FIC: - Blind Spot - 7/14
Title: - Blind Spot - Chapter 7/14
Author:
pdragon76
Rating: NC-17 (language, whump, sex)
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: AU, set six months after AHBL2
Disclaimer: All things Supernatural belong to Kripke, not me (rinse & repeat).
Summary: Dean’s on a slow burn after a bloody confrontation with an old nemesis. Sam’s got his hands full picking up the pieces. The Crossroads Deal isn’t the only timer ticking. Warnings for language, whump and sex.
A/N: Chapters post Saturdays Dragons Mean Time (DMT). Some liberties have been taken with locations. Apologies to any mortified Oregonians. Mad props to my iron-fisted, velvet-gloved betas.
kimonkey7 - you relentlessly demand more from my writerly self than I am capable of giving, and sometimes you get it. For that, the Dragons is eternally in your debt.
ailleann23 - you question, you prod, you poke, you cheer, you champion, you rock. What more can I say?
Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5 Ch 6
- Blind Spot - : Chapter Seven
The least initial deviation from the truth is multiplied later a thousandfold.
~Aristotle
“Were you really willing to let me kill Jo?” Sam sent the question past the bloodied blade, squinted at him. He pressed the flat of the knife to his lips, dragged it the length of his mouth.
Dean watched and swallowed, stomach pitching.
God, Sam.
Sam waved the knife in his face, and Dean closed his eyes.
“I mean, if I really had to guess? I’d say you were. I’d say you were willing to overlook a whole lot of terrible, terrible things.” Sam brought the blade up against Dean’s left cheekbone.
When he felt the cool tip punch the skin, Dean cracked his eyes. Sam froze, fingers tight around the hilt of the knife. They stared each other down until Dean felt the trickle of his blood curve beneath his jaw, snake down his neck.
“Just do it, you son of a bitch.”
Sam sank the blade against bone, dragged it across his cheek. Dean bit down, put two teeth through the inside of his lower lip and tasted the warm, rusty tingle of blood against his tongue.
His brother raised the knife to his mouth again. Dean turned his face, lip curling in disgust, when Sam licked the blade clean.
“You were gonna let me kill a lot of people, weren’t you, Dean? Before you found some balls and stopped me.”
*********************************************************************************************
The cuts in Dean’s chest were healing up alright. Not great, but as well as could be expected given the circumstances. It had been ten days, and Sam was happy enough to lose the stitches when Dean cried mercy, argued he hadn’t had a decent shower in nearly two weeks.
The section near his ribs where the stitches had torn still looked angry, and there was some localized swelling. The lacerations running diagonals down his pectoral muscles were still showing lingering signs of infection. None of it was very pretty. He’d seen Dean’s chest a dozen times in the last two weeks and it still made Sam feel vaguely sick, cast him back to the bloody scene at the warehouse.
“You still taking those antibiotics?”
“Yep.”
“Good.”
It felt like a cheap shot, waiting until he had Dean half naked and a scalpel in his hand. But Sam knew his brother pretty well, and he didn’t want him clamming up and taking off. Quarter way through the removal of fifty-something stitches was about as anchored as Dean was getting without Sam actually using the handcuffs.
“We gotta talk, Dean.”
“Okay.” Dean nodded, stared at the tabletop.
“I mean, I’ve been trying to give you space, but… I gotta know what happened at the farmhouse.”
Dean was still nodding. Sam waited for a while, clipped a few stitches loose, before he said: “Dean?”
“I nearly shot her.”
When Sam looked up at him, he couldn’t read the expression there.
Dean lifted his thumb and forefinger, illustrated how close he’d come. “You imagine that? Sorry, Ellen.” He passed the flat of his fingers over his mouth, and when he dropped the hand to his thigh, Sam saw the tremor in his lips. Understood suddenly and horribly how thin his brother’s veneer of control had worn.
Sam kept his mouth shut, turned his attention back to the cut at Dean’s ribs. There wasn’t anything he could say to make it forgivable. They’d both had too many firearms pass through their hands growing up to be making mistakes like that. Dean had fucked up. Plain and simple. Time to thank Jo’s lucky stars and move on.
“And the dead guy?”
Dean lifted his hand to his brow, kneaded it with his thumb. “I thought it moved.”
Sam tugged loose the last of the stitches from Dean’s side, dropped them on to the tabletop. He paused, gave Dean a long, measured stare.
“You know it didn’t, right?”
Dean met his eyes momentarily, dropped his gaze to the tabletop. “Yeah. I know.”
“You’re not up to this job, man. I mean, I totally agree we’ve got a situation here and we gotta do somethin’ about it, but you’ve gotta sit this one out, Dean.”
“Sam--”
“You wanna tell me about the dreams you’ve been havin’?”
Dean got a haunted, stubborn look, his eyes suddenly dull and guarded. “Not really, no.”
Sam squinted, lifted a finger and pointed to the black eye Dean’s fist had left beneath his split brow. “I think we’re past the point at which I’m asking nicely.”
Dean jiggled his knee, took his time answering. Sam started in on the laceration in his chest, didn’t push him.
“It’s nothin’ real clear. It’s all - It’s just flashes. Sensations.”
Sam didn’t miss the pause before that last word, the way it curled Dean’s lip as he forced it out. Like it tasted bad. Thirty-six hours. You could fit a lot of sensations into thirty-six hours. It made Sam sick thinking about it.
“It’s mostly Dad.”
“Okay,” Sam said carefully. “Is he-?”
“Possessed? No. I don’t think so.”
The tremble was back in Dean’s lip, and Sam dipped his chin, went back to work on the stitches.
“Well, I gotta tell you, it looks pretty rough from this angle, Dean. For a dream about the old man.”
“I think it’s the warehouse. I mean, my hands are tied and I’m messed up and…he won’t cut me loose.” His heel bounced, knee jumping again. “He’s sayin’ something about you comin’ and…” Dean’s voice hitched, and his chest jumped beneath Sam’s fingers.
He lifted the scalpel, froze.
“I’ve forgotten somethin’… or I have to remember somethin’…” Dean got his hand up too late to catch the first salty slip down his cheek. Sam caught it instead, on the back of his forearm, and looked up.
Oh, shit.
“I’m sorry, man. It’s okay. You don’t have to…” He clapped his palm around the back of Dean’s neck and squeezed. “Hey, it’s okay.”
But Dean shut his eyes, turned his face and resisted the contact. Sam let go. He dropped the scalpel onto the table.
Too far, man. Back the fuck off.
Sam pushed back his chair, stood. “I’m gonna clear out for a while.”
He stopped outside the motel room, raked his hands down his face. He didn’t have anywhere to go, but he figured he could make it to Asshat from here on foot. No trouble at all.
*********************************************************************************************
Dean was up close and personal at the bathroom mirror, halfway through the stitches in his cheek, when Sam returned. He glanced at his brother’s reflection as Sam leaned on the doorframe behind him.
“Hey.” Dean threw him a half-smile with the greeting, hoped it didn’t look as forced as it felt. I’m okay. We’re okay.
Sam pointed at him. “You need me to finish that up?”
Dean worked the scalpel up under the thread, paused while he mentally reversed the reflected instinct of his fingers. The first two snips had been clumsy, the last four better. He was getting the hang of it. “No. Thanks. I got it.”
Sam cleared his throat awkwardly. “So I got a call from Jo. We’re gonna catch up tomorrow. We got a day or so to go over what we got, plot a map, maybe. See what’s what.”
Dean cut the last stitch, dropped the scalpel onto the counter. He nodded. “Okay.”
Sam stayed there in the doorway while Dean plucked the pieces of thread out of his cheek, one at a time. It didn’t hurt any, but it was an uncomfortable sensation, pulling something out of you that shouldn’t be there. It made his eye twitch.
“You need to take a piss or somethin’, Sam?” He didn’t mean it to sound as dismissive as it did. Sam started off the doorframe, made a faltering move out of the bathroom before he stopped, and turned back. Dean watched him in the mirror, eyebrows raised.
“I just… I’m sorry about before, man. I hate to push, but…” He shook his head. “If you’re coming apart, I need to know. Like, before it happens. You think you can give me that? I mean, I know you don’t wanna talk about it, and I can understand that. But if there’s anything I need to know, or you’re gonna hit the deck? If you can give me a heads up on that stuff? I think I can live with that.”
Dean turned and leaned on the vanity. “I’m not in the business of puttin’ you in harm’s way, Sam. You know that.”
“You’re not normally in the business of lying to me either, Dean.”
Dean nodded. “Okay.” He paused, studied the floor. “Glock’s in the trunk. Bowie’s in the drawer next to your bed.”
“Dean, I didn’t mean-”
“Look, ‘til I get a handle on this shit, let’s just keep this stuff someplace I have to think about it before I use it.” He frowned at Sam’s bruised eye. “If you’re gonna wake me up, just…stay on your toes, okay? Use a fuckin’ stick or somethin’.”
“I’m not crazy about the idea of you walking around unarmed.”
“Couch duty, Sam. I don’t need a Glock to turn a page. Besides, gun didn’t do me any good in that alley.” He sniffed a laugh. “She shows up, I’ll throw the Latin dictionary at her.”
“That’s not funny, Dean.”
“I’m not joking. That thing’s heavy.”
“Dean.”
Dean came off the vanity and reached out for the door handle. “Sam, I’m gonna turn this water on, then I’m gonna stand under it for ‘bout an hour. You wanna keep caring and sharing, we can go another round then. But the shower’s a one man job.” He waggled the door. “Get out.”
**********************************************************************************************
By lunchtime they had everything laid out. Everywhere. Dean looked around from his perch at the table. Looks like a tornado went through here.
“So, I got eighteen towns in the last three years that have had an evac or a quarantine that might fit the bill.” Dean tapped his pen on the map. “Apart from the fact that they’re all small towns, I’m not seeing any pattern here, man. It’s all over the shop. I got fourteen different states.”
“There’s a pattern,” Sam said absently from the couch, book open in his lap. “We’re just not seeing it. What are the dates?” He leaned forward, looked at his notes on the coffee table. “Bobby call you back yet?”
Dean scratched inside his ear, inspected the end of his finger. “Nope. How are my ears dirty? I just took, like, an hour-long shower.”
“You still have to clean ‘em, Dean. The dirt doesn’t just jump out.”
Dean screwed up his face. “What? You mean scrub ‘em? Who does that? Nobody does that, do they?”
Sam clapped his book shut. “People with clean ears do it, Dean. Are you bored already? This is your case. I can’t believe you’re bored already.”
Dean jiggled his knee, flipped his pen around his fingers. “Do we know anything about this guy Jo’s been working with? I mean, besides the fact that he’s leading with his dick?” He leaned forward and tilted his chin at the stack of books next to the map. He yanked on a thin spine a third of the way down, perused the collection of sticky notes hanging from the pages. “Dude, if you’re gonna tag every page, why don’t you just stick one note on the front sayin’ READ IT?”
Sam cracked his book open again, didn’t look up. “Because you won’t.”
Dean flipped through the text distractedly for a half minute. Then he slammed it shut and looked up at Sam, one hand on his knee. “I mean, has anyone checked he hasn’t killed six chicks and kept their teeth in a box or somethin’?”
Sam shrugged. “Bobby wouldn’t have hooked her up with anyone he didn’t trust. And besides, she can handle herself. From what I gather, I’d say she’s had a good look at his… credentials.”
“See, this is what I’m talkin’ about.” Dean opened the book again, flicked through the pages roughly. “They’re gonna get each other killed,” he mumbled.
Sam hunted for an elusive document amidst the mess in front of him.
“Dean, why is this bothering you so much?” He gave up on the search, sipped his coffee instead. “My God, are you jealous?”
Dean overshot his incredulous look of dismissal by a mile. “What? Am I -? No, you dick. She’s Ellen’s kid. Jesus.”
The look Sam shot him was equal parts amusement and reproach. “Yeah, she’s Ellen’s kid. So, don’t do anything stupid.”
“What am I - an idiot? She’s a friend, Sam. I don’t wanna fuck her, I just don’t wanna see anything happen to her.”
Sam nodded, watched his brother dubiously. “A friend. Right. ‘Cause you have so many of those. Women in particular.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you don’t have any friends who are women.”
“That is such bullshit. What about Ellen?”
“She’s old enough to be your mother, Dean.”
Dean thought for a while. “Cassie?” he ventured. “I’m still friends with Cassie.”
Sam gave him a disgusted look of wonderment. “Dude, you got within ten feet of her and the clothes came off. Besides, when did you last speak to her?”
Dean slapped his book shut. “Well, excuse me. Been a little busy this year, what with the gate to Hell flyin’ open ‘n all. I don’t see you sittin’ around paintin’ your nails with your little girly friends. You fuckin’ monk.”
“I’m just saying, it’s not in your make-up, man. You can’t do it.”
“Whatever. I just hope Jo knows what she’s doin’. This isn’t the line of work to be mixing business with the naked. That’s how people get themselves dead.”
Sam snorted. “Oh, my God, did you just say that? Did that actually come out of your mouth?”
Dean ignored him. He buried his nose in the book, gave the flagged pages his undivided attention.
Sam chuckled, chewed the end of his pen. “This line of work? People get themselves dead whether they’re screwin’ each other or not, Dean. You should be glad someone’s got her back.”
But Dean wasn’t listening anymore.
“Huh.”
Sam could tell from his tone they had changed topics. “What?”
Dean got up from the table, brought the open book over, and spun it around, handed it to him. “Page 87. Bottom paragraph.”
Sam read it. “Okay, second seal, apocalypse. What about it?”
“‘Power to take peace from the earth and make men slay each other’, Sam.”
Sam shook his head. “This is talking about the book of Revelations, Dean. Sovereignty of God. Not demons.”
Dean shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, biblical bullshit. Whatever. She said something about an unleashing.”
“Who, Jo?”
“No, dipshit.” He paused. “Meg. Something about the end of the world, oceans bloody, blah blah blah. That sorta thing. Sounded kinda… apocalyptic.”
Sam sat up a little straighter, looked down at the book. “You think this is -? You think she’s -?”
Dean saw the panic there and headed it off. “Meg’s a grunt, Sam. She’s not pullin’ any strings. I’m just sayin’, you know, historically, a plague’s as good a way as any to knock us on our ass. And if it sends everyone stab-happy and frothin’ at the mouth? Takes a lot of the leg work outta your little demon uprising.”
“Dean, if Meg’s got anything to do with this…”
“She’s not the only demon on the loose, Sam. I mean, I know it feels like she is right now, but she’s not. Don’t get all paranoid. Let’s just take this one fucked up demon problem at a time.”
Sam nodded. “Okay, so eighteen random towns? Why doesn’t this thing ever spread?”
Dean tapped a finger against his temple. “Now that, little brother, is the million dollar question.”
**********************************************************************************************
At two, Sam was ready for another pass at the library.
“You’re kidding, right?” Dean blinked around the room at the strewn texts.
Sam shoved the laptop into his satchel. “Look, you wanna come or not?”
“Do I wanna come? As in, get outta this room?” Dean threw down his pen. “Hell, yes.”
It was a miserable day. The streets were slick with the continual drizzle of rain and the sky was overcast; slung a grey pall over the city. They stopped at a café and picked up a late lunch, and Dean insisted on a table beneath the verandah despite the weather. He’d had enough of indoors, thank you very much. He spread out the map he’d brought from the motel, pinned the edge down with his coffee. Stared at the thing while he ate, but nothing was leaping out.
“Half of these are gonna be legit,” he complained around a mouthful of burger. “Eighteen fuckin’ case histories. This is gonna take me all week.”
Sam tossed his napkin onto the table and stood up. “Well, it’s a good thing you got nothing better to do then. Library’s a block or two across the park. You staying here?”
Dean kept his eyes on the map, bounced a salute off his temple and pointed at his plate. “I got food. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
He forced the last three bites of the burger into his mouth in one go, wiped his hands on his jeans and picked his cell off the table. He was still chewing when Jo picked up.
“Hey. It lives.”
“What were you doin’ out at Timber in the first place?” A slither of lettuce shot out of his mouth and he picked it off the map, poked it back between his lips.
“Was that even English? Are you speaking Latin?”
Dean rolled his eyes, swallowed half the remaining burger. “The job in Timber, what was it?”
“I was checking out a thing for a guy.”
“Oh, a thing, huh? Well, thanks. Really clears that up for me.”
“You’re gonna be a dick about it.”
“I won’t be a dick about it.”
“A crop circle.”
Half of Dean’s mouthful shot up the back of his nose. He spluttered. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Dean.”
“No, no. I just thought you said ‘crop circle’.”
“You’re a jackass.”
“You’re right. I’m gonna be a dick about this. What the fuck, Jo?”
**********************************************************************************************
By the time Sam came out of the library, it had stopped raining. He paused at the top of the steps, balanced the stack of texts between the cement retaining wall and the brass railing, and reassembled them pyramid style. He took the stairs at a jog, paused at the bottom to get his bearings.
He’d somehow gotten himself turned around. It took him half a block to figure out the park he’d cut across from the main drag was actually down the other end of the street. Just as he was passing the library for the second time, his cell rang. He juggled the books against his ribs, dug the phone awkwardly out of his inside jacket pocket.
Bobby.
“Hey, Bobby.”
“Sam. How you boys making out?”
“Ah, we’re doin’ okay. I think. There’s a lot to go through, but… I’ll know more tonight. Could sure use a jump-start, though. If you got one.”
Up ahead near the park, Sam could see a bench seat and he made a bee-line for it, books threatening to spill.
“Well, I got something, but… Dean there?”
“No, I’m heading to him now. You want us to call you back in a few?”
“No. It’s just… Sam, I don’t know if I should be talkin’ to him or you.”
Sam slowed on the sidewalk, frowned. “Well, either-or usually does the trick, Bobby. What’s up?”
“That town Dean asked me to check up on, River Grove, Oregon? The demonic virus? I got to checking up on anything earlier than that, similar circumstances, other towns…”
“Yeah.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Well, I might have found something.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up beneath his fringe and he stopped completely. “Bobby, where? I mean, this could be good news.”
“Just… don’t get ahead of me here, Sam. Back in 2005, little farming town called Boyup Brook had what they referred to as a ‘medical event’.”
“A medical event?” Sam repeated. “Like an outbreak? Were there murders?”
“All I can dig up is that the entire town was quarantined by the CDC for a whole month. No one in or out. They had the feds and the National Guard running the blockades.”
“How did this not get press coverage? How do we not know about this?”
“It did. As Mad Cow Disease.”
“Holy shit. Are you sure it’s…”
“No. Not even nearly, Sam. It’s just…”
He trailed off again, and Sam hiked the books up under his arm, feeling the weight. Fifteen feet away, the bench beckoned. He found his feet again and headed for it.
“Bobby?”
“Well, I got some articles here from a neighboring town called Mekkering. Their local rag. And there’s some photographs.”
“So?”
“So, Meg Masters is in the one of them.”
Sam went cold. His stomach dropped through the soles of his feet, hit the sidewalk, and kept going. His lips worked around the word a couple of times, and he had to swallow - get some moisture back in his mouth - before he could get it out.
“What?”
“It’s Meg, Sam.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, it’s black and white and she’s in the background, but… Sam, the kid died on my living room floor. I know her when I see her.”
“Okay.” Sam stepped sideways to the bench, dropped the books onto the rain sprinkled slats. “Okay.”
He lifted a hand to his lips, looked around the park instinctively, hairs at the back of his neck bristling. He almost expected her to step out from behind a tree. But Meg Masters was dead. The demon could be anyone. Had been anyone. A barb of panic tugged deep in his gut, spurred a violent and overwhelming compulsion to move. He needed to sight Dean. Now. Sam started to collect the books, cell between his shoulder and his chin.
In his ear, Bobby was talking again.
“You still there?”
“Yeah. I’m - This is - What does this mean?”
“It means you need to get Dean the hell out of there. I don’t know what it means for Jo and Marcus, but for you? It means you need to get your brother as far away from that town as possible. Right now.”
Sam was nodding. “Okay.”
He looked around the park again, shoulder connecting with a businessman passing on the path as he turned. The unexpected impact nearly sent him clean out of his skin, and he balked violently, muttered an apology when the guy caught his arm and sidestepped. He shot Sam an irritated glance.
When he remembered Bobby at his ear, Sam said it again, and there was intent this time behind the word. “Okay. But Bobby? He’s not gonna wanna go. I mean, he’s gonna dig his heels in.”
Bobby was silent for a second. “Kid might surprise you.”
“Bobby, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
Sam hung up the phone and forced a few deep breaths. That was the thing about Dean Winchester surprises. They were hardly ever the good kind.
*********************************************************************************************
Sam nearly dropped the books in relief when he spied Dean outside the café.
I’m not ready. I’m not going to be ready.
He was nestled at the corner table of the sparsely populated alfresco area, back to the wall of the building, with one boot drawn up and resting on his knee. The fingers of his left hand were tracked through the hair at the crown of his head, and his face was tilted down. As Sam got closer, he saw the notebook resting on Dean’s thigh. Dean was scribbling something in it, eyes darting from the map on the table to the pen in his hand. It felt comfortable and familiar, to see that casually bored and distracted look about him. Sam hated that he was about to fuck with it.
“Hey.”
Dean dropped his elbow off the arm of the chair and looked up, returned the greeting. He pointed his pen at the coffee mug on the opposite side of the table as Sam dropped his pile of books beside it.
“It’s cold,” he said, eyes on the text in front of him. He scratched his eyebrow with the pen. “I dunno what I was thinking. I mean, I heard the words. Sam. Library. And I still ordered you one.”
Sam pushed the mug to the side, sat down. Dean looked at his watch.
“What is that, like a record for you? Half hour? They call a fire drill or somethin’?”
Sam settled in the chair, looked around the café. At the far end of the verandah, a woman was watching them over the top of her book. He felt a clutch of unease at her interest, stared her down until she realized he was watching and blushed, dropped her eyes back to the pages in her hand.
“How long’s that woman been watching you?”
Dean twisted in his chair, gave her a fleeting glance. He shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Well, how long has she been there?”
Dean gave him a wordless shake of the head.
“’Cause it looks like she’s lookin’ at you.”
Dean’s brow furrowed. He shot the woman another look, cocked his head in vague amusement as he turned back.
“Sam, you can’t spot a pickup when they’re droolin’ on your feet and their panties are flyin’ off. All of a sudden you got a 10-4 from five tables away? What’s goin’ on?”
Sam jiggled his knee. Not here. He didn’t want to have this conversation here. He didn’t want to be here. Bobby’s call had laid an instant minefield below the surface of the town. Everything suddenly felt beyond his control; open, unsafe. And he had no way of gauging how Dean was going to react to the possibility of Meg’s involvement here.
Since when have I not known how Dean was going to react?
“Can we just get outta here?”
Dean raised his eyebrows, gave Sam a tight shake of his head as he slapped the notebook from his lap onto the table.
“Fine. I’ll go pay.” He waved his hand at the books. “Grab this stuff and I’ll meet you at the car.”
Sam stood up too quickly, started gathering up the books, and almost knocked over the cold coffee. Dean swiped it up off the table, dipped his face to catch Sam’s eye.
“Hey, fumblefuck. You alright?”
Sam paused, shook his head. “I just wanna get outta here.”
“Yeah, I’m gettin’ that.”
Dean gave him a last wary glance as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, then he headed inside to the counter. Sam hauled the books off the table and set off for the Impala.
When Dean hadn’t come out five minutes later, Sam left the books on the hood and retraced his steps back to the café.
Unbelievable.
Dean was straddling a café chair, arms folded on the backrest, talking to the woman with the book. She said something and he laughed, jerked a thumb back towards the street.
“Dean!”
He looked over, gave Sam an irritated frown, and held up two fingers. Two minutes, he mouthed.
Sam gave him a frantic gesture designed to convey the unacceptability of this proposition. He waited long enough to confirm that Dean had totally disregarded it, and then stalked back to the Impala.
*********************************************************************************************
When Sam slid the chain home on the motel door, Dean gave him a puzzled look. “If you’re gonna jerk off, you’re supposed to lock me out of the motel room. You realize this, right?”
If Sam thought it was funny, he didn’t let his face in on the gag. “Listen, sit down. I gotta tell you something.”
Dean froze. “What?” He dropped the Impala keys onto the coffee table, stayed standing. “Sam?”
Sam twisted his index finger in the hair at his temple.
Classic Sam Winchester stress response number one.
“Got the hair twiddle there, Sammy.” Dean frowned. “This can’t be good.”
“Look, I just got a call from Bobby, and we’ve got a problem.”
“Okay.” Dean raised his eyebrows, hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans.
“He found another town called Boyup Brook, back in 2005? He’s got some photos and…” Sam trailed off. He screwed up his face at Dean, lifted his top lip.
Dean shook his head. “Sam, what? You look like you just crapped your pants, man.”
“Dean, Meg’s in them.”
Sam looked braced for a Boeing 747 impact. And Dean knew that nothing short of a nuclear explosion was going to cover his ass. So he didn’t try.
“Meg, huh?” He lifted a hand to his throat, scratched the underside of his jaw. “Really?”
Sam stared at him. Dean saw the realization dawn.
“You knew.”
It was a bitter accusation, and one of which Dean was categorically, inescapably guilty. He’d known this was going to happen. Even got the timing pretty spot on, and right now, he was wishing he’d put a bit more thought into how he was going to explain himself.
In the end he just nodded. Decided maybe it was better that he didn’t try.
Sam turned away from him, brought both hands up to his face and tilted his head back at the ceiling. He inhaled long and loud, blew it out through his lips in a kind of quiet, shaky way that made Dean grimace a little.
Holy fuck. He’s gonna blow something. A gasket. Major artery. Maybe my head off.
Sam paced, kept his back to Dean, fingers laced behind his head. Dean knew he was absorbing, processing, figuring out how deeply and permanently this betrayal ran.
“When? When did you know?”
Dean took a deep breath himself. This was going to be the real kicker. “I burned the pictures. Back at Bobby’s.”
Sam froze, then Dean saw him nodding slowly. “That shit about Cold Oak?”
“I had to get you on the road, man. And I’m not sorry. I wish I was, Sam, but I’m not. I gotta finish this.”
And then Sam was chuckling. It was an awful, slow chuckle and when he turned his eyes were tight and hard. “You gotta finish this.” He nodded, thought about that some. “You. Gotta finish this.”
He came across the floor of the motel room fast. Dean straightened instinctively, shifted his weight down through the balls of his feet. When Sam didn’t stop, came right up to him, Dean said, “Back off, Sam,” once, quietly, but held his ground.
Sam ignored him, got up close in his face. “I get a say in this at all? Huh, Dean?”
“Sam. Back it up.” Dean resisted the urge to step back, disengage.
Sam shook his head, pointed a finger at him. “Because last I checked you and I were still working together. We were figuring out this shit together.” Sam stepped forward on the raised octave of the last.
Dean was starting to feel light-headed. “I said: Back off, Sam.”
But Sam was too angry to take the warning for what it was. He jabbed his index finger at Dean’s chest. “Don’t tell me to back off!”
He shouted it, and Dean exploded in response before either of them had any time to think about it.
It wasn’t fancy, but it did the trick. He grabbed Sam by the wrist, yanked forward, and collected him around the throat with his free hand. Stamped out a foot behind Sam’s heel, and sent him backwards over it.
Sam hit the deck square on his back with an ooof, Dean’s hand still clamped around his throat. Dean leaned his weight down through his forearm against Sam’s chest, pinned him there and used the leverage to shift his weight to his knee on the floor beside his brother. Adrenalin had got him down there, and Dean was suddenly acutely aware of Meg’s lingering reminders, the pain and weakness through his chest and the shoulder. The first breath he took was a little ragged with it. Getting up was going to be a problem.
Sam caught the look on Dean’s face and went slack in his hands.
“Okay. Okay,” he said, suddenly soothing.
Dean lifted him, slammed him back against the floor. Hard enough to get his attention, but with a little in reserve.
“I know you’re angry at me, and I deserve it, and I get that. But when I ask you to back off, I need it to happen. Understand?” Dean said it low and fast, and he didn’t give it enough volume to keep the quaver out of his voice.
Sam nodded.
Dean loosened his grip a little, took a breath. He let it out again through his nose, lips pursed. “I cannot have you losing your shit at me right now. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Sam lifted a hand, put it against Dean’s chest. Dean let him go, pushed up onto his feet.
Sam sat up, but stayed on the floor, forearms resting on his knees. Dean paced, kept one eye on his brother.
“Was it me? With the knife?”
“What?” Oh, shit. Damn it.
“Did I cut you? In the warehouse? Was it me?” Sam’s voice was quiet. “I just wanna know, ‘cause… Holy shit, you’re making a whole lot more sense all of a sudden.” He shook his head, tongue working at his back molars.
“Sam...” Dean closed his eyes, brow knitting. He shook his head a little.
“Jesus Christ. That bitch.” Sam spat it down between his knees.
“It wasn’t you.” It came out louder, with more vehemence than Dean meant. It came out like an order.
Sam palmed the floor, came up off his hip onto his feet. “Oh, I know that. Did you? I mean, were you thinking-”
“Sam, please.” Dean squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“God, I gotta be the last guy you wanna be stuck in a room with the past couple of weeks.” Sam shook his head. “Dude, I was angry just now, but you gotta know, I would never-”
“I can’t have this conversation.” Dean looked around. He made a move to the coffee table, but Sam beat him there, scooped up the keys.
“You can’t go anywhere, Dean.”
Stay calm. Don’t freak out. Dean bit down on his frustration, frowned at the carpet until he had it under control. His voice was reasonably calm when he said, “Sam, gimme the fuckin’ keys.”
His brother pocketed them.
“Dean, you need space, you got it. I’ll clear out. But I can’t have you taking off right now. You gotta stay put.” He gathered up his notes and a couple of books from the coffee table. “I’ll be on cell.”
When he didn’t hear the Impala start up, Dean crossed to the window, shifted the curtain with his index finger. Sam was sitting in the front seat of the car, book propped against the steering wheel. He looked up at the window, caught Dean watching him, and shifted uncomfortably.
Son of a bitch. Space, my fuckin’ ass.
Dean crossed to the bathroom, splashed a few handfuls of cold water over his face. Swiped the glass off the counter and filled it from the tap, downed it in front of the mirror.
In the room, he stood beside Sam’s bed and tapped the empty cup against his thigh. Then he hurled it hard at the door, where it popped and spat an angry firework of glass.
*********************************************************************************************
He cut his thumb cleaning up the mess. Dean kicked the worst of the glass onto an opened TV guide with the toe of his boot, dumped it on the kitchen table. He slipped the sliced digit between his lips, took it out again just as fast.
Sam hadn’t moved from his post in the parking lot. Dean didn’t know if he wanted to throw open the motel door and go to town on his ass, or simply tell him to come inside.
So he did neither.
He sat at the coffee table and fired up the laptop, checked emails. Jo had sent through her case file on the crop circle. He took a pass over the attachments, scanned the background information without much interest until he got to the aerial photos.
“Holy fucking shit.” He rummaged in his jacket pocket, found his cell. Sam picked up on the first ring.
“What’s up?”
“Get your ass back in here. Bring Dad’s journal.”
**********************************************************************************************
Sam didn’t ask how the glass got broken. He just slid the pieces off the magazine onto an open newspaper, folded it carefully, and placed in the wastebasket. Dean threw him an irritated look from the couch.
“Dude, quit cleanin’ up. Come take a look at this.”
His brother had that charged, hyperactive air about him - the same vibe he always got when they were on the cusp of a job falling into place. It was a relief, to see someone other than the flat, subdued Dean he’d been grappling with for the last two weeks. On the other hand, it made his gut turn. He was secretly hoping this entire mess was going to vanish, the same way everyone had in River Grove. Take Meg and everything that had happened with it.
Dean was stabbing the air in front of the laptop screen with his index finger.
“You see that? You know what that is?”
Sam stood beside the couch, angled to see the picture. It was aerial view of a paddock. Taking up almost the entire area was a large circle, off the top and bottom of the arc sprouted smaller lines and kicks. Sam raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah. It’s a hoax, Dean. What the hell…?”
Dean was flipping frantically through the pages of their Dad’s journal.
“I’ve seen this before. The other day at the diner? When I left you there?” He was shaking his head. “I’m thinkin’ about that fucked up dream I’ve been havin’ with Dad tellin’ me that I’ve forgotten somethin’.”
“Okay.”
“So I’m in the backseat of the car and I’m lookin’ through his journal…”
“You think Dad’s trying to tell you about crop circles?”
Dean looked up at him like he’d missed the turn-off by a thousand miles. “I hadn’t seen this yet, you dickhead. And Dad’s dead, Sam. Jesus. If anyone’s tryin’ to tell me somethin’, it’s me.” He found the page he was after and spun the journal around, thrust it up at Sam. “You see that on the left? Nine o’clock?”
Sam narrowed his eyes at the page. “What am I looking at here?”
Dean fairly flew off the couch to his feet. He jabbed his finger onto the diagram on the left-hand side of the page. It was a seal, the same type they had used a hundred times for devil’s traps, makeshift lockboxes, summoning rituals. They were all bastardizations of the keys of Solomon, in one form or another. Latin transposed for Hebrew here, a tweak of the Celestial alphabet there. Sam didn’t know off the top of his head exactly what he was looking at until he read his father’s scrawl beneath it.
Set thou a wicked one to be ruler over him, and let Satan stand at his right hand.
“Is this a Pentacle of Saturn?”
Dean nodded, wide eyed. “And you see that there?” He tapped the symbol on the left of the circle, pointed at the laptop again.
Sam looked from the journal to the screen, back again. Dean was right. It was unmistakable. He looked at the four lines of the seal, the eight points around the circle ending in symbols.
“Dean, you might not need those case histories. Get me that map.”
Chapter Eight
Author:
pdragon76
Rating: NC-17 (language, whump, sex)
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: AU, set six months after AHBL2
Disclaimer: All things Supernatural belong to Kripke, not me (rinse & repeat).
Summary: Dean’s on a slow burn after a bloody confrontation with an old nemesis. Sam’s got his hands full picking up the pieces. The Crossroads Deal isn’t the only timer ticking. Warnings for language, whump and sex.
A/N: Chapters post Saturdays Dragons Mean Time (DMT). Some liberties have been taken with locations. Apologies to any mortified Oregonians. Mad props to my iron-fisted, velvet-gloved betas.
kimonkey7 - you relentlessly demand more from my writerly self than I am capable of giving, and sometimes you get it. For that, the Dragons is eternally in your debt.
ailleann23 - you question, you prod, you poke, you cheer, you champion, you rock. What more can I say?
Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5 Ch 6
- Blind Spot - : Chapter Seven
The least initial deviation from the truth is multiplied later a thousandfold.
~Aristotle
“Were you really willing to let me kill Jo?” Sam sent the question past the bloodied blade, squinted at him. He pressed the flat of the knife to his lips, dragged it the length of his mouth.
Dean watched and swallowed, stomach pitching.
God, Sam.
Sam waved the knife in his face, and Dean closed his eyes.
“I mean, if I really had to guess? I’d say you were. I’d say you were willing to overlook a whole lot of terrible, terrible things.” Sam brought the blade up against Dean’s left cheekbone.
When he felt the cool tip punch the skin, Dean cracked his eyes. Sam froze, fingers tight around the hilt of the knife. They stared each other down until Dean felt the trickle of his blood curve beneath his jaw, snake down his neck.
“Just do it, you son of a bitch.”
Sam sank the blade against bone, dragged it across his cheek. Dean bit down, put two teeth through the inside of his lower lip and tasted the warm, rusty tingle of blood against his tongue.
His brother raised the knife to his mouth again. Dean turned his face, lip curling in disgust, when Sam licked the blade clean.
“You were gonna let me kill a lot of people, weren’t you, Dean? Before you found some balls and stopped me.”
*********************************************************************************************
The cuts in Dean’s chest were healing up alright. Not great, but as well as could be expected given the circumstances. It had been ten days, and Sam was happy enough to lose the stitches when Dean cried mercy, argued he hadn’t had a decent shower in nearly two weeks.
The section near his ribs where the stitches had torn still looked angry, and there was some localized swelling. The lacerations running diagonals down his pectoral muscles were still showing lingering signs of infection. None of it was very pretty. He’d seen Dean’s chest a dozen times in the last two weeks and it still made Sam feel vaguely sick, cast him back to the bloody scene at the warehouse.
“You still taking those antibiotics?”
“Yep.”
“Good.”
It felt like a cheap shot, waiting until he had Dean half naked and a scalpel in his hand. But Sam knew his brother pretty well, and he didn’t want him clamming up and taking off. Quarter way through the removal of fifty-something stitches was about as anchored as Dean was getting without Sam actually using the handcuffs.
“We gotta talk, Dean.”
“Okay.” Dean nodded, stared at the tabletop.
“I mean, I’ve been trying to give you space, but… I gotta know what happened at the farmhouse.”
Dean was still nodding. Sam waited for a while, clipped a few stitches loose, before he said: “Dean?”
“I nearly shot her.”
When Sam looked up at him, he couldn’t read the expression there.
Dean lifted his thumb and forefinger, illustrated how close he’d come. “You imagine that? Sorry, Ellen.” He passed the flat of his fingers over his mouth, and when he dropped the hand to his thigh, Sam saw the tremor in his lips. Understood suddenly and horribly how thin his brother’s veneer of control had worn.
Sam kept his mouth shut, turned his attention back to the cut at Dean’s ribs. There wasn’t anything he could say to make it forgivable. They’d both had too many firearms pass through their hands growing up to be making mistakes like that. Dean had fucked up. Plain and simple. Time to thank Jo’s lucky stars and move on.
“And the dead guy?”
Dean lifted his hand to his brow, kneaded it with his thumb. “I thought it moved.”
Sam tugged loose the last of the stitches from Dean’s side, dropped them on to the tabletop. He paused, gave Dean a long, measured stare.
“You know it didn’t, right?”
Dean met his eyes momentarily, dropped his gaze to the tabletop. “Yeah. I know.”
“You’re not up to this job, man. I mean, I totally agree we’ve got a situation here and we gotta do somethin’ about it, but you’ve gotta sit this one out, Dean.”
“Sam--”
“You wanna tell me about the dreams you’ve been havin’?”
Dean got a haunted, stubborn look, his eyes suddenly dull and guarded. “Not really, no.”
Sam squinted, lifted a finger and pointed to the black eye Dean’s fist had left beneath his split brow. “I think we’re past the point at which I’m asking nicely.”
Dean jiggled his knee, took his time answering. Sam started in on the laceration in his chest, didn’t push him.
“It’s nothin’ real clear. It’s all - It’s just flashes. Sensations.”
Sam didn’t miss the pause before that last word, the way it curled Dean’s lip as he forced it out. Like it tasted bad. Thirty-six hours. You could fit a lot of sensations into thirty-six hours. It made Sam sick thinking about it.
“It’s mostly Dad.”
“Okay,” Sam said carefully. “Is he-?”
“Possessed? No. I don’t think so.”
The tremble was back in Dean’s lip, and Sam dipped his chin, went back to work on the stitches.
“Well, I gotta tell you, it looks pretty rough from this angle, Dean. For a dream about the old man.”
“I think it’s the warehouse. I mean, my hands are tied and I’m messed up and…he won’t cut me loose.” His heel bounced, knee jumping again. “He’s sayin’ something about you comin’ and…” Dean’s voice hitched, and his chest jumped beneath Sam’s fingers.
He lifted the scalpel, froze.
“I’ve forgotten somethin’… or I have to remember somethin’…” Dean got his hand up too late to catch the first salty slip down his cheek. Sam caught it instead, on the back of his forearm, and looked up.
Oh, shit.
“I’m sorry, man. It’s okay. You don’t have to…” He clapped his palm around the back of Dean’s neck and squeezed. “Hey, it’s okay.”
But Dean shut his eyes, turned his face and resisted the contact. Sam let go. He dropped the scalpel onto the table.
Too far, man. Back the fuck off.
Sam pushed back his chair, stood. “I’m gonna clear out for a while.”
He stopped outside the motel room, raked his hands down his face. He didn’t have anywhere to go, but he figured he could make it to Asshat from here on foot. No trouble at all.
*********************************************************************************************
Dean was up close and personal at the bathroom mirror, halfway through the stitches in his cheek, when Sam returned. He glanced at his brother’s reflection as Sam leaned on the doorframe behind him.
“Hey.” Dean threw him a half-smile with the greeting, hoped it didn’t look as forced as it felt. I’m okay. We’re okay.
Sam pointed at him. “You need me to finish that up?”
Dean worked the scalpel up under the thread, paused while he mentally reversed the reflected instinct of his fingers. The first two snips had been clumsy, the last four better. He was getting the hang of it. “No. Thanks. I got it.”
Sam cleared his throat awkwardly. “So I got a call from Jo. We’re gonna catch up tomorrow. We got a day or so to go over what we got, plot a map, maybe. See what’s what.”
Dean cut the last stitch, dropped the scalpel onto the counter. He nodded. “Okay.”
Sam stayed there in the doorway while Dean plucked the pieces of thread out of his cheek, one at a time. It didn’t hurt any, but it was an uncomfortable sensation, pulling something out of you that shouldn’t be there. It made his eye twitch.
“You need to take a piss or somethin’, Sam?” He didn’t mean it to sound as dismissive as it did. Sam started off the doorframe, made a faltering move out of the bathroom before he stopped, and turned back. Dean watched him in the mirror, eyebrows raised.
“I just… I’m sorry about before, man. I hate to push, but…” He shook his head. “If you’re coming apart, I need to know. Like, before it happens. You think you can give me that? I mean, I know you don’t wanna talk about it, and I can understand that. But if there’s anything I need to know, or you’re gonna hit the deck? If you can give me a heads up on that stuff? I think I can live with that.”
Dean turned and leaned on the vanity. “I’m not in the business of puttin’ you in harm’s way, Sam. You know that.”
“You’re not normally in the business of lying to me either, Dean.”
Dean nodded. “Okay.” He paused, studied the floor. “Glock’s in the trunk. Bowie’s in the drawer next to your bed.”
“Dean, I didn’t mean-”
“Look, ‘til I get a handle on this shit, let’s just keep this stuff someplace I have to think about it before I use it.” He frowned at Sam’s bruised eye. “If you’re gonna wake me up, just…stay on your toes, okay? Use a fuckin’ stick or somethin’.”
“I’m not crazy about the idea of you walking around unarmed.”
“Couch duty, Sam. I don’t need a Glock to turn a page. Besides, gun didn’t do me any good in that alley.” He sniffed a laugh. “She shows up, I’ll throw the Latin dictionary at her.”
“That’s not funny, Dean.”
“I’m not joking. That thing’s heavy.”
“Dean.”
Dean came off the vanity and reached out for the door handle. “Sam, I’m gonna turn this water on, then I’m gonna stand under it for ‘bout an hour. You wanna keep caring and sharing, we can go another round then. But the shower’s a one man job.” He waggled the door. “Get out.”
**********************************************************************************************
By lunchtime they had everything laid out. Everywhere. Dean looked around from his perch at the table. Looks like a tornado went through here.
“So, I got eighteen towns in the last three years that have had an evac or a quarantine that might fit the bill.” Dean tapped his pen on the map. “Apart from the fact that they’re all small towns, I’m not seeing any pattern here, man. It’s all over the shop. I got fourteen different states.”
“There’s a pattern,” Sam said absently from the couch, book open in his lap. “We’re just not seeing it. What are the dates?” He leaned forward, looked at his notes on the coffee table. “Bobby call you back yet?”
Dean scratched inside his ear, inspected the end of his finger. “Nope. How are my ears dirty? I just took, like, an hour-long shower.”
“You still have to clean ‘em, Dean. The dirt doesn’t just jump out.”
Dean screwed up his face. “What? You mean scrub ‘em? Who does that? Nobody does that, do they?”
Sam clapped his book shut. “People with clean ears do it, Dean. Are you bored already? This is your case. I can’t believe you’re bored already.”
Dean jiggled his knee, flipped his pen around his fingers. “Do we know anything about this guy Jo’s been working with? I mean, besides the fact that he’s leading with his dick?” He leaned forward and tilted his chin at the stack of books next to the map. He yanked on a thin spine a third of the way down, perused the collection of sticky notes hanging from the pages. “Dude, if you’re gonna tag every page, why don’t you just stick one note on the front sayin’ READ IT?”
Sam cracked his book open again, didn’t look up. “Because you won’t.”
Dean flipped through the text distractedly for a half minute. Then he slammed it shut and looked up at Sam, one hand on his knee. “I mean, has anyone checked he hasn’t killed six chicks and kept their teeth in a box or somethin’?”
Sam shrugged. “Bobby wouldn’t have hooked her up with anyone he didn’t trust. And besides, she can handle herself. From what I gather, I’d say she’s had a good look at his… credentials.”
“See, this is what I’m talkin’ about.” Dean opened the book again, flicked through the pages roughly. “They’re gonna get each other killed,” he mumbled.
Sam hunted for an elusive document amidst the mess in front of him.
“Dean, why is this bothering you so much?” He gave up on the search, sipped his coffee instead. “My God, are you jealous?”
Dean overshot his incredulous look of dismissal by a mile. “What? Am I -? No, you dick. She’s Ellen’s kid. Jesus.”
The look Sam shot him was equal parts amusement and reproach. “Yeah, she’s Ellen’s kid. So, don’t do anything stupid.”
“What am I - an idiot? She’s a friend, Sam. I don’t wanna fuck her, I just don’t wanna see anything happen to her.”
Sam nodded, watched his brother dubiously. “A friend. Right. ‘Cause you have so many of those. Women in particular.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you don’t have any friends who are women.”
“That is such bullshit. What about Ellen?”
“She’s old enough to be your mother, Dean.”
Dean thought for a while. “Cassie?” he ventured. “I’m still friends with Cassie.”
Sam gave him a disgusted look of wonderment. “Dude, you got within ten feet of her and the clothes came off. Besides, when did you last speak to her?”
Dean slapped his book shut. “Well, excuse me. Been a little busy this year, what with the gate to Hell flyin’ open ‘n all. I don’t see you sittin’ around paintin’ your nails with your little girly friends. You fuckin’ monk.”
“I’m just saying, it’s not in your make-up, man. You can’t do it.”
“Whatever. I just hope Jo knows what she’s doin’. This isn’t the line of work to be mixing business with the naked. That’s how people get themselves dead.”
Sam snorted. “Oh, my God, did you just say that? Did that actually come out of your mouth?”
Dean ignored him. He buried his nose in the book, gave the flagged pages his undivided attention.
Sam chuckled, chewed the end of his pen. “This line of work? People get themselves dead whether they’re screwin’ each other or not, Dean. You should be glad someone’s got her back.”
But Dean wasn’t listening anymore.
“Huh.”
Sam could tell from his tone they had changed topics. “What?”
Dean got up from the table, brought the open book over, and spun it around, handed it to him. “Page 87. Bottom paragraph.”
Sam read it. “Okay, second seal, apocalypse. What about it?”
“‘Power to take peace from the earth and make men slay each other’, Sam.”
Sam shook his head. “This is talking about the book of Revelations, Dean. Sovereignty of God. Not demons.”
Dean shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, biblical bullshit. Whatever. She said something about an unleashing.”
“Who, Jo?”
“No, dipshit.” He paused. “Meg. Something about the end of the world, oceans bloody, blah blah blah. That sorta thing. Sounded kinda… apocalyptic.”
Sam sat up a little straighter, looked down at the book. “You think this is -? You think she’s -?”
Dean saw the panic there and headed it off. “Meg’s a grunt, Sam. She’s not pullin’ any strings. I’m just sayin’, you know, historically, a plague’s as good a way as any to knock us on our ass. And if it sends everyone stab-happy and frothin’ at the mouth? Takes a lot of the leg work outta your little demon uprising.”
“Dean, if Meg’s got anything to do with this…”
“She’s not the only demon on the loose, Sam. I mean, I know it feels like she is right now, but she’s not. Don’t get all paranoid. Let’s just take this one fucked up demon problem at a time.”
Sam nodded. “Okay, so eighteen random towns? Why doesn’t this thing ever spread?”
Dean tapped a finger against his temple. “Now that, little brother, is the million dollar question.”
**********************************************************************************************
At two, Sam was ready for another pass at the library.
“You’re kidding, right?” Dean blinked around the room at the strewn texts.
Sam shoved the laptop into his satchel. “Look, you wanna come or not?”
“Do I wanna come? As in, get outta this room?” Dean threw down his pen. “Hell, yes.”
It was a miserable day. The streets were slick with the continual drizzle of rain and the sky was overcast; slung a grey pall over the city. They stopped at a café and picked up a late lunch, and Dean insisted on a table beneath the verandah despite the weather. He’d had enough of indoors, thank you very much. He spread out the map he’d brought from the motel, pinned the edge down with his coffee. Stared at the thing while he ate, but nothing was leaping out.
“Half of these are gonna be legit,” he complained around a mouthful of burger. “Eighteen fuckin’ case histories. This is gonna take me all week.”
Sam tossed his napkin onto the table and stood up. “Well, it’s a good thing you got nothing better to do then. Library’s a block or two across the park. You staying here?”
Dean kept his eyes on the map, bounced a salute off his temple and pointed at his plate. “I got food. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
He forced the last three bites of the burger into his mouth in one go, wiped his hands on his jeans and picked his cell off the table. He was still chewing when Jo picked up.
“Hey. It lives.”
“What were you doin’ out at Timber in the first place?” A slither of lettuce shot out of his mouth and he picked it off the map, poked it back between his lips.
“Was that even English? Are you speaking Latin?”
Dean rolled his eyes, swallowed half the remaining burger. “The job in Timber, what was it?”
“I was checking out a thing for a guy.”
“Oh, a thing, huh? Well, thanks. Really clears that up for me.”
“You’re gonna be a dick about it.”
“I won’t be a dick about it.”
“A crop circle.”
Half of Dean’s mouthful shot up the back of his nose. He spluttered. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Dean.”
“No, no. I just thought you said ‘crop circle’.”
“You’re a jackass.”
“You’re right. I’m gonna be a dick about this. What the fuck, Jo?”
**********************************************************************************************
By the time Sam came out of the library, it had stopped raining. He paused at the top of the steps, balanced the stack of texts between the cement retaining wall and the brass railing, and reassembled them pyramid style. He took the stairs at a jog, paused at the bottom to get his bearings.
He’d somehow gotten himself turned around. It took him half a block to figure out the park he’d cut across from the main drag was actually down the other end of the street. Just as he was passing the library for the second time, his cell rang. He juggled the books against his ribs, dug the phone awkwardly out of his inside jacket pocket.
Bobby.
“Hey, Bobby.”
“Sam. How you boys making out?”
“Ah, we’re doin’ okay. I think. There’s a lot to go through, but… I’ll know more tonight. Could sure use a jump-start, though. If you got one.”
Up ahead near the park, Sam could see a bench seat and he made a bee-line for it, books threatening to spill.
“Well, I got something, but… Dean there?”
“No, I’m heading to him now. You want us to call you back in a few?”
“No. It’s just… Sam, I don’t know if I should be talkin’ to him or you.”
Sam slowed on the sidewalk, frowned. “Well, either-or usually does the trick, Bobby. What’s up?”
“That town Dean asked me to check up on, River Grove, Oregon? The demonic virus? I got to checking up on anything earlier than that, similar circumstances, other towns…”
“Yeah.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Well, I might have found something.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up beneath his fringe and he stopped completely. “Bobby, where? I mean, this could be good news.”
“Just… don’t get ahead of me here, Sam. Back in 2005, little farming town called Boyup Brook had what they referred to as a ‘medical event’.”
“A medical event?” Sam repeated. “Like an outbreak? Were there murders?”
“All I can dig up is that the entire town was quarantined by the CDC for a whole month. No one in or out. They had the feds and the National Guard running the blockades.”
“How did this not get press coverage? How do we not know about this?”
“It did. As Mad Cow Disease.”
“Holy shit. Are you sure it’s…”
“No. Not even nearly, Sam. It’s just…”
He trailed off again, and Sam hiked the books up under his arm, feeling the weight. Fifteen feet away, the bench beckoned. He found his feet again and headed for it.
“Bobby?”
“Well, I got some articles here from a neighboring town called Mekkering. Their local rag. And there’s some photographs.”
“So?”
“So, Meg Masters is in the one of them.”
Sam went cold. His stomach dropped through the soles of his feet, hit the sidewalk, and kept going. His lips worked around the word a couple of times, and he had to swallow - get some moisture back in his mouth - before he could get it out.
“What?”
“It’s Meg, Sam.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, it’s black and white and she’s in the background, but… Sam, the kid died on my living room floor. I know her when I see her.”
“Okay.” Sam stepped sideways to the bench, dropped the books onto the rain sprinkled slats. “Okay.”
He lifted a hand to his lips, looked around the park instinctively, hairs at the back of his neck bristling. He almost expected her to step out from behind a tree. But Meg Masters was dead. The demon could be anyone. Had been anyone. A barb of panic tugged deep in his gut, spurred a violent and overwhelming compulsion to move. He needed to sight Dean. Now. Sam started to collect the books, cell between his shoulder and his chin.
In his ear, Bobby was talking again.
“You still there?”
“Yeah. I’m - This is - What does this mean?”
“It means you need to get Dean the hell out of there. I don’t know what it means for Jo and Marcus, but for you? It means you need to get your brother as far away from that town as possible. Right now.”
Sam was nodding. “Okay.”
He looked around the park again, shoulder connecting with a businessman passing on the path as he turned. The unexpected impact nearly sent him clean out of his skin, and he balked violently, muttered an apology when the guy caught his arm and sidestepped. He shot Sam an irritated glance.
When he remembered Bobby at his ear, Sam said it again, and there was intent this time behind the word. “Okay. But Bobby? He’s not gonna wanna go. I mean, he’s gonna dig his heels in.”
Bobby was silent for a second. “Kid might surprise you.”
“Bobby, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
Sam hung up the phone and forced a few deep breaths. That was the thing about Dean Winchester surprises. They were hardly ever the good kind.
*********************************************************************************************
Sam nearly dropped the books in relief when he spied Dean outside the café.
I’m not ready. I’m not going to be ready.
He was nestled at the corner table of the sparsely populated alfresco area, back to the wall of the building, with one boot drawn up and resting on his knee. The fingers of his left hand were tracked through the hair at the crown of his head, and his face was tilted down. As Sam got closer, he saw the notebook resting on Dean’s thigh. Dean was scribbling something in it, eyes darting from the map on the table to the pen in his hand. It felt comfortable and familiar, to see that casually bored and distracted look about him. Sam hated that he was about to fuck with it.
“Hey.”
Dean dropped his elbow off the arm of the chair and looked up, returned the greeting. He pointed his pen at the coffee mug on the opposite side of the table as Sam dropped his pile of books beside it.
“It’s cold,” he said, eyes on the text in front of him. He scratched his eyebrow with the pen. “I dunno what I was thinking. I mean, I heard the words. Sam. Library. And I still ordered you one.”
Sam pushed the mug to the side, sat down. Dean looked at his watch.
“What is that, like a record for you? Half hour? They call a fire drill or somethin’?”
Sam settled in the chair, looked around the café. At the far end of the verandah, a woman was watching them over the top of her book. He felt a clutch of unease at her interest, stared her down until she realized he was watching and blushed, dropped her eyes back to the pages in her hand.
“How long’s that woman been watching you?”
Dean twisted in his chair, gave her a fleeting glance. He shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Well, how long has she been there?”
Dean gave him a wordless shake of the head.
“’Cause it looks like she’s lookin’ at you.”
Dean’s brow furrowed. He shot the woman another look, cocked his head in vague amusement as he turned back.
“Sam, you can’t spot a pickup when they’re droolin’ on your feet and their panties are flyin’ off. All of a sudden you got a 10-4 from five tables away? What’s goin’ on?”
Sam jiggled his knee. Not here. He didn’t want to have this conversation here. He didn’t want to be here. Bobby’s call had laid an instant minefield below the surface of the town. Everything suddenly felt beyond his control; open, unsafe. And he had no way of gauging how Dean was going to react to the possibility of Meg’s involvement here.
Since when have I not known how Dean was going to react?
“Can we just get outta here?”
Dean raised his eyebrows, gave Sam a tight shake of his head as he slapped the notebook from his lap onto the table.
“Fine. I’ll go pay.” He waved his hand at the books. “Grab this stuff and I’ll meet you at the car.”
Sam stood up too quickly, started gathering up the books, and almost knocked over the cold coffee. Dean swiped it up off the table, dipped his face to catch Sam’s eye.
“Hey, fumblefuck. You alright?”
Sam paused, shook his head. “I just wanna get outta here.”
“Yeah, I’m gettin’ that.”
Dean gave him a last wary glance as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, then he headed inside to the counter. Sam hauled the books off the table and set off for the Impala.
When Dean hadn’t come out five minutes later, Sam left the books on the hood and retraced his steps back to the café.
Unbelievable.
Dean was straddling a café chair, arms folded on the backrest, talking to the woman with the book. She said something and he laughed, jerked a thumb back towards the street.
“Dean!”
He looked over, gave Sam an irritated frown, and held up two fingers. Two minutes, he mouthed.
Sam gave him a frantic gesture designed to convey the unacceptability of this proposition. He waited long enough to confirm that Dean had totally disregarded it, and then stalked back to the Impala.
*********************************************************************************************
When Sam slid the chain home on the motel door, Dean gave him a puzzled look. “If you’re gonna jerk off, you’re supposed to lock me out of the motel room. You realize this, right?”
If Sam thought it was funny, he didn’t let his face in on the gag. “Listen, sit down. I gotta tell you something.”
Dean froze. “What?” He dropped the Impala keys onto the coffee table, stayed standing. “Sam?”
Sam twisted his index finger in the hair at his temple.
Classic Sam Winchester stress response number one.
“Got the hair twiddle there, Sammy.” Dean frowned. “This can’t be good.”
“Look, I just got a call from Bobby, and we’ve got a problem.”
“Okay.” Dean raised his eyebrows, hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans.
“He found another town called Boyup Brook, back in 2005? He’s got some photos and…” Sam trailed off. He screwed up his face at Dean, lifted his top lip.
Dean shook his head. “Sam, what? You look like you just crapped your pants, man.”
“Dean, Meg’s in them.”
Sam looked braced for a Boeing 747 impact. And Dean knew that nothing short of a nuclear explosion was going to cover his ass. So he didn’t try.
“Meg, huh?” He lifted a hand to his throat, scratched the underside of his jaw. “Really?”
Sam stared at him. Dean saw the realization dawn.
“You knew.”
It was a bitter accusation, and one of which Dean was categorically, inescapably guilty. He’d known this was going to happen. Even got the timing pretty spot on, and right now, he was wishing he’d put a bit more thought into how he was going to explain himself.
In the end he just nodded. Decided maybe it was better that he didn’t try.
Sam turned away from him, brought both hands up to his face and tilted his head back at the ceiling. He inhaled long and loud, blew it out through his lips in a kind of quiet, shaky way that made Dean grimace a little.
Holy fuck. He’s gonna blow something. A gasket. Major artery. Maybe my head off.
Sam paced, kept his back to Dean, fingers laced behind his head. Dean knew he was absorbing, processing, figuring out how deeply and permanently this betrayal ran.
“When? When did you know?”
Dean took a deep breath himself. This was going to be the real kicker. “I burned the pictures. Back at Bobby’s.”
Sam froze, then Dean saw him nodding slowly. “That shit about Cold Oak?”
“I had to get you on the road, man. And I’m not sorry. I wish I was, Sam, but I’m not. I gotta finish this.”
And then Sam was chuckling. It was an awful, slow chuckle and when he turned his eyes were tight and hard. “You gotta finish this.” He nodded, thought about that some. “You. Gotta finish this.”
He came across the floor of the motel room fast. Dean straightened instinctively, shifted his weight down through the balls of his feet. When Sam didn’t stop, came right up to him, Dean said, “Back off, Sam,” once, quietly, but held his ground.
Sam ignored him, got up close in his face. “I get a say in this at all? Huh, Dean?”
“Sam. Back it up.” Dean resisted the urge to step back, disengage.
Sam shook his head, pointed a finger at him. “Because last I checked you and I were still working together. We were figuring out this shit together.” Sam stepped forward on the raised octave of the last.
Dean was starting to feel light-headed. “I said: Back off, Sam.”
But Sam was too angry to take the warning for what it was. He jabbed his index finger at Dean’s chest. “Don’t tell me to back off!”
He shouted it, and Dean exploded in response before either of them had any time to think about it.
It wasn’t fancy, but it did the trick. He grabbed Sam by the wrist, yanked forward, and collected him around the throat with his free hand. Stamped out a foot behind Sam’s heel, and sent him backwards over it.
Sam hit the deck square on his back with an ooof, Dean’s hand still clamped around his throat. Dean leaned his weight down through his forearm against Sam’s chest, pinned him there and used the leverage to shift his weight to his knee on the floor beside his brother. Adrenalin had got him down there, and Dean was suddenly acutely aware of Meg’s lingering reminders, the pain and weakness through his chest and the shoulder. The first breath he took was a little ragged with it. Getting up was going to be a problem.
Sam caught the look on Dean’s face and went slack in his hands.
“Okay. Okay,” he said, suddenly soothing.
Dean lifted him, slammed him back against the floor. Hard enough to get his attention, but with a little in reserve.
“I know you’re angry at me, and I deserve it, and I get that. But when I ask you to back off, I need it to happen. Understand?” Dean said it low and fast, and he didn’t give it enough volume to keep the quaver out of his voice.
Sam nodded.
Dean loosened his grip a little, took a breath. He let it out again through his nose, lips pursed. “I cannot have you losing your shit at me right now. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Sam lifted a hand, put it against Dean’s chest. Dean let him go, pushed up onto his feet.
Sam sat up, but stayed on the floor, forearms resting on his knees. Dean paced, kept one eye on his brother.
“Was it me? With the knife?”
“What?” Oh, shit. Damn it.
“Did I cut you? In the warehouse? Was it me?” Sam’s voice was quiet. “I just wanna know, ‘cause… Holy shit, you’re making a whole lot more sense all of a sudden.” He shook his head, tongue working at his back molars.
“Sam...” Dean closed his eyes, brow knitting. He shook his head a little.
“Jesus Christ. That bitch.” Sam spat it down between his knees.
“It wasn’t you.” It came out louder, with more vehemence than Dean meant. It came out like an order.
Sam palmed the floor, came up off his hip onto his feet. “Oh, I know that. Did you? I mean, were you thinking-”
“Sam, please.” Dean squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“God, I gotta be the last guy you wanna be stuck in a room with the past couple of weeks.” Sam shook his head. “Dude, I was angry just now, but you gotta know, I would never-”
“I can’t have this conversation.” Dean looked around. He made a move to the coffee table, but Sam beat him there, scooped up the keys.
“You can’t go anywhere, Dean.”
Stay calm. Don’t freak out. Dean bit down on his frustration, frowned at the carpet until he had it under control. His voice was reasonably calm when he said, “Sam, gimme the fuckin’ keys.”
His brother pocketed them.
“Dean, you need space, you got it. I’ll clear out. But I can’t have you taking off right now. You gotta stay put.” He gathered up his notes and a couple of books from the coffee table. “I’ll be on cell.”
When he didn’t hear the Impala start up, Dean crossed to the window, shifted the curtain with his index finger. Sam was sitting in the front seat of the car, book propped against the steering wheel. He looked up at the window, caught Dean watching him, and shifted uncomfortably.
Son of a bitch. Space, my fuckin’ ass.
Dean crossed to the bathroom, splashed a few handfuls of cold water over his face. Swiped the glass off the counter and filled it from the tap, downed it in front of the mirror.
In the room, he stood beside Sam’s bed and tapped the empty cup against his thigh. Then he hurled it hard at the door, where it popped and spat an angry firework of glass.
*********************************************************************************************
He cut his thumb cleaning up the mess. Dean kicked the worst of the glass onto an opened TV guide with the toe of his boot, dumped it on the kitchen table. He slipped the sliced digit between his lips, took it out again just as fast.
Sam hadn’t moved from his post in the parking lot. Dean didn’t know if he wanted to throw open the motel door and go to town on his ass, or simply tell him to come inside.
So he did neither.
He sat at the coffee table and fired up the laptop, checked emails. Jo had sent through her case file on the crop circle. He took a pass over the attachments, scanned the background information without much interest until he got to the aerial photos.
“Holy fucking shit.” He rummaged in his jacket pocket, found his cell. Sam picked up on the first ring.
“What’s up?”
“Get your ass back in here. Bring Dad’s journal.”
**********************************************************************************************
Sam didn’t ask how the glass got broken. He just slid the pieces off the magazine onto an open newspaper, folded it carefully, and placed in the wastebasket. Dean threw him an irritated look from the couch.
“Dude, quit cleanin’ up. Come take a look at this.”
His brother had that charged, hyperactive air about him - the same vibe he always got when they were on the cusp of a job falling into place. It was a relief, to see someone other than the flat, subdued Dean he’d been grappling with for the last two weeks. On the other hand, it made his gut turn. He was secretly hoping this entire mess was going to vanish, the same way everyone had in River Grove. Take Meg and everything that had happened with it.
Dean was stabbing the air in front of the laptop screen with his index finger.
“You see that? You know what that is?”
Sam stood beside the couch, angled to see the picture. It was aerial view of a paddock. Taking up almost the entire area was a large circle, off the top and bottom of the arc sprouted smaller lines and kicks. Sam raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah. It’s a hoax, Dean. What the hell…?”
Dean was flipping frantically through the pages of their Dad’s journal.
“I’ve seen this before. The other day at the diner? When I left you there?” He was shaking his head. “I’m thinkin’ about that fucked up dream I’ve been havin’ with Dad tellin’ me that I’ve forgotten somethin’.”
“Okay.”
“So I’m in the backseat of the car and I’m lookin’ through his journal…”
“You think Dad’s trying to tell you about crop circles?”
Dean looked up at him like he’d missed the turn-off by a thousand miles. “I hadn’t seen this yet, you dickhead. And Dad’s dead, Sam. Jesus. If anyone’s tryin’ to tell me somethin’, it’s me.” He found the page he was after and spun the journal around, thrust it up at Sam. “You see that on the left? Nine o’clock?”
Sam narrowed his eyes at the page. “What am I looking at here?”
Dean fairly flew off the couch to his feet. He jabbed his finger onto the diagram on the left-hand side of the page. It was a seal, the same type they had used a hundred times for devil’s traps, makeshift lockboxes, summoning rituals. They were all bastardizations of the keys of Solomon, in one form or another. Latin transposed for Hebrew here, a tweak of the Celestial alphabet there. Sam didn’t know off the top of his head exactly what he was looking at until he read his father’s scrawl beneath it.
Set thou a wicked one to be ruler over him, and let Satan stand at his right hand.
“Is this a Pentacle of Saturn?”
Dean nodded, wide eyed. “And you see that there?” He tapped the symbol on the left of the circle, pointed at the laptop again.
Sam looked from the journal to the screen, back again. Dean was right. It was unmistakable. He looked at the four lines of the seal, the eight points around the circle ending in symbols.
“Dean, you might not need those case histories. Get me that map.”
Chapter Eight