[SPN] Food for the Bees (I Could Easily Be) -- gen, R, 3450 words
Holy cow, I finished something! Hilariously, this is the third apian- themed piece in a row that I've produced.
Title: Food for the Bees (I Could Easily Be)
Specs: Supernatural, gen, R (for horror elements and special guests), 3450 words
Summary: Set in S1, spanning the time from just after "Skin" to just after "Shadow." Turns out there's one thing John Winchester can't leave by the wayside.
Notes: I've been picking at this bunny since January. Man, am I glad to have it out and done! Many thanks to varadia for her always-insightful beta work.
The call finds John in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. The phone rings once, goes silent, then rings again. He looks up from his lead (turn-of-the-century courts martial records from Fort Sherman) and checks the display on the cell. Not his boys: not a number he recognizes either. It’s someone who knows his system, though: someone who knows him. He picks up.
The voice hisses with poor reception. “John? That you?”
He leans back in his seat. “Hey, Nesbitt. What’s doing?”
“Oh, I’m okay. You seen the St. Louis papers yet?”
He fiddles with his pen. “What for?”
“St. Louis papers say your boy is dead, John. Been saying it nonstop the past two days.”
The library is quiet, too many people just out of sight. “How’s that?” he says, dropping his eyes.
“They caught Dean breaking into houses and cutting people up. Was that something you taught him? I never heard of a hunt required that.”
John unclenches his jaw. It takes an effort to keep his voice down. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“I can read you the article if you like. Got it right in front of me.”
He props his elbow on the table and leans into the palm of his hand. “Where are you right now?”
“Soddy-Daisy, Tennessee, would you believe a name like that?” Just hearing him, John can see him, that stupid gummy open-mouth grin he does.
He takes a breath. “You close enough to do me any favors?”
“Nah, I’m outside Chattanooga. It’s five hundred miles to St. Louis. I was there yesterday.”
John closes his eyes and doesn’t swear. “It can’t be him, I’d have heard from Sam.”
“Oh, it’s him all right. The picture’s definitely of him.” Nesbitt stops for a moment. “You and Sam talking again?”
John balls his free hand. The wedding ring digs into his finger. His hands are swollen; he needs a rest. “Thanks for calling, Nesbitt.” He hangs up before he can get another word off.
*
Two days later, John is at the St. Louis County Medical Examiner’s Office, leafing through a large manila folder in a private conference room. The report isn’t numbered in sequence; more than a few pages are missing. “I’ve been chasing this kid for months now,” he tells the coroner, his eyes on the autopsy photos. “The body’s already been interred?”
She folds her hands in front of her. “Yesterday.”
He grunts. “Shame. They’ll give me hell on that when I file.”
“We didn’t have room to keep it in our morgue.” Her brow furrows. “Which agency were you from again?”
“Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.” He reaches into his jacket. “You need to see my badge again?”
“No.” She shakes her head, staying polite. “It’s just-we already had a fed here. From the FBI.”
John smiles at her. “Government loves its redundancies, ma’am. Nothing you need to worry about.” He scans the list of personal effects. One blue jacket. One pair of jeans. Loose change in the pockets. One pair of boots. One plaid shirt, tan and black. One cotton t-shirt, gray; two sets of bullet holes, two bloodstains, entry and exit wounds. That’s practically everything.
He turns back to the photos. “Cause of death was definitely the shots, correct?”
The coroner nods. “Ballistics hasn’t been able to trace a weapon yet, but the rounds were unusual, to say the least.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “That right?”
“Silver. I’ve never seen anything like it." She peers at him. "Is that why the ATF is involved?”
“I’d comment if I could, but I can’t.” John is still squinting at the thoracic study. The chest is bare, the head cropped out of the photograph. He’d know those scars anywhere: he’s dressed hurts there. “These are good shots.” He turns the picture to her. “Which one killed him?”
“Here.” She taps the photo. “This was the first. Right in the heart.”
John shakes his head slowly, then shuts the folder. “Well, that’s him all right. From what I know of him, anyway." He looks at the coroner: she's eying the file, her shoulders tense. "Was there anything else unusual you found?"
She's schooled her face well: mild, professional. "Just the bullets. Sorry we couldn't have showed him to you."
"Well." He considers pursuing it, but he has all he needs. “All right.” He holds out the folder. “Thanks very much for your time. I can get a copy of this down at Records?”
“Mm-hmm.” She points. “Straight down that hall, take the second right, through the double doors.”
He holds out a hand. “Thanks.”
John leaves, still not sure this wasn’t an overreaction. That boy, though. Silver bullets. Beautiful shot.
*
Nightfall and he's to the end of the Oklahoma panhandle. The Noah’s ark-themed motel is the only one with an opening; his key has two cartoon giraffes on the fob. John’s a parent: he has no illusions about dignity outweighing practicality. One double bed’s as good as the next. Dean would have rolled his eyes and kept them driving. He wouldn't be tired yet. John just wants his rest.
Private space is still strange to him. He shuts the bathroom door in an empty room, even standing at the sink brushing his teeth in his socks. Outside, a cold, wet wind wheezes through the side-of-the-highway empty. The sound of the bristles inside his mouth scrubs it out. The fluorescent light overhead flickers.
Dad?
John stops.
Dad, are you there?
Something is moving its hands over the other side of the door.
Dad?
The toothpaste seeps under his tongue and stings his mouth. John stays still. The noises are childlike, uncertain, and made by something big. He tenses, waiting for the door to swing, or crash, but nothing comes. The light buzzes, shimmers, then hums.
Cold air ghosts over his feet. When he leaves the bathroom, he passes through a chill spot crouched at the threshold.
In the morning, he chooses to head north. Coffee’ll cure a bad night’s sleep. Man can do anything when he’s properly fortified.
*
There’s a myling in Hobart, Wisconsin. Four locals in the past three years found near an old Lutheran church, savaged and broken-boned and sunk into the earth. Records turn up fourteen different candidates, unbaptized infants left to die of exposure.
John stalks the county road for three straight nights. He keeps both pockets full of loose rosary beads, to throw after the myling to distract it. At his belt, he keeps a canteen, 96 ounces, to fend it off. Across his back, he keeps a rod of solid iron, if the water doesn’t work.
The ghost never shows, and John doesn’t have forever. He makes a note to keep tabs on the town, and in the morning he heads west. The radio thrashes until he loses patience and turns it off. It’s a two-man silence in the truck cab; John drives with an empty passenger seat, wondering who’s mad at him.
*
“Dad? I know I’ve left you messages before. I don’t even know if you get ‘em. But I’m with Sam, and we’re in Lawrence. And there’s something in our old house. I don’t know if it’s the thing that killed Mom or not, but… I don’t know what to do. So, whatever you’re doing, if you could get here. Please. I need your help, Dad.”
*
Damn it, Dad!
*
Sure, he’s been back through Lawrence since. Skirted the edges a couple times, swung by once or twice like a comet changing course. He doesn’t call Missouri, he just shows, like he did the first time. She’s changed, of course, but hell, it’s been twenty-two years. Only a few things last that long. She thins her lips and frowns at him as he stands on her front porch.
“John Winchester,” she says, and the name’s part accusation. “Lord, man, what is following you?”
She cuts him off before a reply is even in his mouth. “I wasn’t going to sleep anyway, you come inside and talk to me.” Long night, she tells him as she brews the coffee. “Then again, our nights are always long.”
“My boys,” he asks. “Have they been to see you?”
She nods. “They’re here. Are you gonna see ‘em?” The skeptical bent of her eyebrow is a challenge.
John clears his throat, squeezing the mug cooling against his palms. “There’s really something in that house?”
Missouri watches him a moment, impatient, then shrugs, and looks out the window. “Nothing you’d want dealings with. But it should be over now. We went over earlier, made a big mess taking out a poltergeist.”
He lifts his head. “You were in there?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” She pours herself more coffee. “Sam and Dean went back to their hotel, I think. I told them to come see me again before they went off. You got someplace to stay tonight?”
He's already rolling his shoulders. “I was-”
“John, don’t you even start. I got a guest room upstairs.” She eyes him for a moment, then huffs. “First things first, though. I have a reputation to maintain, so before you go taking your shoes off, you better be hiding that damn ugly truck.”
*
John dreams he hears Missouri talking at the foot of his bed.
“Go on,” she says, soft and low. John’s eyelids flutter. He can’t see much: even his dreams are ill-lit.
“Go on. I don’t know what you are, but go on. Go for a walk, you leave this poor man alone.”
He’s-
“Go on,” she says, more sternly this time. If something happens next, he doesn’t catch it.
*
“I have to go,” she says after she puts the phone down. “Something else happened after I left.”
He’s on his feet. “What? Are they okay?”
She knits her brow, opens her mouth without knowing how to name it. “It’s Mary,” she says. “You stay put. I’ll call as soon as I know something.”
*
John hunts three poltergeists all in a row, Texas-New Mexico-Nevada.
The empty space at his side stews too.
*
He makes it through Death Valley and takes a room outside of Bishop, California. He drops his bags at the foot of the bed and checks the thermostat. It's cold in the desert this time of year; he turns it up, just a notch, since he's not paying any extra for more. There’s a bar near the Super 8, and he needs bodies, the lone dog company of sitting in a room full of people. The room will warm up while he's gone. John unpacks everything he's willing to leave behind. He salts the windows and doors, locks up and crosses the parking lot. The stars overhead are sharp-toothed.
Even if he hadn’t sat in hundreds, thousands of bars and saloons and taverns over the years, this one would be nondescript. He nurses a few beers in a seat near the jukebox. A weedy kid with a denim jacket and a dirtlip keeps popping quarters for Garth Brooks. Three truckers trade thirdhand sex stories and AM radio nonsense. Some girls giggling at the pool table do their level best, short of ripping the felt with their cues, to attract some attention. John concentrates on his drink.
California’s a big state. This part feels worlds away from Monterey, San Diego-hell, from Palo Alto. Strange to be here and not swing through. He had to break so hard to fall into that habit.
The latest beer’s gone warm and flat. The bartender hovers, watching to see if John’s up for more. He isn’t. There's no one worth hustling or fighting here, and even a young man would admit that the pickings were pretty slim. He leaves his bottle half full and walks back to the motel, hands loose in his pockets.
These chain places don't believe in real keys anymore. He rifles through his jacket for the flimsy magnetized plastic card, feeling like a chump. It always takes him three or four tries to get them to work. The boys never had that trouble. He glances up: the hallway on either side of him is empty, nothing but plaster ceiling and ugly carpet. At last, the light flashes and the lock clicks, untouched in the frame.
The knob is chill as dark water beneath his hand. John stops. He can't hear anything on the other side of the door, but ozone is leaking through the cracks. The smell tips him over the edge. The hall is still empty. He's prepared as he ever is: iron knife, flasks of salt and holy water at his hip. The door swings in, silent on its still-new hinges.
All the lights are on, filaments buzzing and burning brown. Inside the ring of salt, a hurricane has blown through. Furniture, bedding, TV, all of it is wrecked. Sheets of pale, ragged tissue, like the skin peeled off a blister, lie crumpled in the debris. The room is a one-man quiet, shaken by a ceaseless round of shuddering respiration. Peeping over the edge of the bed, John sees it: the curve of a skull, the bristle of hair, the tip of an ear. He halts at the edge of the circle.
The breathing on the other side of the mattress stops. John knows better than to sneak up on a spirit, because nothing dead is ever harmless. He grips the knife, taking stock of the room. His duffle survived the tempest intact and zipped. He’s going to have to cross the salt barrier to retrieve it.
Dad?
The voice cracks and pops like an old cassette. John’s throat tightens. The ghostly head turns: the temple and cheek glisten with something dark and thick. His hand drops, and his guard. It’s not him. He’d have heard from Sam. He eyes the duffle, and the pale shreds of skin on the floor.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says.
The spirit pulls itself to its feet. Half of Dean’s face is ravaged; his arms hang at its side, naked and bloody. Dad, it says again in that eight-track voice. Dad, I’m stuck.
John swallows. “What do you mean?”
The lights flicker. The spirit edges around the bed. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you.
“I just.” He bows his head for a moment. “I just stepped out. I’m here now.”
Dean’s mouth twists. I’m stuck, it repeats. I don’t know what to do. It looks up. Where’s Sam?
John doesn’t know. A week ago they were all in Lawrence. He shouldn’t have done that. Safety means state lines and time zones between them. It’s a big country. They could be anywhere. They should be. The last thing he wants is them close on his heels. He doesn’t reply.
The spirit begins pacing, hugging the edge of the salt lines. Something’s not right, it mutters. I don’t feel right. Dad, I’m stuck. I don’t know what to do. Dean’s eyes snap up onto his: the expression is angry, and young. I’ve been calling you, Dad. Where have you been?
The body’s interred in St. Louis, but the spirit’s been with him, not the remains. “What do you want?” he says, keeping his voice low and steady. The duffle’s not ten feet away. If he’s careful and he times it right, he can snatch it and leave unfollowed.
The ghost digs its nails into its arm, worrying at the peeling flesh. I’m stuck, it whimpers. Its outline flickers; one lightbulb flares up with a noise like insect wings. Why won’t you talk to me?
John’s losing his cool. He can’t let himself get angry here. “Why do you want to talk to me?” he says, clenching and unclenching one fist.
Dean’s eyes go wide, like the pain of all that peeled-off skin has hit him all at once. You don’t know? it stammers. Don’t you miss me?
It’s not Dean. He has to remember that. John stands and looks at the ghost who wears his boy’s body and face. “We’re leaving,” he says at last, and nods at the duffle. “I’m gonna go get your brother, okay?”
You found him?
John exhales. “Yeah. That’s where I went.”
Why isn’t he here? It frowns. Why didn’t you let me come?
“Because you had to stay behind." He pauses, feels the weight of his words. "Because you follow my orders.”
The spirit looks doubtful for a moment, but then steps back, the lines of its shoulders straightening. Okay. John takes his moment and crosses the salt ring. He hefts the bag up across his back, the weapons poking him through the dirty clothes, and turns toward the door. A sheet of dry skin catches on his boot; he shakes it off, wary of the lines penning the ghost in.
A hand closes around his elbow. John looks into Dean’s face, the raw swaths of open flesh healing. Dad. Let me come.
John smiles. “I’m just going to go put this away.” He reaches into his pocket and holds out the plastic key card. “You hold on to this for me.”
The spirit takes it. The lights all brighten. When the lock clicks behind him, John doesn’t know why he doesn’t feel relieved.
*
The phone picks up halfway through its first ring. “Does it ever occur to you that civilized people might be sleeping at this hour?”
Yellow highway markers zip beneath his headlights. He frowns into the darkness in front of him. “Missouri, you got to tell me something.”
She sighs. “Not that I was sleeping anyway. And hello to you too.”
“When I saw you, in Lawrence, you said something was following me.”
There’s a silence on Missouri’s end of the line. “Oh,” she says.
“‘Oh’ what?” He’s running on fumes at this point, and he’s too busy putting distance behind him to think to stop for coffee.
“I sent him away,” she says. “Or I tried. You didn’t know? Truly?”
“It looked like Dean,” he snaps. “It thought it was him.”
“I know.” She sighs again. “He was at your shoulder from the moment you arrived.”
John looks over at the empty passenger seat. “He’s not with me now. I left him behind. I think I picked him up in St. Louis.”
“The newspaper said they buried the creature.”
“They did.” His hand tightens around the phone. “Why’s it following me? What’s keeping it on my tail?”
Missouri goes quiet again. “You really need me to tell you that?”
John knits his brow. He doesn’t answer. The sign for Sacramento catches in his highbeams. He takes the exit.
“John,” she begins.
He interrupts her. “I know.”
He does. He can’t fix it.
*
You’ve followed him until your feet bleed. He’s easy to track: the hole where you’re missing leaves a trail as bright as a signal flare.
Sometimes you still get confused. Your memories are jumbled, and you feel stuck, like your shape isn’t right. But you were with Dad for a while, and it felt good, even if he wouldn’t look at you. Even if he pretended you weren’t there. He’s your dad, and you should be together. Even if you hate him a little. Even if he hated you back.
Except now you’re in Chicago, and it’s gone, the line is gone. Something snipped it, and you can’t find Dad. It sends you spiraling down underground. The sewers bring you comfort like the open highways never did.
Her eyes glimmer when she finds you. She finds you. No one’s ever looked for you before. She strokes the side of your face and runs her fingers down your neck.
She’s little and blonde, the cut short and cute. Just your type, you think.
You find a knife when she lets you run your hands beneath her jacket. The edges of it feel good. You love the touch of her already. You start thinking about things: chairs and cable and gags and rope. You reach for the knife.
She grabs your wrist and takes her mouth off your neck. “Oh, honey pie, one step at a time,” she purrs. Her eyes glimmer, darker than the tunnel.
Something’s wrong. You’re stuck. She grins at you, teeth shining. “Don’t stop now, baby, we’ve got to make this last.” Her fingers sink into your side, through the shirt and into the flesh.
Your cry makes her chuckle. She grips your jaw with one hand. “That’s right, sugar, keep it coming.” Her voice walls you in, and fills you with thick terror. “You,” she murmurs. “What a find you are. And you…” She licks a line up your cheek, and rasps away a strip of skin. “You are just the appetizer.”
Title: Food for the Bees (I Could Easily Be)
Specs: Supernatural, gen, R (for horror elements and special guests), 3450 words
Summary: Set in S1, spanning the time from just after "Skin" to just after "Shadow." Turns out there's one thing John Winchester can't leave by the wayside.
Notes: I've been picking at this bunny since January. Man, am I glad to have it out and done! Many thanks to varadia for her always-insightful beta work.
The call finds John in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. The phone rings once, goes silent, then rings again. He looks up from his lead (turn-of-the-century courts martial records from Fort Sherman) and checks the display on the cell. Not his boys: not a number he recognizes either. It’s someone who knows his system, though: someone who knows him. He picks up.
The voice hisses with poor reception. “John? That you?”
He leans back in his seat. “Hey, Nesbitt. What’s doing?”
“Oh, I’m okay. You seen the St. Louis papers yet?”
He fiddles with his pen. “What for?”
“St. Louis papers say your boy is dead, John. Been saying it nonstop the past two days.”
The library is quiet, too many people just out of sight. “How’s that?” he says, dropping his eyes.
“They caught Dean breaking into houses and cutting people up. Was that something you taught him? I never heard of a hunt required that.”
John unclenches his jaw. It takes an effort to keep his voice down. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“I can read you the article if you like. Got it right in front of me.”
He props his elbow on the table and leans into the palm of his hand. “Where are you right now?”
“Soddy-Daisy, Tennessee, would you believe a name like that?” Just hearing him, John can see him, that stupid gummy open-mouth grin he does.
He takes a breath. “You close enough to do me any favors?”
“Nah, I’m outside Chattanooga. It’s five hundred miles to St. Louis. I was there yesterday.”
John closes his eyes and doesn’t swear. “It can’t be him, I’d have heard from Sam.”
“Oh, it’s him all right. The picture’s definitely of him.” Nesbitt stops for a moment. “You and Sam talking again?”
John balls his free hand. The wedding ring digs into his finger. His hands are swollen; he needs a rest. “Thanks for calling, Nesbitt.” He hangs up before he can get another word off.
*
Two days later, John is at the St. Louis County Medical Examiner’s Office, leafing through a large manila folder in a private conference room. The report isn’t numbered in sequence; more than a few pages are missing. “I’ve been chasing this kid for months now,” he tells the coroner, his eyes on the autopsy photos. “The body’s already been interred?”
She folds her hands in front of her. “Yesterday.”
He grunts. “Shame. They’ll give me hell on that when I file.”
“We didn’t have room to keep it in our morgue.” Her brow furrows. “Which agency were you from again?”
“Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.” He reaches into his jacket. “You need to see my badge again?”
“No.” She shakes her head, staying polite. “It’s just-we already had a fed here. From the FBI.”
John smiles at her. “Government loves its redundancies, ma’am. Nothing you need to worry about.” He scans the list of personal effects. One blue jacket. One pair of jeans. Loose change in the pockets. One pair of boots. One plaid shirt, tan and black. One cotton t-shirt, gray; two sets of bullet holes, two bloodstains, entry and exit wounds. That’s practically everything.
He turns back to the photos. “Cause of death was definitely the shots, correct?”
The coroner nods. “Ballistics hasn’t been able to trace a weapon yet, but the rounds were unusual, to say the least.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “That right?”
“Silver. I’ve never seen anything like it." She peers at him. "Is that why the ATF is involved?”
“I’d comment if I could, but I can’t.” John is still squinting at the thoracic study. The chest is bare, the head cropped out of the photograph. He’d know those scars anywhere: he’s dressed hurts there. “These are good shots.” He turns the picture to her. “Which one killed him?”
“Here.” She taps the photo. “This was the first. Right in the heart.”
John shakes his head slowly, then shuts the folder. “Well, that’s him all right. From what I know of him, anyway." He looks at the coroner: she's eying the file, her shoulders tense. "Was there anything else unusual you found?"
She's schooled her face well: mild, professional. "Just the bullets. Sorry we couldn't have showed him to you."
"Well." He considers pursuing it, but he has all he needs. “All right.” He holds out the folder. “Thanks very much for your time. I can get a copy of this down at Records?”
“Mm-hmm.” She points. “Straight down that hall, take the second right, through the double doors.”
He holds out a hand. “Thanks.”
John leaves, still not sure this wasn’t an overreaction. That boy, though. Silver bullets. Beautiful shot.
*
Nightfall and he's to the end of the Oklahoma panhandle. The Noah’s ark-themed motel is the only one with an opening; his key has two cartoon giraffes on the fob. John’s a parent: he has no illusions about dignity outweighing practicality. One double bed’s as good as the next. Dean would have rolled his eyes and kept them driving. He wouldn't be tired yet. John just wants his rest.
Private space is still strange to him. He shuts the bathroom door in an empty room, even standing at the sink brushing his teeth in his socks. Outside, a cold, wet wind wheezes through the side-of-the-highway empty. The sound of the bristles inside his mouth scrubs it out. The fluorescent light overhead flickers.
Dad?
John stops.
Dad, are you there?
Something is moving its hands over the other side of the door.
Dad?
The toothpaste seeps under his tongue and stings his mouth. John stays still. The noises are childlike, uncertain, and made by something big. He tenses, waiting for the door to swing, or crash, but nothing comes. The light buzzes, shimmers, then hums.
Cold air ghosts over his feet. When he leaves the bathroom, he passes through a chill spot crouched at the threshold.
In the morning, he chooses to head north. Coffee’ll cure a bad night’s sleep. Man can do anything when he’s properly fortified.
*
There’s a myling in Hobart, Wisconsin. Four locals in the past three years found near an old Lutheran church, savaged and broken-boned and sunk into the earth. Records turn up fourteen different candidates, unbaptized infants left to die of exposure.
John stalks the county road for three straight nights. He keeps both pockets full of loose rosary beads, to throw after the myling to distract it. At his belt, he keeps a canteen, 96 ounces, to fend it off. Across his back, he keeps a rod of solid iron, if the water doesn’t work.
The ghost never shows, and John doesn’t have forever. He makes a note to keep tabs on the town, and in the morning he heads west. The radio thrashes until he loses patience and turns it off. It’s a two-man silence in the truck cab; John drives with an empty passenger seat, wondering who’s mad at him.
*
“Dad? I know I’ve left you messages before. I don’t even know if you get ‘em. But I’m with Sam, and we’re in Lawrence. And there’s something in our old house. I don’t know if it’s the thing that killed Mom or not, but… I don’t know what to do. So, whatever you’re doing, if you could get here. Please. I need your help, Dad.”
*
Damn it, Dad!
*
Sure, he’s been back through Lawrence since. Skirted the edges a couple times, swung by once or twice like a comet changing course. He doesn’t call Missouri, he just shows, like he did the first time. She’s changed, of course, but hell, it’s been twenty-two years. Only a few things last that long. She thins her lips and frowns at him as he stands on her front porch.
“John Winchester,” she says, and the name’s part accusation. “Lord, man, what is following you?”
She cuts him off before a reply is even in his mouth. “I wasn’t going to sleep anyway, you come inside and talk to me.” Long night, she tells him as she brews the coffee. “Then again, our nights are always long.”
“My boys,” he asks. “Have they been to see you?”
She nods. “They’re here. Are you gonna see ‘em?” The skeptical bent of her eyebrow is a challenge.
John clears his throat, squeezing the mug cooling against his palms. “There’s really something in that house?”
Missouri watches him a moment, impatient, then shrugs, and looks out the window. “Nothing you’d want dealings with. But it should be over now. We went over earlier, made a big mess taking out a poltergeist.”
He lifts his head. “You were in there?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” She pours herself more coffee. “Sam and Dean went back to their hotel, I think. I told them to come see me again before they went off. You got someplace to stay tonight?”
He's already rolling his shoulders. “I was-”
“John, don’t you even start. I got a guest room upstairs.” She eyes him for a moment, then huffs. “First things first, though. I have a reputation to maintain, so before you go taking your shoes off, you better be hiding that damn ugly truck.”
*
John dreams he hears Missouri talking at the foot of his bed.
“Go on,” she says, soft and low. John’s eyelids flutter. He can’t see much: even his dreams are ill-lit.
“Go on. I don’t know what you are, but go on. Go for a walk, you leave this poor man alone.”
He’s-
“Go on,” she says, more sternly this time. If something happens next, he doesn’t catch it.
*
“I have to go,” she says after she puts the phone down. “Something else happened after I left.”
He’s on his feet. “What? Are they okay?”
She knits her brow, opens her mouth without knowing how to name it. “It’s Mary,” she says. “You stay put. I’ll call as soon as I know something.”
*
John hunts three poltergeists all in a row, Texas-New Mexico-Nevada.
The empty space at his side stews too.
*
He makes it through Death Valley and takes a room outside of Bishop, California. He drops his bags at the foot of the bed and checks the thermostat. It's cold in the desert this time of year; he turns it up, just a notch, since he's not paying any extra for more. There’s a bar near the Super 8, and he needs bodies, the lone dog company of sitting in a room full of people. The room will warm up while he's gone. John unpacks everything he's willing to leave behind. He salts the windows and doors, locks up and crosses the parking lot. The stars overhead are sharp-toothed.
Even if he hadn’t sat in hundreds, thousands of bars and saloons and taverns over the years, this one would be nondescript. He nurses a few beers in a seat near the jukebox. A weedy kid with a denim jacket and a dirtlip keeps popping quarters for Garth Brooks. Three truckers trade thirdhand sex stories and AM radio nonsense. Some girls giggling at the pool table do their level best, short of ripping the felt with their cues, to attract some attention. John concentrates on his drink.
California’s a big state. This part feels worlds away from Monterey, San Diego-hell, from Palo Alto. Strange to be here and not swing through. He had to break so hard to fall into that habit.
The latest beer’s gone warm and flat. The bartender hovers, watching to see if John’s up for more. He isn’t. There's no one worth hustling or fighting here, and even a young man would admit that the pickings were pretty slim. He leaves his bottle half full and walks back to the motel, hands loose in his pockets.
These chain places don't believe in real keys anymore. He rifles through his jacket for the flimsy magnetized plastic card, feeling like a chump. It always takes him three or four tries to get them to work. The boys never had that trouble. He glances up: the hallway on either side of him is empty, nothing but plaster ceiling and ugly carpet. At last, the light flashes and the lock clicks, untouched in the frame.
The knob is chill as dark water beneath his hand. John stops. He can't hear anything on the other side of the door, but ozone is leaking through the cracks. The smell tips him over the edge. The hall is still empty. He's prepared as he ever is: iron knife, flasks of salt and holy water at his hip. The door swings in, silent on its still-new hinges.
All the lights are on, filaments buzzing and burning brown. Inside the ring of salt, a hurricane has blown through. Furniture, bedding, TV, all of it is wrecked. Sheets of pale, ragged tissue, like the skin peeled off a blister, lie crumpled in the debris. The room is a one-man quiet, shaken by a ceaseless round of shuddering respiration. Peeping over the edge of the bed, John sees it: the curve of a skull, the bristle of hair, the tip of an ear. He halts at the edge of the circle.
The breathing on the other side of the mattress stops. John knows better than to sneak up on a spirit, because nothing dead is ever harmless. He grips the knife, taking stock of the room. His duffle survived the tempest intact and zipped. He’s going to have to cross the salt barrier to retrieve it.
Dad?
The voice cracks and pops like an old cassette. John’s throat tightens. The ghostly head turns: the temple and cheek glisten with something dark and thick. His hand drops, and his guard. It’s not him. He’d have heard from Sam. He eyes the duffle, and the pale shreds of skin on the floor.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says.
The spirit pulls itself to its feet. Half of Dean’s face is ravaged; his arms hang at its side, naked and bloody. Dad, it says again in that eight-track voice. Dad, I’m stuck.
John swallows. “What do you mean?”
The lights flicker. The spirit edges around the bed. Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you.
“I just.” He bows his head for a moment. “I just stepped out. I’m here now.”
Dean’s mouth twists. I’m stuck, it repeats. I don’t know what to do. It looks up. Where’s Sam?
John doesn’t know. A week ago they were all in Lawrence. He shouldn’t have done that. Safety means state lines and time zones between them. It’s a big country. They could be anywhere. They should be. The last thing he wants is them close on his heels. He doesn’t reply.
The spirit begins pacing, hugging the edge of the salt lines. Something’s not right, it mutters. I don’t feel right. Dad, I’m stuck. I don’t know what to do. Dean’s eyes snap up onto his: the expression is angry, and young. I’ve been calling you, Dad. Where have you been?
The body’s interred in St. Louis, but the spirit’s been with him, not the remains. “What do you want?” he says, keeping his voice low and steady. The duffle’s not ten feet away. If he’s careful and he times it right, he can snatch it and leave unfollowed.
The ghost digs its nails into its arm, worrying at the peeling flesh. I’m stuck, it whimpers. Its outline flickers; one lightbulb flares up with a noise like insect wings. Why won’t you talk to me?
John’s losing his cool. He can’t let himself get angry here. “Why do you want to talk to me?” he says, clenching and unclenching one fist.
Dean’s eyes go wide, like the pain of all that peeled-off skin has hit him all at once. You don’t know? it stammers. Don’t you miss me?
It’s not Dean. He has to remember that. John stands and looks at the ghost who wears his boy’s body and face. “We’re leaving,” he says at last, and nods at the duffle. “I’m gonna go get your brother, okay?”
You found him?
John exhales. “Yeah. That’s where I went.”
Why isn’t he here? It frowns. Why didn’t you let me come?
“Because you had to stay behind." He pauses, feels the weight of his words. "Because you follow my orders.”
The spirit looks doubtful for a moment, but then steps back, the lines of its shoulders straightening. Okay. John takes his moment and crosses the salt ring. He hefts the bag up across his back, the weapons poking him through the dirty clothes, and turns toward the door. A sheet of dry skin catches on his boot; he shakes it off, wary of the lines penning the ghost in.
A hand closes around his elbow. John looks into Dean’s face, the raw swaths of open flesh healing. Dad. Let me come.
John smiles. “I’m just going to go put this away.” He reaches into his pocket and holds out the plastic key card. “You hold on to this for me.”
The spirit takes it. The lights all brighten. When the lock clicks behind him, John doesn’t know why he doesn’t feel relieved.
*
The phone picks up halfway through its first ring. “Does it ever occur to you that civilized people might be sleeping at this hour?”
Yellow highway markers zip beneath his headlights. He frowns into the darkness in front of him. “Missouri, you got to tell me something.”
She sighs. “Not that I was sleeping anyway. And hello to you too.”
“When I saw you, in Lawrence, you said something was following me.”
There’s a silence on Missouri’s end of the line. “Oh,” she says.
“‘Oh’ what?” He’s running on fumes at this point, and he’s too busy putting distance behind him to think to stop for coffee.
“I sent him away,” she says. “Or I tried. You didn’t know? Truly?”
“It looked like Dean,” he snaps. “It thought it was him.”
“I know.” She sighs again. “He was at your shoulder from the moment you arrived.”
John looks over at the empty passenger seat. “He’s not with me now. I left him behind. I think I picked him up in St. Louis.”
“The newspaper said they buried the creature.”
“They did.” His hand tightens around the phone. “Why’s it following me? What’s keeping it on my tail?”
Missouri goes quiet again. “You really need me to tell you that?”
John knits his brow. He doesn’t answer. The sign for Sacramento catches in his highbeams. He takes the exit.
“John,” she begins.
He interrupts her. “I know.”
He does. He can’t fix it.
*
You’ve followed him until your feet bleed. He’s easy to track: the hole where you’re missing leaves a trail as bright as a signal flare.
Sometimes you still get confused. Your memories are jumbled, and you feel stuck, like your shape isn’t right. But you were with Dad for a while, and it felt good, even if he wouldn’t look at you. Even if he pretended you weren’t there. He’s your dad, and you should be together. Even if you hate him a little. Even if he hated you back.
Except now you’re in Chicago, and it’s gone, the line is gone. Something snipped it, and you can’t find Dad. It sends you spiraling down underground. The sewers bring you comfort like the open highways never did.
Her eyes glimmer when she finds you. She finds you. No one’s ever looked for you before. She strokes the side of your face and runs her fingers down your neck.
She’s little and blonde, the cut short and cute. Just your type, you think.
You find a knife when she lets you run your hands beneath her jacket. The edges of it feel good. You love the touch of her already. You start thinking about things: chairs and cable and gags and rope. You reach for the knife.
She grabs your wrist and takes her mouth off your neck. “Oh, honey pie, one step at a time,” she purrs. Her eyes glimmer, darker than the tunnel.
Something’s wrong. You’re stuck. She grins at you, teeth shining. “Don’t stop now, baby, we’ve got to make this last.” Her fingers sink into your side, through the shirt and into the flesh.
Your cry makes her chuckle. She grips your jaw with one hand. “That’s right, sugar, keep it coming.” Her voice walls you in, and fills you with thick terror. “You,” she murmurs. “What a find you are. And you…” She licks a line up your cheek, and rasps away a strip of skin. “You are just the appetizer.”