brown bottle and scoured Dean with his eyes. “You guys ain’t contractors, are ya?”
Dean smirked. “Not exactly. That your truck out there?”
“Yeah.”
“You see that sweet Chevy parked in front of it?”
Dave nodded, a smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. “She yours?”
“Yeah. Yeah, she is.” Dean returned Dave’s smile for a fraction of a second. “Do me a favor. Don’t ever park that close to my baby again.”
Dave sniffed. Scratched a meaty hand across his belly. “You wanna beer?”
“Yes, I do,” said Dean, and took the cold bottle Dave fished him from the fridge. He cracked the cap and took a long drink, the carbonation burning his parched throat all the way down.
“So, if you ain’t contractors, what are ya?”
Good question. He and Sam hadn’t really figured out a cover story. The nice thing about getting a job through another hunter was the lack of a need for pretense. There goes that.
“We’re students of Tallulah’s from U of M. Helping out with some research.”
Dave cocked an unruly nest of an eyebrow. “You’re a college student.”
Dean gave a backward nod. “Got a late start. My student loans took a while to come through.”
Dave chuckled and hissed through his teeth. “Anyway.”
They both took a swallow of beer.
“So how long you been workin’ for Tallulah?” Dean asked as he leaned a hip against the counter.
“’Bout two months now, but I known her since the sixth grade.”
“She grew up here?”
“Yeah,” said Dave, and the counter gave a small creak of protest when he rested his considerable frame against it. “Went to U of M after high school. Her mom passed away Lu’s senior year. She came home for the summer, helped her dad clear out the house and shit, then went back to Ann Arbor. Lived there ‘til she come back last fall. After Doc passed.”
“Doc?”
“Her dad. Dr. Logan.” Dave drew a swig of beer, shook his head lazily from side to side. “That was some crazy shit.”
“How’s that?” Dean had a gift for making a question sound like a gentle command.
Dave’s eyes went wide and his mouth hung open comically. “You tellin’ me you don’t remember hearin’ about that? It was in every paper, on every local channel for a freakin’ week.”
“Yeah, me and my brother just transferred here from…Wyoming State. Cheyenne.”
“They got a good football team?”
“A hell of a team,” said Dean sardonically, and took a sip off his bottle. “So what happened to Dr. Logan?”
“Aw, man,” said Dave, turning and setting his beer on the counter. He brought his plump hands out in front of him, drawing an imaginary stage. “So, check it out. Doc Logan, he’s this real good guy. Everybody loves him. Hell, he was my doctor from the time I was born up until the time he died. Anyway. He was always doin’ stuff, raisin’ money for sick kids and shit. Doin’ stuff for old folks, goin’ to their houses and crap like that. Real good guy.”
Dave was a stoned motherfucker, and clearly not a great contractor, but Dean was starting to like him. There was a gentle quality that came into his voice as he spoke about Tallulah’s dad.
“Anyway. The hospital up to Morenci was dedicatin’ a wing to him. Puttin’ his name on the building.” Dave’s hands danced and swayed before his barrel chest. “And there was this big ceremony and shit. They even had some of those giant scissors and a ribbon. So, Doc’s standin’ there hackin’ away at the stupid ribbon, and people are takin’ pictures and clappin’ and shit.”
Dave crossed his arms across his chest, forearms like Popeye. “All of the sudden, there’s this screech of tires. People start screamin’ and runnin’. Crowd splittin’ down the middle like the Red Sea in ‘Ten Commandments’.”
Dave’s eyes met Dean’s for a second, darted quickly away.
“This drunk bastard jumps the curb doin’ fifty miles an hour. In a freakin’ hospital zone. Flies through the parkin’ lot, wings three people who can’t get outta the way fast enough, and smacks straight inta Doc Logan. Smashes him right inta the wall with his name on it.”
“Jesus.” Holy shit.
“They had to peel him off the wall. Didn’t even matter they were right there at a hospital. Wasn’t a thing they could do.”
“And was… Tallulah saw this happen?”
Dave blew out a heavy breath. “No. Thank God. Can you imagine? See somethin’ like that happen to your dad?”
Little bit…
“She was sposta be there. Got called by the school that mornin’ and had t’ fill in for somebody. She was sposta be back for the party afterward.” Dave retrieved his beer from the counter. “Crazy shit, man. And the driver? He walks away with a cut on his forehead. Blew a .12 on the breathalyzer. Can you believe that? Nine thirty in the morning, and the guy was shithouse drunk.” Dave brought his beer to his lips and swallowed down what was left in the bottle, the irony escaping him completely.
“Lu never woulda done nothin’ beyond the regular insurance, but the hospital lawyers, they worked for free. Sued the balls offa the guy. He was driving on a suspended license, they found out, the sonuvabitch.”
Dean felt mildly guilty getting such personal information about their client from a complete stranger - especially when it seemed Tallulah wasn’t that fond of him - but that kind of tragedy and emotion could feed spectral energy. “And after that was when Tallulah moved back here?”
“Yup,” said Dave, and then dropped his chin. Growled out a low, rumbling belch. “She bought both houses after the settlement came through. Heard she got a bargain, but still… Shit.”
“Why do you think she got a bargain?”
Dave chuckled lightly and walked back over to the fridge. Grabbed himself a second beer. “You want another?”
“Nah. I’m good,” said Dean. “Somethin’ wrong with the houses?”
“Well, that all depends on who ya talk to, I s’pose.”
“And what is it people are sayin’? When they talk.”
Dave smiled. Cracked his beer and rolled his eyes. He shot the beer cap off his thumb and landed it expertly in the wastebasket at the end of the counter. “You from a small town, Dean?”
“I’m from a lotta places, Dave,” he replied.
“Well then you probly heard a lotta stories. And that’s what people tell. Stories. Sayin’ the houses are haunted by the Grimes brothers.”
“The architects who killed themselves.”
“Yup. My great granddad work for ‘em when he was a kid. As a messenger or somethin’.”
“And whatta you think?”
“You askin’ me if I think these houses are haunted?”
Dean lifted his shoulder noncommittally.
“I don’t believe in spooks, if that’s what you wanna know. As far as weird shit happenin’? Weird shit happens all the time, man.”
Sure as shit does.
“Hey.”
Dean and Dave both turned as Sam came into the room.
“Hey,” Dean said, lifting his chin. “I was just talkin’ to Dave. He was tellin’ me there’s rumors in town this house and the one across the street are haunted.”
“Really.” Sam eyed the beers in their hands. “There anymore of those?”
Dean loved when it worked together between him and Sam like that. When things jived, when they picked up on each other’s subtle leads.
“Small towns. People talk,” said Dave, handing Sam a beer from the fridge.
“And what do they say?”
“Like I was tellin’ your brother here, the houses’re sposta be haunted by the Grimeses. Old timey dudes that hung themselves up in the cupolas. ‘S why you don’t fuck your brother’s wife.”
“Huh. Good advice,” said Dean.
“I heard the story when I was a kid. Had a little weight added to it every time somebody moved in and out within a year. Some kid always knew some kid who mowed the people’s lawn and heard ‘em talkin’ about stuff movin’ around the house and shit. Red room in the basement painted with blood. Crap like that.”
“But you don’t believe any of it?” asked Sam after a swallow of beer.
“I been all through both houses, worked in ‘em by myself, mornin’ to night. I never seen a ghost.”
“And nothin’ weird ever happened?” asked Dean.
Dave shrugged and pursed his lips. Made an effort to think. “I lost some tools here and there, but, shit. I wouldn’t put it past half the guys I work with t’ have stolen ‘em themselves.”
Dean and Sam nodded. Exchanged a look. They both had info and were itching to share. This was officially a job.
“So, Dave,” said Dean, pushing himself away from the counter and clapping his hands together. “I bet you’re wantin’ to get started on that crown molding, huh?”
*******************************************************************
Dean stood in front of the fridge while Sam talked him through the research Tallulah had compiled. He was intending to pull out the rumored turkey, but got caught up in the magnets and scraps of paper and photos stuck on the freezer door.
“Squire and Peter Grimes. Born 1870 and 1873 respectively. Their father was an architect. Both brothers followed in the family business. Grimes and Sons Building, Limited opened in 1891 and operated until 1902, when the brothers killed themselves, each one found hanged in the cupolas of their own homes.”
There was an array of magnets bearing quotes from historical figures:
We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard to remain stupid. - Ben Franklin
If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants. - Sir Isaac Newton
America does not go abroad in search of monsters to destroy. - John Quincy Adams
“In 1890, the brothers married Rose and Marigold Jackson. Sisters. Just eighteen and seventeen years old. That same year, the north and southeast lots at Union and Chicago Boulevard were purchased and construction began on identical houses.”
There was a magnet with a picture of Velma from ‘Scooby-Doo’ on it - figures she’d be a Velma girl - a bleeding heart of Jesus magnet, and a magnet that looked like a miniature beer mug declaring ‘It’s beer o’clock somewhere!’ and ‘Las Vegas, Nevada’.
“Nothing really recorded for a few years, no birth announcements, no scandal. A few mentions in the local registers of houses the brothers designed, business projects with their names on the corner stone.”
There were receipts from hardware stores, a couple of ‘Far Side’ cartoons from a desk calendar - ‘Blah, blah, blah, GINGER…’ That’s pretty funny. - a take-out menu from a local restaurant called Basil Brothers. Jesus, this town is lousy with brothers…
The beer mug magnet held up a strip from a photo booth; color faded by age in that weird bright-drained way. All four pictures were identical; an eyes-up shot of a kid in a brown ten gallon Stetson. The stool had probably been set too low. His fingers brushed across the cracked emulsion.
Dean knew this kind of picture well; their dad could find a photo booth in Bumfuck, Egypt if the need presented itself. And if you were in the habit of making fake IDs, the need presented itself pretty regularly. Dad always popped Dean and Sammy in for a quick session while his own pics were drying in the delivery slot. Dean wondered briefly what had become of those photo strips that - more than non-existent school pictures and vacation shots - chronicled his and his brother’s youth.
“Nothing until 1902, and then the suicides. The local papers left out the details, but Tallulah has about fifteen first hand accounts transcribed in here. All pretty much sticking with the story Dave implied.”
Dean pulled the photo strip from under the magnet, flipped it over. In a scrawling cursive it said, ‘Cowgirl Lu. Lenawee County Fair. 1979.’ He turned it back over and looked closer, thought he could recognize the arch of the eyebrows as Tallulah’s. He smiled and stuck the picture back onto the freezer door.
“Evidently, there was a little marital transgression. Peter, the younger brother,” said Sam, “preferred Roses to Marigolds.”
“Took a little tiptoe through his big brother’s garden, so to speak, huh?” remarked Dean, opening the fridge and pulling out a plastic deli bag filled with shaved turkey.
“Yeah, exactly. According to the story, Peter and Rose had an affair that lasted a few weeks until, consumed by guilt, Peter confessed his sin to Squire and begged for absolution.”
“Ain’t that always the way,” Dean said around a mouthful of turkey meat.
“Dude! What’re you doing?”
“I’m hungry. She said we could help ourselves.”
Sam gave him a disgusted look. “You’re like a bottomless pit.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, dropping into the chair across his brother. “So, Squire cries his eyes out, heads upstairs, and buys a new necktie.”
“Actually, according to the legend, no. Both couples were seen out together the night before at a local restaurant…Don’s Contented Soul.”
“Kinda ironic.”
“Little bit, yeah,” said Sam and shuffled through some papers. “Anyway. The story goes the brothers used the cupolas on the roof as their drawing rooms, and every morning at 7:30 sharp, they’d climb the stairs and go to work. It’s was supposedly some kind of ritual. They came up, looked across the street, waved good morning, and then worked the whole day in sight of each other.”
“Yikes.”
“What?”
“I dunno,” said Dean around a cud of turkey. “Just…weird. Two brothers, never apart…”
He dropped the empty deli bag on the table and raised his eyebrows at Sam’s look of disbelief. “What? You tellin’ me you don’t think that’s--” Oh. “Okay. I guess it’s not so weird. Anyway.”
“Anyway. The next morning, Peter goes upstairs, looks across the boulevard to wave good morning to his forgiving brother--”
“And catches an eyeful of Squire, twisting in the wind.”
“Yeah.”
“Harsh.”
“Rose had left to visit a friend and didn’t find Squire’s body, but when Peter didn’t come down for dinner at his regular time, Marigold went upstairs to get him. Found him just like his brother.”
“Well, there’s your fucked-up souls right there.”
“So Marigold Grimes apparently flips out. Goes into catatonic shock. The police find her the next morning, curled up on the floor of the cupola. A street cleaner saw the bodies hanging from the road. Called the police.”
Dean pointed up with his chin. “You get anything when you visited the roof?”
“No, nothing. There’s a drafting desk up there--”
“Yeah, it’s got a twin across the street.”
“What about you? You get anything?”
“I got a little bit of a show.”
Dean hated how Sam’s whole body seemed to tense at that.
“What happened?”
“Drawer slammed shut on the desk, EMF went off the charts, got a little arctic blast.”
“You okay?”
“No, Sam. I’m suffering from hypothermia. Hold me.”
Dean got Number 37 - the You’re an ass.
“Well, it sounds like a pretty simple salt and burn to me,” Dean said. “There was that cemetery we passed comin’ into town. That where they’re buried?”
“No, the brothers - and Marigold, who died two weeks later when she drowned herself in the Raisin River - are buried in Brookside Cemetery, just down Union Street a few blocks.”
Dean pushed himself up, hands on his knees. “I say we go check it out. Find the graves, wrap this one up.”
“You in a hurry I should know about?”
“Like I said, Sammy, nothin’ good ever happens in Michigan.” He grabbed his duffel from the floor by the counter. “Let’s boogie.”
Sam rose, pulled together the scattered research. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Come on, Sammy. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”
“What does that mean?”
“Did you not learn anything from the brothers Grimes? They share a chick-flick moment and wind up dead the next day.”
“Dean--”
Dean held up both hands and blinked solemnly. “It’s all fun and games until somebody spills their guts.”
Sam shook his head disgustedly. “Dude, you just--”
Ah, Christ… “Sam. I’m kidding. Don’t get your panties all twisted. Let’s go find us some dead guys.” Dean started for the door, could hear Sam sighing and mumbling behind him. “And you better not be leavin’ a note apologizing for me eatin’ the turkey!”
*******************************************************************
A little before six, Sam’s cell rang.
“It’s Tallulah,” he said.
Dean rolled over and rubbed his eyes. Fuckin’ tryptophan. As soon as they’d gotten back from the cemetery and into the air conditioned room, he’d crashed out like a five-year-old coming down off Pixie Stix.
Sam’d left a note at Tallulah’s with his cell number and a promise to replace the pound of lunch meat Dean had eaten from the fridge.
“Hello?”
Dean sat up and swung his feet onto the floor.
“Hey, Tallulah. Everything okay?”
He didn’t like the questioning worry in Sam’s voice, scooted forward to the edge of the mattress.
Sam looked at him, gave a light shake of his head and mouthed ‘She’s fine.’ “Well, not a whole lot. I got through most of the research--”
Both of Dean’s hands came up to scrub across his face.
“It was a huge help. Thanks so much for doing it. You saved us a lot of time.”
“Don’t tell her stuff like that,” Dean whispered. “She’ll take it out of our pay.”
Sam hushed him with a wave. “No, that’s great. Sure. Um…like half an hour?”
“Half an hour for what?” Dean asked, rising and crossing to the mini fridge.
Sam scrunched up his nose and glared at him. “All right. Thanks, Tallulah…Lu. Right. We’ll see you then.”
Dean pinched a wad of cold, meat-infused scrambled egg from the Styrofoam take-out container and dropped it in his mouth. “We’ll see her when for what?”
“Dude, do you have a fucking tapeworm or something?”
Dean swallowed. “She okay?”
“She’s fine. She asked us to come for dinner so we can go over stuff with her.”
Dean dropped the leftovers on the table, squinted his eyes. “What, like a debriefing or somethin’?”
“She just wants to know what we found out. What’s your problem?”
“I just don’t want her to think she’s in charge.”
“We’re not Dave the contractor, Dean. She doesn’t think she’s in charge. She’s…she’s inviting us for dinner. It’s not the Spanish Inquisition.”
He didn’t really know what was bothering him so much, but getting into a fight with Sam wasn’t going to make it any better. “Fine. I’m gonna take a shower, then.”
“Fine.”
Dean grabbed a fresh set of clothes. He was pulling the bathroom door shut and almost missed Sam’s halfhearted jab.
“Try to wash off some of the attitude while you’re in there.”
*******************************************************************
“I can’t believe that’s the shirt you decided to put on.”
Dean tried to ignore him. Threw the Impala into reverse and then two-point-turned them onto M-50. Maybe somebody ELSE should have taken an attitude shower. Bitch. “What’s wrong with this shirt?”
“Well, first off, it’s a t-shirt. We’re going to see a client, Dean. We’re on a job.”
“Right. We’ve already got the job. I’m not lookin’ to impress anybody. Besides, it’s like, a hundred degrees out. You tellin’ me you’re not hot in that fugly thing?” He nodded toward the Western shirt Sam wore. Fuckin’ mother of pearl snaps. What the hell, Sam.
“I think Lu intimidates you.”
“What?” His eyes darted from the road to his brother.
“I think she intimidates you. She’s a strong woman who--”
Dean’s right hand flew off the steering wheel to flutter in front of Sam’s face. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. First off, Tallulah Logan doesn’t intimidate me. Second, bein’ bossy doesn’t make you strong. She might be strong, but it’s not because she’s got the bridle on a coupla contractors. Third, why would I be intimidated by a woman just because she’s strong?”
Sam swiveled to face Dean, brought his left leg up to rest on the bench seat. “Oh, come on. Admit it. You’ve got this…chauvinistic perception of women.”
“I like women just fine.”
“Yeah,” Sam said with a snort.
“What? Do you like her, or somethin’?”
“What?”
It hurt how Sam was so easy to deflect sometimes. Dean smiled like a wily coyote. “Sammy’s got a girlfriend.”
“Shut up! I do not.”
Dean pulled the Impala to the curb along Union Street and cut the ignition. “You like her.”
Sam fumbled with the handle and climbed out of the car. He slammed the door with a precise over-use of force.
“Hey! Don’t take your sexual frustrations out on my girl.” Oh, yeah. The Extreme Bitchface. So predictable, Sammy. Love ya, man.
Dean followed Sam’s stomps up onto the porch and waited quietly while his brother knocked on the screen door.
“’S that Sam and Dean?” Lu’s shout came from upstairs.
“Yeah! Hi, Tallulah! It’s us!” Sam called through the screen.
“Come on in! I’ll be down in a second!”
“You know, all this corn around here?” said Dean, stepping into the foyer behind his brother, “I bet they have a harvest dance in the fall. You could invite her.”
Sam turned on him with pursed lips and through his clenched jaw ground out, “I’m gonna kill you in your sleep. I swear to God.”
Dean beamed.
Lu came bounding down the stairs; barefoot, jeans rolled up to her calves, paint-spattered t-shirt, and a faded red bandanna kerchiefed over her pony-tailed hair. “Hey, guys. How’s it goin’? I was just doing some painting. Come on in.”
“Hey, Lu,” Sam said.
She scooped around the stairs and led them into the kitchen, dropping her paint roller into a bucket by the back door.
“Sorry for this,” she said, waving her hands in front her chest. “I just…I’m trying to get as much done on the houses as I can while I have the time. Anything to speed the process along, you know?”
She turned on the water in the sink, shoved her hands under the flow.
“Good thing you dressed for dinner there, Romeo,” Dean low-voiced to Sam.
“So, you’re doing a lot of the finish work yourself?” Sam asked with an elbow to Dean’s side.
“Mostly painting, yeah,” she said over her shoulder.
Dean gave the back of Tallulah’s shirt a read. ‘Brownie’s Pizza. Had a good piece lately?’
Heh.
“Have a seat, guys. Or grab a beer. I restocked the fridge.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that,” said Dean. “Dave was--”
“Yeah, I talked to him. He said you guys drank it.” Her laugh was more like a bark, breath coming back in with a little snort.
She grabbed the towel hanging off the oven door and dried her now mostly paint-free hands. “He’s a good guy. I’ve known him since forever. He’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but, you know. In the end, the guy does really good work. And he’s a friend.”
Dean and Sam both nodded. They had a few Daves in their lives.
“So,” Lu said. “Beer?”
“Sure.”
“Yeah, thanks,” said Sam.
She handed them both a cold bottle from the fridge, opened one for herself and took a long drink.
“I hope you guys don’t mind. I know I invited you for dinner, but I just ordered pizza. Is pizza okay?”
“Pizza’s fine,” said Sam.
“I can do pizza,” Dean said.
Lu passed her beer across her chest, bottleneck pointing to the Brownie’s Pizza logo. “I kind of keep ‘em in business.”
There was a hollow rap on the front screen.
“Speaking of…” She fished her wallet out of her purse. “Be right back.”
“I’m asking you to please not be a jerk, okay?” Sam said as soon as Lu was out of the kitchen.
“Hey,” said Dean, putting on his best offended look. “I’m fuckin’ Prince Charming.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
Tallulah came back with a large pizza box in her hands, dropped it on the table, and nabbed a roll of paper towels from the counter.
“I’m totally low-tech, guys,” she said, tearing off individual squares of toweling and handing them to each brother. “This is your plate. Or your napkin. Both. Whichever. Hope you weren’t expecting anything fancy.”
“No, this is fine,” said Sam.
“Besides, you don’t need fancy when it comes to this.” She opened the lid of the pizza box. “Brownie’s Taco Pizza. I’m a devotee. It’s like…a pizza and a taco all rolled into one.”
Dean stared at the pie. Thick buttery looking crust, chunks of tomato and ground beef and beans. Enough cheese to kill a marathon runner. Shredded lettuce and jalapeno slices scattered liberally across the top. A handful of hot sauce packets tucked into the corner of the box.
“Genius,” he said with not a little bit of awe.
“Yeah,” said Tallulah earnestly. “Sheer genius. Dig in.”
*******************************************************************
When they were down to crusts and a collection of a dozen empty beer bottles stretched across the table, she grabbed the pizza box and rose, folding it in half and cramming it into the wastebasket.
“So, why do you think they’re hanging around? Peter and Squire, I mean.”
“Something like a suicide… It can leave all this residual negative energy. Unfinished business,” said Dean, pushing the army of empties into an organized battalion.
“And you think-- What’s the phrase you used? ‘Salting and burning their bones’? You think that’ll take care of that unfinished business?” she asked, retrieving a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard over the stove.
“It’s a way to help put them to rest, yeah,” said Sam. “As long as there’s not something physical binding them to the houses, purifying their remains should do the trick.”
She held up the fifth. “Anyone? Bueller?”
Sam stifled a yawn with one hand, held up the other to decline. “No, I’m good, thanks.”
“I’ll take a finger,” said Dean.
“Straight up or rocks?”
“Ice if you have it, thanks.”
She shook her head while she poured the drinks. “It’s so fucking weird, you know? Like… This is what you guys do for a living.”
“Yeah,” they both said.
“So, what’s the next move?” she asked, dropping back into the chair across from them and sliding a tumbler of whiskey toward Dean.
“Well, we don’t want to do anything rash, especially in a small town.” Sam covered his hand over another yawn. “Sorry. Tired. But… We’ll take a day or two to check everything out.”
“Desecrating graves tends to alert the cops,” Dean said after a sip from his glass.
“If it’s okay with you, one of us will stay here tonight,” Sam said. “We’ve already got spectral activity across the street. Just want to see if there’s anything here, too.”
“Sure. That’s fine. The couch is pretty comfortable, if you’re okay with that.”
“Not a problem. Won’t really be sleeping anyway.” Dean turned to Sam, who was rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “Why don’t I take night duty. I’ve got benefit of a nap.”
“Tryptophan, huh?” winked Lu over the edge of her tumbler.
Dean flashed an embarrassed smile.
“Yeah. That’d be great,” said Sam, rising. “Sorry. Just… Okay.”
“No need to apologize,” Tallulah said, standing with him. “I know how much a long day of plowing through research drains you. I’m just really… I appreciate you guys being here. Doing this.”
Sam smiled. “It’s not a problem.”
The three made a concerted move toward the front door.
Dean fished the car keys from his jeans pocket and handed them to Sam. “You okay to drive?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Call me if anything comes up.”
“Thanks again, Sam,” said Lu, and squeezed his arm.
“No problem. We’re glad to help.” He turned to Dean. “I’ll call in the morning, if I don’t hear from you before.”
The three moved out onto the porch. The moon was low and bright, and a breeze had picked up, lifting most of the weight of the humidity.
“All right. Get some sleep,” said Dean.
“Night,” Sam said, and hopped down the porch steps.
Lu and Dean waited until the Impala had turned and headed out of sight down Chicago Boulevard.
“So,” she said.
“Yup,” he replied.
She pointed to the sweaty glass of whiskey in Dean’s hand. “You wanna finish that out back? It’s a hell of a lot cooler out here than it is inside.”
“Sure,” said Dean, and followed her back through the house.
*******************************************************************
They sat in deck chairs on the small concrete patio, lightning bugs flashing like errant stars across the backyard. The citronella candle on the table between them didn’t seem to be doing much; Dean slapped a hand against the back of his neck and brought it to his face. Smiled in smug satisfaction at the mess of bug and blood he could read there in the moonlight. He wiped his hand on his jeans.
“The mosquitoes buggin’ ya?” Tallulah asked.
There was a slight slur in her speech, the hint of a heavier Midwestern accent the alcohol had enhanced.
“Nah, I’m fine.” He scratched at a few quarter-sized welts that dotted his forearms.
“They’re like fuckin’ vampire bats this time of year. We can go back inside, if you want.”
“No. I’m good.”
And he was. He felt relaxed. Not just because of the buzz from the whiskey, but just… It felt good to STOP. To be in one spot without a demon at your back for a second. As much as he loved the adrenaline and thrill of the hunt, it had been a while since he’d felt like he could take a load off. Not focus on undoing what had been done in that cemetery in Wyoming.
Tallulah stretched her arms above her head and plunked her feet down on the seat of the deck chair opposite her. “So how’d you and Sam get into this line of work?”
“Kinda by default,” Dean said after a swallow from his glass. “Family business, I guess.”
Lu didn’t say anything, just nodded, and Dean found himself continuing on. She had no idea that Dave had revealed so much of her personal business, and he felt a little guilty. Looked at it as tit for tat.
“Our mom was killed when were kids. Well, Sam was just a baby. I was four.”
“I’m sorry,” Tallulah said, and Dean believed her.
“The thing that killed her…” It was hard to say it out loud, even if Tallulah was a believer. A demon killed our mom and then my dad devoted his life to hunting it down. When it was just him and Sam, it all made sense. When it was another hunter who had an understanding of the kind of evil they dealt with all the time, it didn’t sound so weird and terrible.
“Oh, God. I’m sorry. I don’t… You don’t have to tell me any of this. I’m nosey. Ignore me.”
“No, I just… Dave told me what happened to your dad. And Sam and me, we lost our dad last year, too.”
There was no gentle apology from Tallulah this time. They let the chirp of the crickets serve as their mutual condolence.
“You’re lucky you have Sam,” she said after a minute.
“Yeah. I am.”
“After the settlement… I had no idea what to do with all that money. I really just felt like giving up, you know? Mom in ’97…and Dad was sort of my lifeline. We didn’t see each other that often, and we didn’t always get along when we did, you know?”
Dean nodded in the darkness.
“I just felt… I dunno. And then, after a while, this voice in my head kicked in. Dad’s voice. ‘Your life’s not over. None of this wimping out. You’ve got work to do, Tallulah Jane.’”
He swirled the whiskey in his glass, tiny hold-out ice cubes clinking against the sides.
“So I came back here, to this town he loved. To this place where I could still feel a shadow of him. Still see his hand in my life, in the world.”
Dean’s jaw clenched and loosened. He drank down the remains of the liquor.
“So, what made you buy the Grimes houses?”
“Ugh,” she said comically, dropping her head back so the stars and moon drew highlights on her face. “Probably the stupidest decision I ever made.”
Dean chuckled. “I dunno. I hear homeownership is supposed to be real rewarding.”
She shot him a just-for-play horse eye. “Ha. Lemme tell you, just because you loved identical twin houses as a little girl, doesn’t mean you should buy them as an adult.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Dean with a smile. He smacked his palm against his shoulder and flicked a ruined mosquito into the darkness.
“Come on,” said Tallulah, dropping her feet to the patio. “Let’s go back in before you get eaten alive.”
The house was warm and humid after their sit outside. Dean set his glass in the sink while Tallulah ducked into the bathroom. She came back with a tube of Crest toothpaste and stupid grin.
“I know this sounds ridiculous, but it totally helps.”
He looked at her, confused. Fought the urge to check his breath against a cupped palm. “What?”
She uncapped the tube, squirted a glob of minty green onto her fingertip.
“Toothpaste. For the mosquito bites. Here,” she said, and set the tube on the counter. She took his wrist and pulled his arm away from his side.
I can’t believe I’m lettin’ a chick rub me down with toothpaste.
She dabbed at the bites that ran from Dean’s hands to his elbows, depositing smeared circles of Crest until he looked like a polka-dotted freak.
“It doesn’t really serve any medical purpose, I don’t think,” she said, turning him by his shoulder so she could get to the back of his neck. “But at least it sort of discourages the itching.”
“Okay,” Dean said, because he didn’t want to say ‘Oh, my GOD, your fingers feel good on my neck.’
She swirled the toothpaste on his nape one more time and then paused, her fingertip resting on the nub of his top vertebrae. They froze in a kind of electrical field that felt littered with colliding atoms of excitement and awkwardness.
“Okay, then,” she said, stepping back.
The feel of her touch lingered on his skin.
She kept her eyes low, wouldn’t look at him as he made her way to the sink. She washed her hands a little too long while Dean shuffled his feet and regulated his breathing.
Man, this can’t go anywhere. Sam’d never let me live it down. But… Jesus.
She dried her hands on the towel, waving it in front of her absently, nervously. “Um, I should… I’m really… I’m gonna go upstairs and get you a pillow and some sheets for the couch, okay?”
“Yeah. Good. Okay,” he said. She was already halfway down the hall. “Definitely. Good idea.” Dude. Stop talking.
He listened to her feet pad across the hardwood and ran a hand over his face.
“Hey, Dean?” she called from the foyer.
“Yeah?”
“When you were at Squire’s house today, did you maybe forget to turn off some lights?”
A switch flipped in Dean’s belly and he pushed himself off the counter, headed straight for Tallulah.
“I didn’t turn any lights on.”
He stopped at her side, staring through the front door pane at the house across the street; every window was lit with a bright yellow glow.
He took Lu by the elbow and walked her over to the duffel he and Sam had brought with them. “Go call Sam,” he said, tugging at the zipper. “Tell him to meet me over there.”
“You’re going over there?”
He looked up from loading the sawed-off, eyes finding hers and impressing reassurance. Quelling the darting panic he found there.
“Call Sam, Tallulah. And then stay put.”
“But--”
He grabbed a few more shells and pushed a flashlight into his back pocket. She followed him out onto the porch, arms tugged tight across her middle.
He turned halfway down the front walk. “Go back inside and call Sam, please? Tallulah!”
He waited until she gave a jerky nod and darted back through the screen door, then he sprinted across the four-lane boulevard and up the steps to Squire’s house.
*******************************************************************
Dean realized halfway up the porch that he didn’t have the key with him; he’d given it back to Lu during dinner. He made an executive decision; decided that if they were to the toothpaste smearing point in their relationship, she’d forgive a kicked-in door.
He couldn’t remember a time he’d been in the middle of as much electromagnetic pulse energy as he was standing in the foyer. The heat was intense, the whole house was fire hot, and the light inside so blazing Dean couldn’t get his eyes to adjust.
The wall to his right was closest and he shouldered up against it, angled himself so the sawed-off still led him down the hall.
“Hey, Casper!” he called out. “Enough with the fuckin’ stadium lights already!”
The brightness was impermeable, encompassing, with no fixed focal point; he couldn’t identify its source. It sure wasn’t from the usual suspects; he clunked his head against a fixture in the hallway as he slid along the wall, reached up his hand and felt the cold bulb inside the sconce.
Son of a bitch.
Overhead, he heard a thunking noise. Definitely coming from the second floor or higher. The cupola.
Squinting, he felt his way near-blind to the staircase. Made contact with the row of untopped balusters, and followed them to the bottom step. The sawed-off stayed steady at shoulder height as he toed his way up the flight of stairs. Halfway he figured out what the thunking was. He knew it had sounded familiar but hadn’t been able to get his frantic mind to place it for him.
The drawer. Squire’s drafting desk drawer. The same gunshot slam he’d heard this morning, but over and over and over again.
Son of a BITCH. He was really wanting Sam there. Sam, and a pair of fucking sunglasses. His eyes were watering from the glare, burning and stinging with the heat. The salt bite of his own sweat tricked at the corners of his lids.
Two steps from the second floor landing - like he’d triggered a pressure button - the light disappeared with a dull, thunderous clap. He stood stock still, waiting, every molecule of his body on high alert.
A moan - male or female he couldn’t tell, but definitely dead - floated down from the cupola. Seeped through the ceiling and spilled over Dean like rain. He blew out a breath, sucked in another, and caught a distinct floral scent. He turned to follow it with his nose and that’s when the ghost pushed through him and kept right on going.
It was like being run through with a spear of ice; thick as his chest and colder than frozen. His back hit the wall and his arms pinwheeled wildly, left hand seeking purchase. The saw-ed off swung out in his right, hit one of the balusters and rebounded, knocking him just enough to bobble his feet on the steps.
He knew he was falling. Knew he couldn’t stop it.
Fuck.
Knew as his knee slammed against the edge of an unfinished step. Cursed again even as he tried to relax his body to minimize injury. He tried not to worry where the ghost had gone or whether it was going to wait and finish the job it had started.
His shoulder hit next - he’d at least got his elbow tucked in - and once his feet swung up and over his chest, he knew he was going to make the full backward summersault.
Ow, fuck, OW!
There was a ridiculous stuntman moment when both feet found a step, and he briefly conceived the possibility of a miraculous recovery. Then the momentum of the gymnastic tumble caught up with his arms and he had no way of missing the double barrel of the shotgun when it rose up and slammed against his forehead.
The dark got darker but he didn’t pass out. No, that would have been a mercy. Instead, he felt himself tip to the right. Toward the picket line of balusters.
Oh, fuck me…
Whoever’d installed them, it probably hadn’t been Fat Dave. Damn, they stayed nested in the stair tread. Dean caught three balusters with the top of his right shoulder, knew he was going to go through them before he heard the wood splinter. By the time his left shoulder followed, there was enough pointy to rip a hole along his left flank.
He had just a split second to be thankful his Nadia Comăneci impersonation had taken him most of the way down the stairs, and then he slammed to a stop in the ninety-degree angle where the floor met the hallway wall.
Oh.
Really, he gave himself credit. Because, REALLY, he should be unconscious. But he wasn’t. So he was fully aware that the ghost was back. He could smell it.
What is that? Gun, dude, shotgun! I KNOW that flower. Got it, got it, got it! Ow. Fucking GHOST! Lilac? What the--? Come on, fingers, WORK! Lilac!
The ice spear entered his chest again, and all his jumbled conscious thoughts pulled together into one:
NO!
The cold moved through him like a glacier; slowed down time, drug everything in its icy path, froze his lungs mid-breath.
Sammy!
When it exited through his back, he spasmed. A full-body shiver that lasted about five seconds longer than the one second he’d prefer it lasted. Everything unclenched and he could finally breathe. Opened his mouth on the tail end of an exhale and--
“Dean!”
That’s not right. He’d meant to call for Sam. Sammy should be here.
“Jesus, Dean!”
And then Sam was there. Good old blurry Sam. Shining a goddamned flashlight in his face. Knock that shit off, Sam.
Dean tried to slap the light away but as soon he brought up his hands, something exploded in his head.
“Hey. Hang on. Don’t move, Dean. Stay still.”
Okay. Because, yes, moving was bad. He grunted through his closed mouth when Sam eased him flat onto the floor.
“That wasn’t fun at all,” he managed to grind out.
Sam’s hands moved over him, checking his arms and legs for fractures.
“What happened?”
What happened? Good question. “I was… Where am I again?”
The flashlight was back in his face, and then Sam was hissing in breaths and poking his fingers through Dean’s hair.
“Dude.”
“Dean. Just lie still. Where are you hurt?”
“Oh, my God!”
Riiight. Tallulah.
“I’m okay,” said Dean.
“Lu, stay outside. Go back outside,” Sam coaxed.
“But--”
“It might still be here. Please.”
“Should I call an ambulance?”
“No!” they said in unison.
“Okay,” she said, not at all convinced. “I’m… Okay.” She backed out of the foyer and onto the narrow porch.
“What is--?” Sam was running his hand along the back of Dean’s head, along his neck and shoulders. “Why is--?” He brought his fingers to his nose. “Dude, why are you all minty?”
“Mosquitoes,” Dean said, pushing up onto his elbows.
“What?”
He got himself sitting and waited for the mist to clear. For the floor to right its awful tilt. “Get me outta here, Sammy.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” said Sam. He stood and held out his hand. “Let’s get you outta here.”
Dean slapped his forearm into Sam’s waiting palm, got his own fingers around his brothers forearm, and bit down on the yell that crowded his throat as Sam pulled him up. He winced when Sam placed his arm across his shoulders but congratulated himself on stifling the scream.
Sam moved them both forward three easy steps.
Dean took in a huge breath of air once they were through the front door. Grimaced when he saw Tallulah’s worried face, and how her hands flew to her mouth when she saw the both of them walk onto the porch.
“Dude, are you covered in toothpaste?”
“Look, Mom. No cavities,” said Dean, and promptly passed out.
click for 3
Author: kimonkey7
Rating: R for language, eventually NC-17 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
A/N: Written for spn_50states . Chapters post Tuesdays and Saturdays. Immeasurable thanks to my betas hiyacynth , quellefromage , and everybetty . 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.
Click here for supplemental dorkitude, including floorplans of the houses.
Our siblings push buttons that cast us in roles we felt sure we had let go of long ago - the baby, the peacekeeper, the caretaker, the avoider… It doesn’t seem to matter how much time has elapsed or how far we’ve traveled. - Jane Mersky Leder
Dean decided he’d earned a beer. Sure it was only ten o’clock in the morning, but he was hot. Besides, he figured he was still on Wyoming time, and there was nothing wrong with having a beer for lunch. Or breakfast. Whatever fucking time it was. Just - Beer. And there was possibly stuff for turkey sandwiches in Tallulah’s fridge.
There was a crappy old pick-up parked behind the Impala, close enough so Dean couldn’t stow the duffel in the trunk. Close enough to piss him off and wipe a hand across the chrome of the bumper with a gentle caress. The fainted paint on the door of the truck said TAYLOR TRIMS AND PROFESSIONAL FINISHES. Dean figured fat stoned Dave’s last name was probably Taylor.
“Sam?” Dean called as he stalked through the hall to the kitchen in back. He heard a grunt and the clink of glass. “Sammy?”
A big - huge guy - in overalls and a ratty t-shirt came around the bluff of the opened refrigerator door, a bottled beer in his hand.
“Dave?” asked Dean, sizing up the guy. What a fuckin’ gorilla. Took in his bloodshot eyes. And stoned outta his mind. Jesus. See what you get when you don’t lock your front door?
“Who’re you?”
“My name’s Dean. You Dave Taylor?”
“Yeah.”
“Tallulah said you’d be stoppin’ by. You bring the…Richman…pointy egg stuff?”
Dave squinted, dark irises peeking through pie slits in his puffy pink face. “Who’re you again?”
“Dean. Me and my brother are-- You seen my brother?” Dean’s hand rose to a spot just above his head. “Ginormous guy? Big like you, but less apey?”
Dave cocked his head like he was considering whether or not to take Dean’s description as an insult or a compliment. He screwed the top off the beer he was holding and pointed up with a finger like a polska kielbasa. “Went up to the cupola.”
Cupola. That’s what those little windowed rooms were called. He knew there was a reason he had lines from ‘Apocolypse Now’ going through his head.
Dave took a swig off the brown bottle and scoured Dean with his eyes. “You guys ain’t contractors, are ya?”
Dean smirked. “Not exactly. That your truck out there?”
“Yeah.”
“You see that sweet Chevy parked in front of it?”
Dave nodded, a smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. “She yours?”
“Yeah. Yeah, she is.” Dean returned Dave’s smile for a fraction of a second. “Do me a favor. Don’t ever park that close to my baby again.”
Dave sniffed. Scratched a meaty hand across his belly. “You wanna beer?”
“Yes, I do,” said Dean, and took the cold bottle Dave fished him from the fridge. He cracked the cap and took a long drink, the carbonation burning his parched throat all the way down.
“So, if you ain’t contractors, what are ya?”
Good question. He and Sam hadn’t really figured out a cover story. The nice thing about getting a job through another hunter was the lack of a need for pretense. There goes that.
“We’re students of Tallulah’s from U of M. Helping out with some research.”
Dave cocked an unruly nest of an eyebrow. “You’re a college student.”
Dean gave a backward nod. “Got a late start. My student loans took a while to come through.”
Dave chuckled and hissed through his teeth. “Anyway.”
They both took a swallow of beer.
“So how long you been workin’ for Tallulah?” Dean asked as he leaned a hip against the counter.
“’Bout two months now, but I known her since the sixth grade.”
“She grew up here?”
“Yeah,” said Dave, and the counter gave a small creak of protest when he rested his considerable frame against it. “Went to U of M after high school. Her mom passed away Lu’s senior year. She came home for the summer, helped her dad clear out the house and shit, then went back to Ann Arbor. Lived there ‘til she come back last fall. After Doc passed.”
“Doc?”
“Her dad. Dr. Logan.” Dave drew a swig of beer, shook his head lazily from side to side. “That was some crazy shit.”
“How’s that?” Dean had a gift for making a question sound like a gentle command.
Dave’s eyes went wide and his mouth hung open comically. “You tellin’ me you don’t remember hearin’ about that? It was in every paper, on every local channel for a freakin’ week.”
“Yeah, me and my brother just transferred here from…Wyoming State. Cheyenne.”
“They got a good football team?”
“A hell of a team,” said Dean sardonically, and took a sip off his bottle. “So what happened to Dr. Logan?”
“Aw, man,” said Dave, turning and setting his beer on the counter. He brought his plump hands out in front of him, drawing an imaginary stage. “So, check it out. Doc Logan, he’s this real good guy. Everybody loves him. Hell, he was my doctor from the time I was born up until the time he died. Anyway. He was always doin’ stuff, raisin’ money for sick kids and shit. Doin’ stuff for old folks, goin’ to their houses and crap like that. Real good guy.”
Dave was a stoned motherfucker, and clearly not a great contractor, but Dean was starting to like him. There was a gentle quality that came into his voice as he spoke about Tallulah’s dad.
“Anyway. The hospital up to Morenci was dedicatin’ a wing to him. Puttin’ his name on the building.” Dave’s hands danced and swayed before his barrel chest. “And there was this big ceremony and shit. They even had some of those giant scissors and a ribbon. So, Doc’s standin’ there hackin’ away at the stupid ribbon, and people are takin’ pictures and clappin’ and shit.”
Dave crossed his arms across his chest, forearms like Popeye. “All of the sudden, there’s this screech of tires. People start screamin’ and runnin’. Crowd splittin’ down the middle like the Red Sea in ‘Ten Commandments’.”
Dave’s eyes met Dean’s for a second, darted quickly away.
“This drunk bastard jumps the curb doin’ fifty miles an hour. In a freakin’ hospital zone. Flies through the parkin’ lot, wings three people who can’t get outta the way fast enough, and smacks straight inta Doc Logan. Smashes him right inta the wall with his name on it.”
“Jesus.” Holy shit.
“They had to peel him off the wall. Didn’t even matter they were right there at a hospital. Wasn’t a thing they could do.”
“And was… Tallulah saw this happen?”
Dave blew out a heavy breath. “No. Thank God. Can you imagine? See somethin’ like that happen to your dad?”
Little bit…
“She was sposta be there. Got called by the school that mornin’ and had t’ fill in for somebody. She was sposta be back for the party afterward.” Dave retrieved his beer from the counter. “Crazy shit, man. And the driver? He walks away with a cut on his forehead. Blew a .12 on the breathalyzer. Can you believe that? Nine thirty in the morning, and the guy was shithouse drunk.” Dave brought his beer to his lips and swallowed down what was left in the bottle, the irony escaping him completely.
“Lu never woulda done nothin’ beyond the regular insurance, but the hospital lawyers, they worked for free. Sued the balls offa the guy. He was driving on a suspended license, they found out, the sonuvabitch.”
Dean felt mildly guilty getting such personal information about their client from a complete stranger - especially when it seemed Tallulah wasn’t that fond of him - but that kind of tragedy and emotion could feed spectral energy. “And after that was when Tallulah moved back here?”
“Yup,” said Dave, and then dropped his chin. Growled out a low, rumbling belch. “She bought both houses after the settlement came through. Heard she got a bargain, but still… Shit.”
“Why do you think she got a bargain?”
Dave chuckled lightly and walked back over to the fridge. Grabbed himself a second beer. “You want another?”
“Nah. I’m good,” said Dean. “Somethin’ wrong with the houses?”
“Well, that all depends on who ya talk to, I s’pose.”
“And what is it people are sayin’? When they talk.”
Dave smiled. Cracked his beer and rolled his eyes. He shot the beer cap off his thumb and landed it expertly in the wastebasket at the end of the counter. “You from a small town, Dean?”
“I’m from a lotta places, Dave,” he replied.
“Well then you probly heard a lotta stories. And that’s what people tell. Stories. Sayin’ the houses are haunted by the Grimes brothers.”
“The architects who killed themselves.”
“Yup. My great granddad work for ‘em when he was a kid. As a messenger or somethin’.”
“And whatta you think?”
“You askin’ me if I think these houses are haunted?”
Dean lifted his shoulder noncommittally.
“I don’t believe in spooks, if that’s what you wanna know. As far as weird shit happenin’? Weird shit happens all the time, man.”
Sure as shit does.
“Hey.”
Dean and Dave both turned as Sam came into the room.
“Hey,” Dean said, lifting his chin. “I was just talkin’ to Dave. He was tellin’ me there’s rumors in town this house and the one across the street are haunted.”
“Really.” Sam eyed the beers in their hands. “There anymore of those?”
Dean loved when it worked together between him and Sam like that. When things jived, when they picked up on each other’s subtle leads.
“Small towns. People talk,” said Dave, handing Sam a beer from the fridge.
“And what do they say?”
“Like I was tellin’ your brother here, the houses’re sposta be haunted by the Grimeses. Old timey dudes that hung themselves up in the cupolas. ‘S why you don’t fuck your brother’s wife.”
“Huh. Good advice,” said Dean.
“I heard the story when I was a kid. Had a little weight added to it every time somebody moved in and out within a year. Some kid always knew some kid who mowed the people’s lawn and heard ‘em talkin’ about stuff movin’ around the house and shit. Red room in the basement painted with blood. Crap like that.”
“But you don’t believe any of it?” asked Sam after a swallow of beer.
“I been all through both houses, worked in ‘em by myself, mornin’ to night. I never seen a ghost.”
“And nothin’ weird ever happened?” asked Dean.
Dave shrugged and pursed his lips. Made an effort to think. “I lost some tools here and there, but, shit. I wouldn’t put it past half the guys I work with t’ have stolen ‘em themselves.”
Dean and Sam nodded. Exchanged a look. They both had info and were itching to share. This was officially a job.
“So, Dave,” said Dean, pushing himself away from the counter and clapping his hands together. “I bet you’re wantin’ to get started on that crown molding, huh?”
*******************************************************************
Dean stood in front of the fridge while Sam talked him through the research Tallulah had compiled. He was intending to pull out the rumored turkey, but got caught up in the magnets and scraps of paper and photos stuck on the freezer door.
“Squire and Peter Grimes. Born 1870 and 1873 respectively. Their father was an architect. Both brothers followed in the family business. Grimes and Sons Building, Limited opened in 1891 and operated until 1902, when the brothers killed themselves, each one found hanged in the cupolas of their own homes.”
There was an array of magnets bearing quotes from historical figures:
We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard to remain stupid. - Ben Franklin
If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants. - Sir Isaac Newton
America does not go abroad in search of monsters to destroy. - John Quincy Adams
“In 1890, the brothers married Rose and Marigold Jackson. Sisters. Just eighteen and seventeen years old. That same year, the north and southeast lots at Union and Chicago Boulevard were purchased and construction began on identical houses.”
There was a magnet with a picture of Velma from ‘Scooby-Doo’ on it - figures she’d be a Velma girl - a bleeding heart of Jesus magnet, and a magnet that looked like a miniature beer mug declaring ‘It’s beer o’clock somewhere!’ and ‘Las Vegas, Nevada’.
“Nothing really recorded for a few years, no birth announcements, no scandal. A few mentions in the local registers of houses the brothers designed, business projects with their names on the corner stone.”
There were receipts from hardware stores, a couple of ‘Far Side’ cartoons from a desk calendar - ‘Blah, blah, blah, GINGER…’ That’s pretty funny. - a take-out menu from a local restaurant called Basil Brothers. Jesus, this town is lousy with brothers…
The beer mug magnet held up a strip from a photo booth; color faded by age in that weird bright-drained way. All four pictures were identical; an eyes-up shot of a kid in a brown ten gallon Stetson. The stool had probably been set too low. His fingers brushed across the cracked emulsion.
Dean knew this kind of picture well; their dad could find a photo booth in Bumfuck, Egypt if the need presented itself. And if you were in the habit of making fake IDs, the need presented itself pretty regularly. Dad always popped Dean and Sammy in for a quick session while his own pics were drying in the delivery slot. Dean wondered briefly what had become of those photo strips that - more than non-existent school pictures and vacation shots - chronicled his and his brother’s youth.
“Nothing until 1902, and then the suicides. The local papers left out the details, but Tallulah has about fifteen first hand accounts transcribed in here. All pretty much sticking with the story Dave implied.”
Dean pulled the photo strip from under the magnet, flipped it over. In a scrawling cursive it said, ‘Cowgirl Lu. Lenawee County Fair. 1979.’ He turned it back over and looked closer, thought he could recognize the arch of the eyebrows as Tallulah’s. He smiled and stuck the picture back onto the freezer door.
“Evidently, there was a little marital transgression. Peter, the younger brother,” said Sam, “preferred Roses to Marigolds.”
“Took a little tiptoe through his big brother’s garden, so to speak, huh?” remarked Dean, opening the fridge and pulling out a plastic deli bag filled with shaved turkey.
“Yeah, exactly. According to the story, Peter and Rose had an affair that lasted a few weeks until, consumed by guilt, Peter confessed his sin to Squire and begged for absolution.”
“Ain’t that always the way,” Dean said around a mouthful of turkey meat.
“Dude! What’re you doing?”
“I’m hungry. She said we could help ourselves.”
Sam gave him a disgusted look. “You’re like a bottomless pit.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, dropping into the chair across his brother. “So, Squire cries his eyes out, heads upstairs, and buys a new necktie.”
“Actually, according to the legend, no. Both couples were seen out together the night before at a local restaurant…Don’s Contented Soul.”
“Kinda ironic.”
“Little bit, yeah,” said Sam and shuffled through some papers. “Anyway. The story goes the brothers used the cupolas on the roof as their drawing rooms, and every morning at 7:30 sharp, they’d climb the stairs and go to work. It’s was supposedly some kind of ritual. They came up, looked across the street, waved good morning, and then worked the whole day in sight of each other.”
“Yikes.”
“What?”
“I dunno,” said Dean around a cud of turkey. “Just…weird. Two brothers, never apart…”
He dropped the empty deli bag on the table and raised his eyebrows at Sam’s look of disbelief. “What? You tellin’ me you don’t think that’s--” Oh. “Okay. I guess it’s not so weird. Anyway.”
“Anyway. The next morning, Peter goes upstairs, looks across the boulevard to wave good morning to his forgiving brother--”
“And catches an eyeful of Squire, twisting in the wind.”
“Yeah.”
“Harsh.”
“Rose had left to visit a friend and didn’t find Squire’s body, but when Peter didn’t come down for dinner at his regular time, Marigold went upstairs to get him. Found him just like his brother.”
“Well, there’s your fucked-up souls right there.”
“So Marigold Grimes apparently flips out. Goes into catatonic shock. The police find her the next morning, curled up on the floor of the cupola. A street cleaner saw the bodies hanging from the road. Called the police.”
Dean pointed up with his chin. “You get anything when you visited the roof?”
“No, nothing. There’s a drafting desk up there--”
“Yeah, it’s got a twin across the street.”
“What about you? You get anything?”
“I got a little bit of a show.”
Dean hated how Sam’s whole body seemed to tense at that.
“What happened?”
“Drawer slammed shut on the desk, EMF went off the charts, got a little arctic blast.”
“You okay?”
“No, Sam. I’m suffering from hypothermia. Hold me.”
Dean got Number 37 - the You’re an ass.
“Well, it sounds like a pretty simple salt and burn to me,” Dean said. “There was that cemetery we passed comin’ into town. That where they’re buried?”
“No, the brothers - and Marigold, who died two weeks later when she drowned herself in the Raisin River - are buried in Brookside Cemetery, just down Union Street a few blocks.”
Dean pushed himself up, hands on his knees. “I say we go check it out. Find the graves, wrap this one up.”
“You in a hurry I should know about?”
“Like I said, Sammy, nothin’ good ever happens in Michigan.” He grabbed his duffel from the floor by the counter. “Let’s boogie.”
Sam rose, pulled together the scattered research. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Come on, Sammy. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”
“What does that mean?”
“Did you not learn anything from the brothers Grimes? They share a chick-flick moment and wind up dead the next day.”
“Dean--”
Dean held up both hands and blinked solemnly. “It’s all fun and games until somebody spills their guts.”
Sam shook his head disgustedly. “Dude, you just--”
Ah, Christ… “Sam. I’m kidding. Don’t get your panties all twisted. Let’s go find us some dead guys.” Dean started for the door, could hear Sam sighing and mumbling behind him. “And you better not be leavin’ a note apologizing for me eatin’ the turkey!”
*******************************************************************
A little before six, Sam’s cell rang.
“It’s Tallulah,” he said.
Dean rolled over and rubbed his eyes. Fuckin’ tryptophan. As soon as they’d gotten back from the cemetery and into the air conditioned room, he’d crashed out like a five-year-old coming down off Pixie Stix.
Sam’d left a note at Tallulah’s with his cell number and a promise to replace the pound of lunch meat Dean had eaten from the fridge.
“Hello?”
Dean sat up and swung his feet onto the floor.
“Hey, Tallulah. Everything okay?”
He didn’t like the questioning worry in Sam’s voice, scooted forward to the edge of the mattress.
Sam looked at him, gave a light shake of his head and mouthed ‘She’s fine.’ “Well, not a whole lot. I got through most of the research--”
Both of Dean’s hands came up to scrub across his face.
“It was a huge help. Thanks so much for doing it. You saved us a lot of time.”
“Don’t tell her stuff like that,” Dean whispered. “She’ll take it out of our pay.”
Sam hushed him with a wave. “No, that’s great. Sure. Um…like half an hour?”
“Half an hour for what?” Dean asked, rising and crossing to the mini fridge.
Sam scrunched up his nose and glared at him. “All right. Thanks, Tallulah…Lu. Right. We’ll see you then.”
Dean pinched a wad of cold, meat-infused scrambled egg from the Styrofoam take-out container and dropped it in his mouth. “We’ll see her when for what?”
“Dude, do you have a fucking tapeworm or something?”
Dean swallowed. “She okay?”
“She’s fine. She asked us to come for dinner so we can go over stuff with her.”
Dean dropped the leftovers on the table, squinted his eyes. “What, like a debriefing or somethin’?”
“She just wants to know what we found out. What’s your problem?”
“I just don’t want her to think she’s in charge.”
“We’re not Dave the contractor, Dean. She doesn’t think she’s in charge. She’s…she’s inviting us for dinner. It’s not the Spanish Inquisition.”
He didn’t really know what was bothering him so much, but getting into a fight with Sam wasn’t going to make it any better. “Fine. I’m gonna take a shower, then.”
“Fine.”
Dean grabbed a fresh set of clothes. He was pulling the bathroom door shut and almost missed Sam’s halfhearted jab.
“Try to wash off some of the attitude while you’re in there.”
*******************************************************************
“I can’t believe that’s the shirt you decided to put on.”
Dean tried to ignore him. Threw the Impala into reverse and then two-point-turned them onto M-50. Maybe somebody ELSE should have taken an attitude shower. Bitch. “What’s wrong with this shirt?”
“Well, first off, it’s a t-shirt. We’re going to see a client, Dean. We’re on a job.”
“Right. We’ve already got the job. I’m not lookin’ to impress anybody. Besides, it’s like, a hundred degrees out. You tellin’ me you’re not hot in that fugly thing?” He nodded toward the Western shirt Sam wore. Fuckin’ mother of pearl snaps. What the hell, Sam.
“I think Lu intimidates you.”
“What?” His eyes darted from the road to his brother.
“I think she intimidates you. She’s a strong woman who--”
Dean’s right hand flew off the steering wheel to flutter in front of Sam’s face. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. First off, Tallulah Logan doesn’t intimidate me. Second, bein’ bossy doesn’t make you strong. She might be strong, but it’s not because she’s got the bridle on a coupla contractors. Third, why would I be intimidated by a woman just because she’s strong?”
Sam swiveled to face Dean, brought his left leg up to rest on the bench seat. “Oh, come on. Admit it. You’ve got this…chauvinistic perception of women.”
“I like women just fine.”
“Yeah,” Sam said with a snort.
“What? Do you like her, or somethin’?”
“What?”
It hurt how Sam was so easy to deflect sometimes. Dean smiled like a wily coyote. “Sammy’s got a girlfriend.”
“Shut up! I do not.”
Dean pulled the Impala to the curb along Union Street and cut the ignition. “You like her.”
Sam fumbled with the handle and climbed out of the car. He slammed the door with a precise over-use of force.
“Hey! Don’t take your sexual frustrations out on my girl.” Oh, yeah. The Extreme Bitchface. So predictable, Sammy. Love ya, man.
Dean followed Sam’s stomps up onto the porch and waited quietly while his brother knocked on the screen door.
“’S that Sam and Dean?” Lu’s shout came from upstairs.
“Yeah! Hi, Tallulah! It’s us!” Sam called through the screen.
“Come on in! I’ll be down in a second!”
“You know, all this corn around here?” said Dean, stepping into the foyer behind his brother, “I bet they have a harvest dance in the fall. You could invite her.”
Sam turned on him with pursed lips and through his clenched jaw ground out, “I’m gonna kill you in your sleep. I swear to God.”
Dean beamed.
Lu came bounding down the stairs; barefoot, jeans rolled up to her calves, paint-spattered t-shirt, and a faded red bandanna kerchiefed over her pony-tailed hair. “Hey, guys. How’s it goin’? I was just doing some painting. Come on in.”
“Hey, Lu,” Sam said.
She scooped around the stairs and led them into the kitchen, dropping her paint roller into a bucket by the back door.
“Sorry for this,” she said, waving her hands in front her chest. “I just…I’m trying to get as much done on the houses as I can while I have the time. Anything to speed the process along, you know?”
She turned on the water in the sink, shoved her hands under the flow.
“Good thing you dressed for dinner there, Romeo,” Dean low-voiced to Sam.
“So, you’re doing a lot of the finish work yourself?” Sam asked with an elbow to Dean’s side.
“Mostly painting, yeah,” she said over her shoulder.
Dean gave the back of Tallulah’s shirt a read. ‘Brownie’s Pizza. Had a good piece lately?’
Heh.
“Have a seat, guys. Or grab a beer. I restocked the fridge.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that,” said Dean. “Dave was--”
“Yeah, I talked to him. He said you guys drank it.” Her laugh was more like a bark, breath coming back in with a little snort.
She grabbed the towel hanging off the oven door and dried her now mostly paint-free hands. “He’s a good guy. I’ve known him since forever. He’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but, you know. In the end, the guy does really good work. And he’s a friend.”
Dean and Sam both nodded. They had a few Daves in their lives.
“So,” Lu said. “Beer?”
“Sure.”
“Yeah, thanks,” said Sam.
She handed them both a cold bottle from the fridge, opened one for herself and took a long drink.
“I hope you guys don’t mind. I know I invited you for dinner, but I just ordered pizza. Is pizza okay?”
“Pizza’s fine,” said Sam.
“I can do pizza,” Dean said.
Lu passed her beer across her chest, bottleneck pointing to the Brownie’s Pizza logo. “I kind of keep ‘em in business.”
There was a hollow rap on the front screen.
“Speaking of…” She fished her wallet out of her purse. “Be right back.”
“I’m asking you to please not be a jerk, okay?” Sam said as soon as Lu was out of the kitchen.
“Hey,” said Dean, putting on his best offended look. “I’m fuckin’ Prince Charming.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
Tallulah came back with a large pizza box in her hands, dropped it on the table, and nabbed a roll of paper towels from the counter.
“I’m totally low-tech, guys,” she said, tearing off individual squares of toweling and handing them to each brother. “This is your plate. Or your napkin. Both. Whichever. Hope you weren’t expecting anything fancy.”
“No, this is fine,” said Sam.
“Besides, you don’t need fancy when it comes to this.” She opened the lid of the pizza box. “Brownie’s Taco Pizza. I’m a devotee. It’s like…a pizza and a taco all rolled into one.”
Dean stared at the pie. Thick buttery looking crust, chunks of tomato and ground beef and beans. Enough cheese to kill a marathon runner. Shredded lettuce and jalapeno slices scattered liberally across the top. A handful of hot sauce packets tucked into the corner of the box.
“Genius,” he said with not a little bit of awe.
“Yeah,” said Tallulah earnestly. “Sheer genius. Dig in.”
*******************************************************************
When they were down to crusts and a collection of a dozen empty beer bottles stretched across the table, she grabbed the pizza box and rose, folding it in half and cramming it into the wastebasket.
“So, why do you think they’re hanging around? Peter and Squire, I mean.”
“Something like a suicide… It can leave all this residual negative energy. Unfinished business,” said Dean, pushing the army of empties into an organized battalion.
“And you think-- What’s the phrase you used? ‘Salting and burning their bones’? You think that’ll take care of that unfinished business?” she asked, retrieving a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard over the stove.
“It’s a way to help put them to rest, yeah,” said Sam. “As long as there’s not something physical binding them to the houses, purifying their remains should do the trick.”
She held up the fifth. “Anyone? Bueller?”
Sam stifled a yawn with one hand, held up the other to decline. “No, I’m good, thanks.”
“I’ll take a finger,” said Dean.
“Straight up or rocks?”
“Ice if you have it, thanks.”
She shook her head while she poured the drinks. “It’s so fucking weird, you know? Like… This is what you guys do for a living.”
“Yeah,” they both said.
“So, what’s the next move?” she asked, dropping back into the chair across from them and sliding a tumbler of whiskey toward Dean.
“Well, we don’t want to do anything rash, especially in a small town.” Sam covered his hand over another yawn. “Sorry. Tired. But… We’ll take a day or two to check everything out.”
“Desecrating graves tends to alert the cops,” Dean said after a sip from his glass.
“If it’s okay with you, one of us will stay here tonight,” Sam said. “We’ve already got spectral activity across the street. Just want to see if there’s anything here, too.”
“Sure. That’s fine. The couch is pretty comfortable, if you’re okay with that.”
“Not a problem. Won’t really be sleeping anyway.” Dean turned to Sam, who was rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “Why don’t I take night duty. I’ve got benefit of a nap.”
“Tryptophan, huh?” winked Lu over the edge of her tumbler.
Dean flashed an embarrassed smile.
“Yeah. That’d be great,” said Sam, rising. “Sorry. Just… Okay.”
“No need to apologize,” Tallulah said, standing with him. “I know how much a long day of plowing through research drains you. I’m just really… I appreciate you guys being here. Doing this.”
Sam smiled. “It’s not a problem.”
The three made a concerted move toward the front door.
Dean fished the car keys from his jeans pocket and handed them to Sam. “You okay to drive?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Call me if anything comes up.”
“Thanks again, Sam,” said Lu, and squeezed his arm.
“No problem. We’re glad to help.” He turned to Dean. “I’ll call in the morning, if I don’t hear from you before.”
The three moved out onto the porch. The moon was low and bright, and a breeze had picked up, lifting most of the weight of the humidity.
“All right. Get some sleep,” said Dean.
“Night,” Sam said, and hopped down the porch steps.
Lu and Dean waited until the Impala had turned and headed out of sight down Chicago Boulevard.
“So,” she said.
“Yup,” he replied.
She pointed to the sweaty glass of whiskey in Dean’s hand. “You wanna finish that out back? It’s a hell of a lot cooler out here than it is inside.”
“Sure,” said Dean, and followed her back through the house.
*******************************************************************
They sat in deck chairs on the small concrete patio, lightning bugs flashing like errant stars across the backyard. The citronella candle on the table between them didn’t seem to be doing much; Dean slapped a hand against the back of his neck and brought it to his face. Smiled in smug satisfaction at the mess of bug and blood he could read there in the moonlight. He wiped his hand on his jeans.
“The mosquitoes buggin’ ya?” Tallulah asked.
There was a slight slur in her speech, the hint of a heavier Midwestern accent the alcohol had enhanced.
“Nah, I’m fine.” He scratched at a few quarter-sized welts that dotted his forearms.
“They’re like fuckin’ vampire bats this time of year. We can go back inside, if you want.”
“No. I’m good.”
And he was. He felt relaxed. Not just because of the buzz from the whiskey, but just… It felt good to STOP. To be in one spot without a demon at your back for a second. As much as he loved the adrenaline and thrill of the hunt, it had been a while since he’d felt like he could take a load off. Not focus on undoing what had been done in that cemetery in Wyoming.
Tallulah stretched her arms above her head and plunked her feet down on the seat of the deck chair opposite her. “So how’d you and Sam get into this line of work?”
“Kinda by default,” Dean said after a swallow from his glass. “Family business, I guess.”
Lu didn’t say anything, just nodded, and Dean found himself continuing on. She had no idea that Dave had revealed so much of her personal business, and he felt a little guilty. Looked at it as tit for tat.
“Our mom was killed when were kids. Well, Sam was just a baby. I was four.”
“I’m sorry,” Tallulah said, and Dean believed her.
“The thing that killed her…” It was hard to say it out loud, even if Tallulah was a believer. A demon killed our mom and then my dad devoted his life to hunting it down. When it was just him and Sam, it all made sense. When it was another hunter who had an understanding of the kind of evil they dealt with all the time, it didn’t sound so weird and terrible.
“Oh, God. I’m sorry. I don’t… You don’t have to tell me any of this. I’m nosey. Ignore me.”
“No, I just… Dave told me what happened to your dad. And Sam and me, we lost our dad last year, too.”
There was no gentle apology from Tallulah this time. They let the chirp of the crickets serve as their mutual condolence.
“You’re lucky you have Sam,” she said after a minute.
“Yeah. I am.”
“After the settlement… I had no idea what to do with all that money. I really just felt like giving up, you know? Mom in ’97…and Dad was sort of my lifeline. We didn’t see each other that often, and we didn’t always get along when we did, you know?”
Dean nodded in the darkness.
“I just felt… I dunno. And then, after a while, this voice in my head kicked in. Dad’s voice. ‘Your life’s not over. None of this wimping out. You’ve got work to do, Tallulah Jane.’”
He swirled the whiskey in his glass, tiny hold-out ice cubes clinking against the sides.
“So I came back here, to this town he loved. To this place where I could still feel a shadow of him. Still see his hand in my life, in the world.”
Dean’s jaw clenched and loosened. He drank down the remains of the liquor.
“So, what made you buy the Grimes houses?”
“Ugh,” she said comically, dropping her head back so the stars and moon drew highlights on her face. “Probably the stupidest decision I ever made.”
Dean chuckled. “I dunno. I hear homeownership is supposed to be real rewarding.”
She shot him a just-for-play horse eye. “Ha. Lemme tell you, just because you loved identical twin houses as a little girl, doesn’t mean you should buy them as an adult.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Dean with a smile. He smacked his palm against his shoulder and flicked a ruined mosquito into the darkness.
“Come on,” said Tallulah, dropping her feet to the patio. “Let’s go back in before you get eaten alive.”
The house was warm and humid after their sit outside. Dean set his glass in the sink while Tallulah ducked into the bathroom. She came back with a tube of Crest toothpaste and stupid grin.
“I know this sounds ridiculous, but it totally helps.”
He looked at her, confused. Fought the urge to check his breath against a cupped palm. “What?”
She uncapped the tube, squirted a glob of minty green onto her fingertip.
“Toothpaste. For the mosquito bites. Here,” she said, and set the tube on the counter. She took his wrist and pulled his arm away from his side.
I can’t believe I’m lettin’ a chick rub me down with toothpaste.
She dabbed at the bites that ran from Dean’s hands to his elbows, depositing smeared circles of Crest until he looked like a polka-dotted freak.
“It doesn’t really serve any medical purpose, I don’t think,” she said, turning him by his shoulder so she could get to the back of his neck. “But at least it sort of discourages the itching.”
“Okay,” Dean said, because he didn’t want to say ‘Oh, my GOD, your fingers feel good on my neck.’
She swirled the toothpaste on his nape one more time and then paused, her fingertip resting on the nub of his top vertebrae. They froze in a kind of electrical field that felt littered with colliding atoms of excitement and awkwardness.
“Okay, then,” she said, stepping back.
The feel of her touch lingered on his skin.
She kept her eyes low, wouldn’t look at him as he made her way to the sink. She washed her hands a little too long while Dean shuffled his feet and regulated his breathing.
Man, this can’t go anywhere. Sam’d never let me live it down. But… Jesus.
She dried her hands on the towel, waving it in front of her absently, nervously. “Um, I should… I’m really… I’m gonna go upstairs and get you a pillow and some sheets for the couch, okay?”
“Yeah. Good. Okay,” he said. She was already halfway down the hall. “Definitely. Good idea.” Dude. Stop talking.
He listened to her feet pad across the hardwood and ran a hand over his face.
“Hey, Dean?” she called from the foyer.
“Yeah?”
“When you were at Squire’s house today, did you maybe forget to turn off some lights?”
A switch flipped in Dean’s belly and he pushed himself off the counter, headed straight for Tallulah.
“I didn’t turn any lights on.”
He stopped at her side, staring through the front door pane at the house across the street; every window was lit with a bright yellow glow.
He took Lu by the elbow and walked her over to the duffel he and Sam had brought with them. “Go call Sam,” he said, tugging at the zipper. “Tell him to meet me over there.”
“You’re going over there?”
He looked up from loading the sawed-off, eyes finding hers and impressing reassurance. Quelling the darting panic he found there.
“Call Sam, Tallulah. And then stay put.”
“But--”
He grabbed a few more shells and pushed a flashlight into his back pocket. She followed him out onto the porch, arms tugged tight across her middle.
He turned halfway down the front walk. “Go back inside and call Sam, please? Tallulah!”
He waited until she gave a jerky nod and darted back through the screen door, then he sprinted across the four-lane boulevard and up the steps to Squire’s house.
*******************************************************************
Dean realized halfway up the porch that he didn’t have the key with him; he’d given it back to Lu during dinner. He made an executive decision; decided that if they were to the toothpaste smearing point in their relationship, she’d forgive a kicked-in door.
He couldn’t remember a time he’d been in the middle of as much electromagnetic pulse energy as he was standing in the foyer. The heat was intense, the whole house was fire hot, and the light inside so blazing Dean couldn’t get his eyes to adjust.
The wall to his right was closest and he shouldered up against it, angled himself so the sawed-off still led him down the hall.
“Hey, Casper!” he called out. “Enough with the fuckin’ stadium lights already!”
The brightness was impermeable, encompassing, with no fixed focal point; he couldn’t identify its source. It sure wasn’t from the usual suspects; he clunked his head against a fixture in the hallway as he slid along the wall, reached up his hand and felt the cold bulb inside the sconce.
Son of a bitch.
Overhead, he heard a thunking noise. Definitely coming from the second floor or higher. The cupola.
Squinting, he felt his way near-blind to the staircase. Made contact with the row of untopped balusters, and followed them to the bottom step. The sawed-off stayed steady at shoulder height as he toed his way up the flight of stairs. Halfway he figured out what the thunking was. He knew it had sounded familiar but hadn’t been able to get his frantic mind to place it for him.
The drawer. Squire’s drafting desk drawer. The same gunshot slam he’d heard this morning, but over and over and over again.
Son of a BITCH. He was really wanting Sam there. Sam, and a pair of fucking sunglasses. His eyes were watering from the glare, burning and stinging with the heat. The salt bite of his own sweat tricked at the corners of his lids.
Two steps from the second floor landing - like he’d triggered a pressure button - the light disappeared with a dull, thunderous clap. He stood stock still, waiting, every molecule of his body on high alert.
A moan - male or female he couldn’t tell, but definitely dead - floated down from the cupola. Seeped through the ceiling and spilled over Dean like rain. He blew out a breath, sucked in another, and caught a distinct floral scent. He turned to follow it with his nose and that’s when the ghost pushed through him and kept right on going.
It was like being run through with a spear of ice; thick as his chest and colder than frozen. His back hit the wall and his arms pinwheeled wildly, left hand seeking purchase. The saw-ed off swung out in his right, hit one of the balusters and rebounded, knocking him just enough to bobble his feet on the steps.
He knew he was falling. Knew he couldn’t stop it.
Fuck.
Knew as his knee slammed against the edge of an unfinished step. Cursed again even as he tried to relax his body to minimize injury. He tried not to worry where the ghost had gone or whether it was going to wait and finish the job it had started.
His shoulder hit next - he’d at least got his elbow tucked in - and once his feet swung up and over his chest, he knew he was going to make the full backward summersault.
Ow, fuck, OW!
There was a ridiculous stuntman moment when both feet found a step, and he briefly conceived the possibility of a miraculous recovery. Then the momentum of the gymnastic tumble caught up with his arms and he had no way of missing the double barrel of the shotgun when it rose up and slammed against his forehead.
The dark got darker but he didn’t pass out. No, that would have been a mercy. Instead, he felt himself tip to the right. Toward the picket line of balusters.
Oh, fuck me…
Whoever’d installed them, it probably hadn’t been Fat Dave. Damn, they stayed nested in the stair tread. Dean caught three balusters with the top of his right shoulder, knew he was going to go through them before he heard the wood splinter. By the time his left shoulder followed, there was enough pointy to rip a hole along his left flank.
He had just a split second to be thankful his Nadia Comăneci impersonation had taken him most of the way down the stairs, and then he slammed to a stop in the ninety-degree angle where the floor met the hallway wall.
Oh.
Really, he gave himself credit. Because, REALLY, he should be unconscious. But he wasn’t. So he was fully aware that the ghost was back. He could smell it.
What is that? Gun, dude, shotgun! I KNOW that flower. Got it, got it, got it! Ow. Fucking GHOST! Lilac? What the--? Come on, fingers, WORK! Lilac!
The ice spear entered his chest again, and all his jumbled conscious thoughts pulled together into one:
NO!
The cold moved through him like a glacier; slowed down time, drug everything in its icy path, froze his lungs mid-breath.
Sammy!
When it exited through his back, he spasmed. A full-body shiver that lasted about five seconds longer than the one second he’d prefer it lasted. Everything unclenched and he could finally breathe. Opened his mouth on the tail end of an exhale and--
“Dean!”
That’s not right. He’d meant to call for Sam. Sammy should be here.
“Jesus, Dean!”
And then Sam was there. Good old blurry Sam. Shining a goddamned flashlight in his face. Knock that shit off, Sam.
Dean tried to slap the light away but as soon he brought up his hands, something exploded in his head.
“Hey. Hang on. Don’t move, Dean. Stay still.”
Okay. Because, yes, moving was bad. He grunted through his closed mouth when Sam eased him flat onto the floor.
“That wasn’t fun at all,” he managed to grind out.
Sam’s hands moved over him, checking his arms and legs for fractures.
“What happened?”
What happened? Good question. “I was… Where am I again?”
The flashlight was back in his face, and then Sam was hissing in breaths and poking his fingers through Dean’s hair.
“Dude.”
“Dean. Just lie still. Where are you hurt?”
“Oh, my God!”
Riiight. Tallulah.
“I’m okay,” said Dean.
“Lu, stay outside. Go back outside,” Sam coaxed.
“But--”
“It might still be here. Please.”
“Should I call an ambulance?”
“No!” they said in unison.
“Okay,” she said, not at all convinced. “I’m… Okay.” She backed out of the foyer and onto the narrow porch.
“What is--?” Sam was running his hand along the back of Dean’s head, along his neck and shoulders. “Why is--?” He brought his fingers to his nose. “Dude, why are you all minty?”
“Mosquitoes,” Dean said, pushing up onto his elbows.
“What?”
He got himself sitting and waited for the mist to clear. For the floor to right its awful tilt. “Get me outta here, Sammy.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” said Sam. He stood and held out his hand. “Let’s get you outta here.”
Dean slapped his forearm into Sam’s waiting palm, got his own fingers around his brothers forearm, and bit down on the yell that crowded his throat as Sam pulled him up. He winced when Sam placed his arm across his shoulders but congratulated himself on stifling the scream.
Sam moved them both forward three easy steps.
Dean took in a huge breath of air once they were through the front door. Grimaced when he saw Tallulah’s worried face, and how her hands flew to her mouth when she saw the both of them walk onto the porch.
“Dude, are you covered in toothpaste?”
“Look, Mom. No cavities,” said Dean, and promptly passed out.
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