Carry On... Episode 12: These Broken Wings Part 3
Here is part 3 of episode 12 of Carry On...
Episode 12: These Broken Wings
Original airdate: 2010.04.26
Summary:
In the aftermath of Alastair’s attack, the brothers are broken in mind and spirit. Despite Bobby’s best efforts, the boys continue to struggle with their fears and weaknesses. Can they conquer these new wounds in time to save each other? Or will they end up as victims after all.
Excerpt:
"Nothing I can't make right," John said. "But I need your help. You have to take care of my boys. Bobby. Please."
The request was plaintive, emphatic. If this was a con, it was a pretty damn good one.
But Bobby couldn't help it. He just couldn't. He could still remember John's face the first time he showed up on Bobby's doorstep all those years ago, those two damn rug rats in tow. They'd all been younger then, but John's face had been just as tired and grizzled as ever.
If he was honest, Bobby knew he'd been whipped since then. One look from John's deep, sad eyes, one glimpse at those two boys holding onto each other like they were all the other had--and Bobby had never even had a chance.
Resigned, Bobby picked up a piece of paper and a pencil. "I need a location, John," he said, voice tight and even. He had his priorities. The boys came first. Always.
"Fargo, Georgia," John repeated. "The hospital."
Bobby's panic sprang to life, questions coming to his tongue. But before he could ask anything, before he could utter another word, the line went dead, the dial tone resounding heavily in Bobby's ears.
Written by: deej1957 and faye_dartmouth
Artist: faye_dartmouth
PART THREE
This fog gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘pea soup’, thought Maggie as she lifted her foot off the accelerator and peered through the windshield at the gray gloom surrounding her. Slowly she pressed down on the gas pedal and started inching the car forward around the sharp turn of the narrow winding mountain road. This was the last time she would take Harris Grade back from Santa Maria after dark. So what if going past Vandenberg took longer? Going two miles an hour in this fog made it all -
“Oh my God!” She slammed on the brakes, grateful she was going so slowly. “What on earth…”
-0-
The sun broke through the heavy rain clouds, the rays laying a shiny path for the black Chevy Impala as it travelled down the lonely highway.
“You keep driving like an old lady and the entire state of California will be dead before we get there,” Sam complained, glaring at his brother across the front seat before slapping on his sunglasses.
The only answer to Sam’s comment was the rumble of the engine and the hiss of the tires on the wet road as Dean’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
“Come on, man, I know you don’t want to do this,” Sam said. “What do you want to do? Turn around, go back to Bobby’s? Tell him to find someone else because we can’t do this anymore?” Sam waited, hoping for some type of reaction from his stoic-faced brother. He watched as Dean’s jaw muscles bunched up.
“Dean?” Silence from the other side of the car. “Dean!”
“Fine.”
The Impala’s rapid acceleration jerked Sam into the back of his seat as Dean slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.
“Jesus, Dean, slow the hell down!” Sam grimaced as pain shot through his newly-healed shoulder.
“You wanted faster.” Dean didn’t take his eyes off the road -- a road that was thankfully empty of any other vehicles.
“Not like this. DEAN! I’ve already been dead once, I don’t want to die again. Slow down!”
The heavy car fishtailed as Dean slammed on the brakes and steered them jerkily off to the side of the road. He yanked the gearshift into park and sat there drawing in huge gulps of air as he stared stubbornly out the windshield.
Sam clutched the dashboard as though his very life depended on it. He was doing his own version of jaw-clenched heavy breathing and wanted nothing more at this moment than to smack his blasted big brother right upside the head. What was wrong with him?
Sam shook his head; he knew what was wrong with Dean, what was wrong with both of them.
Alastair.
“Just what exactly do you want from me?” Dean took his hands off the wheel and flexed his fingers with a slight scowl.
“A little bit of normality would be appreciated,” Sam muttered under his breath. “Not that kind of normal,” he added quickly before Dean could react. 'Normal' was like a red cape to a bull when it came to Dean. “Normal for us.”
“Well, I don’t happen to feel too normal right now, Sam. Do you want to do this hunt or not?”
“Do I…?” Sam scowled. “You’re the one who’s dawdling along like a one-legged man in a snow drift. Can’t you simply drive like normal? We can get a motel or drive straight through, like normal, and we can do this stupid hunt, like NORMAL. You know? The family business? Saving people, hunting things?”
Sam very carefully did not add that it was the last thing he wanted to be doing either. He wasn’t sure they were even ready for this hunt. If it actually was one.
“You’re awfully eager for this hunt all of a sudden, why?” Dean glanced out the side window and Sam realised his brother hadn’t looked at him straight on since they’d started the trip west.
Sam slumped in his seat. He couldn’t do this. How could he get Dean to want this when he couldn’t even get himself on board? What right did he have to push Dean into doing something he didn’t want to do himself? What was the point to all this anyway? He’d been a worthless hindrance to their dad, and now he was broken limb dragging his brother down. What had Bobby been thinking, to send them on this hunt?
Bobby… Their friend had gone above and beyond the call of duty when it came right down to it. He’d been there whenever they needed him and lately he’d pretty much put his life on hold while they tried to put themselves back together. They owed Bobby more than they could ever repay him.
“I don’t want to let Bobby down,” Sam replied softly, ignoring his inner voice. “He’s done a lot for us, not just lately, but ever since…” He shut his mouth before 'Dad died' could get out. Another red cape warning for his brother.
Dean was quiet for a moment as the sun disappeared behind the incoming thick grey clouds and the rain started up again, the drops splashing against the outside of the car. Sam could imagine the thoughts running through his brother’s head as he pondered what Sam had said. Which way was Dean going to swing? For the hunt? Or back to Bobby’s?
“Point. Okay, so tell me about this case.” Dean put the car in gear and slowly pulled back onto the road.
Sam slipped his sunglasses off and waited, watching as Dean increased their speed until they were finally back to the ‘normal’ race-car style the Impala was used to.
“It’s in a town called Lompoc,” Sam began. ”Several people have been killed recently, um, falling down a mountain, leaving their cars behind on the road. Nobody knows why, and the police are stumped."
“Stumped cops, what a surprise,” Dean said dryly.
“They’re dying from injuries sustained in a car accident, except their cars are fine and no-where near them.”
“Huh. Sounds like a ghost.”
“That’s what Bobby’s friend thought. We… I… We’ll need to do more research once we get there; the newspaper’s online, but not very complete.” Research. He was good at looking up obscure bits of trivia. If nothing else, he could still do that properly.
“Yeah.”
Sam didn’t know what to do with his brother. He simply didn’t recognise this Dean. While an over-protective, hovering brother drove him crazy at times, Sam had to admit to the feeling of comfort it also gave him. He’d always known no matter what, Dean would be there.
Until now. Dean’s uncaring, cavalier attitude towards what had happened to them and to Sam’s injuries was something he’d never experienced before. This was not the big brother who’d sold his soul to the devil in order to bring Sam back from the dead. And while Sam - intellectually - knew it was Dean’s way of coping with all that had gone on, emotionally it hurt almost as much as Alastair’s knife.
He’d forgiven Dean for ignoring him and treating him like crap. He had. It had been difficult, but he loved his brother and could understand where Dean was coming from in all this.
Sam sighed. At least Dean was commenting on the case now; that he was retaining anything was an entirely different ball of wax.
Bobby had called this a simple salt and burn. Sam leaned his head against the side window; in his experience nothing was ever simple when it came to the Winchester family.
-0-
Lompoc was a small town with nothing to really set it apart from any other average city in the United States. It most likely wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for the Air Force Base it supported. At least it wasn’t raining here. As they slowly cruised down what appeared to be a main street, Sam pointed out a hotel on the left.
“There. Star Motel. They have kitchenettes,” he added hopefully, reading the small print on the dilapidated sign; anything to break up the greasy monotony of diners, drive-ins and dives.
Making a quick turn across the oncoming traffic into what passed for a parking lot, Dean grunted. “Looks like it hasn’t been updated since man discovered fire.”
“Hopefully their credit card system is just as antiquated. What?” he added as Dean turned to stare at him, right eyebrow raised.
“Antiquated?”
“Yeah, it means―”
“I know what it means, Sam,” Dean spit out. “You couldn’t just say ‘old-fashioned’?”
Sam glared at his brother. “Apparently not. So who’s checking us in?”
Dean shifted around till he could reach into his back pocket for his wallet. Pulling out a credit card, he blithely waved it under Sam’s nose, laughing when Sam proceeded to slap at the offending hand. “Jerry Corbetta is going to be shelling out for this trip.”
The lobby―although it was pretty much a misnomer, being more of a miniature closet than an actual space to allow people to gather with their luggage for the check in process―was tiny, dark and dingy.
“Yeah?” The old man sitting behind the counter was old enough to have been sharing space with the hotel when fire was discovered.
“We need a room.” Dean smiled and Sam tried to hide his own grin. To anyone who didn’t know his brother, the smile was friendly and inviting; just the kind to lure unsuspecting fish into the shark’s big mouth.
“One bed or two?”
“Two,” Sam said, just a half-beat ahead of Dean.
“Only got rooms with one bed. Can give you one with a couch, too, though.” He cleared his throat and spit the results out onto the floor.
Sam casually took a step back. “Then why did you ask… Never mind. The sign said you have kitchenettes?”
“Yeah, want one? Extra $100 a week.”
“A week? What if we only want one night?” Dean asked, pissed.
“Embassy Suites, Holiday Inn, Quality Inn―all down on ‘H’ Street. Best Western next door; you want cheap, or you wouldn’t have stopped here,” the old guy pointed out. “We do weeks, $250. $350 with the kitchen.”
“Fine,” Dean ground out. “You take credit cards?”
A dirty hand was held out. Apparently, the answer was yes. Dean handed over good ole Jerry’s card and Sam smiled as he saw the old-fashioned manual imprinter.
After they’d taken possession of the room key―singular―there wasn’t an extra one - the brothers gathered their duffle bags and cautiously entered the room. It had a lot in common with the old man in the pseudo-lobby and smelled even worse.
“This is…gah, Dean, I swear there’s something dead in here,” Sam gagged. The walls were that yellow-ish mud color created by who-knew-how-many years of cigarette smoke build-up.
“Open the windows.”
It was a rather superfluous order since Sam was already struggling with one. He grunted in frustration; the damn thing wasn’t being terribly obliging.
“We’re not eating in this kitchen,” Dean said as he finished a quick perusal of the small rooms. “I’m not taking a piss or a dump in this bathroom, either,” he added after a short glance behind the rickety door.
“There’s a Quik-Stop next door,” Sam pointed out, moving on to the second window having wrestled the first one into submission. “Maybe some cleaning supplies are in order?”
“It’ll take more than soap to make this place liveable,” Dean complained. “I’ll be back. Behave yourself while I’m gone.”
Sam was tempted to stick his tongue out at Dean’s retreating back, but somehow he knew his brother would sense the childish gesture and retaliation would not be sweet. Instead, he focused his energy on wiping down what was trying to pass itself off as a kitchen table so he could set up his laptop. There had to be wi-fi floating around somewhere that he could ‘borrow’.
And….there was. Twenty minutes later Sam had access to the internet courtesy of a David Hawkins who obviously knew nothing about security, and was busily checking the history archive of the Lompoc Record.
A loud kick at the door was followed by Dean’s shout to “quit playing with yourself and open the damn door now!”
Sam got up from the table, frowning. He had asked for normal. “Forget the key?”
“Duh.” Dean held up both arms, hands full of plastic bags. Comet, bleach, dish soap, some towels…
“You couldn’t bring back anything to eat?” Sam complained.
“Brought beer.”
“To eat, Dean. You know, sustenance? Protein?”
“Not in this piece of landfill kitchen.”
“Well, great.” Sam waited till Dean had unloaded the bags before grabbing a beer and sitting back down at his laptop. He’d research and Dean could clean. Perfect division of labor as far as he was concerned; what Dean thought of it, well, that was something Sam couldn’t be bothered to even consider right now. He’d most likely guess wrong anyway.
-0-
Sam rubbed his head tiredly. His shoulder throbbed from all the tap-tap-tapping at the keyboard, his head hurt from page after page of tiny print; hell, his entire ginormous body was one huge ache. He jumped slightly when four Tylenol and a glass of water were quietly placed next to his right hand. Sam glanced up but Dean already had his head and hands back in the sink, quietly scrubbing away.
“Thanks.”
A shrug and a slight hand wave were Dean’s only reply.
“Do you want to hear what I’ve found out?” Sam asked softly.
Dean paused, shrugged again, before finally turning slowly around. “Sure.” Neither his face nor his posture agreed with his affirmative reply.
Sam took a deep breath and began. “The road is Harris Grade; it’s a short cut between Santa Maria and Lompoc. It's one of those narrow old mountain roads. People started dying last November and there really isn’t anything tying them together that I can find in the news accounts. We have six dead people and no leads.”
“That’s about as useful as tits on a boar, Sammy,” Dean commented as he gathered up his cleaning materials. “You keep going maybe you’ll find something before someone else dies.”
Sam sucked in a deep breath; his brother did not just say that. He watched as Dean paused for half a second then continued putting things away. No, Sam simply didn’t hear right; Dean would never accuse Sam of something like that. Even if … no, he just wouldn’t do it.
“We need to get out and start talking to the victims’ family or friends,” was all Sam said.
Dean grabbed a beer and planted himself firmly in the lopsided recliner―this was apparently the promised ‘couch’―and switched on the TV.
“Dean?”
The remote quickly switched to another channel, then another one.
Sam sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
“You hungry, Dean?” After trying unsuccessfully for several minutes to gain his brother’s attention, Sam finally stepped directly in front of the television.
“Make a better door than a window,” was Dean’s only response.
“What does that mean, anyway?” Sam asked.
“It means move your ass out of my way,” Dean growled. Sam didn’t move. “Okay, yeah, I’m hungry. Go get something.”
“I’m not your personal slave, dude!”
“No, you’re my personal geisha girl. Fine, let’s go eat then we can get this show on the road. You’re really dragging your ass on this one, Sam. What’s wrong with you? You’d think you wanted more people to die.” Dean switched off the TV and tossed the remote on the floor.
Sam could feel his jaw drop. It made a little cracking sound as it flopped around in the breeze below his open mouth. That was the second time Dean had made a comment like that. It proved to Sam how unlike himself Dean was being, that he still wasn’t over what happened with Alastair.
He sighed. He wasn’t over it, either. Why did he expect Dean to be?
“Stop sighing, Sammy, you sound like a wheezing geriatric,” Dean said as he gathered up his jacket and headed for the door.
“Geriatric?”
“Yeah, it means--”
“I know what it means, Dean, I’m just surprised you do.”
“I’m not as stupid as you look, little brother,” Dean smirked and waltzed out the door.
Instead of heading for the car, however, Dean continued around the front of the motel and into the restaurant―and Sam used the term loosely―next door.
Juanita’s Kitchen resembled the dive it sounded like and Sam hoped Juanita’s kitchen was cleaner than their kitchenette had been before Dean attacked it with the scouring pad. It was small and dark and smelled like hot peppers and various spices. The green and white paper lanterns placed strategically around the ceiling didn’t do much to help with illumination any more than the kitschy candles on the tables did.
Dean paid very little attention to the waitress, Maria - according to her name tag - who appeared to take their order. If Sam needed any proof than they weren’t back to normal yet, this pretty much clinched it. It was almost impossible for Dean to NOT hit on anything female, especially if it was over 18 and had as much thrusting forward as this one did.
“I’ll have a number four and a beer.” Dean closed his menu and handed it over, barely glancing at the waitress.
She turned her attention to Sam. “Taco salad, please, and a beer.”
Sam sat there quietly wondering if Dean was going to show any interest in the hunt or not - assuming it really was a hunt. Perhaps it was simply a psycho going around murdering people for reasons that had nothing to do with the supernatural. Maybe they were wasting their time here. He could be totally wrong about what was going on. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’d been wrong about something.
“I think I need to do more research.”
Dean looked up from where he’d been playing with his silverware. “What?”
“Look, this may not even be a case for us. I think I need to do more research, make sure it isn’t some nut-job out whacking people for the thrill of it.”
“I thought you said you’d found everything you could online.”
“I did, but―”
“Then you found everything available. Research is what you do best, Sammy. If you can’t find it, then it doesn’t exist.”
Sam took a deep breath and let it slowly, trying his best to make it not sound like a sigh. Dean was bouncing back and forth between being a complete and utter jerk one minute and his supportive big brother the next. Not knowing what was going to come out of Dean’s mouth next was driving Sam crazy. Currently it seemed big brother mode was winning.
Sam carefully re-arranged his napkin to sit underneath his knife and spoon, ignoring the strange look he got from Dean. “But what if it isn’t supernatural?”
“Then it won’t―” Dean stopped as the waitress came up to the table with their food. He was quiet as the plates were placed in front of them and the usual―these are hot, don’t touch―warning was given. After the beers were set down and Maria had left, Dean took a drink before going on. “If it isn’t supernatural, it shouldn’t take us long to figure it out.”
Sam repeatedly jabbed his fork into the pile of lettuce in front of him.
“Eat it, don’t play with it.” Dean spooned salsa onto his taco and took a big bite, crunching contentedly.
Sam shoved a forkful into his mouth while glaring at his brother. He wasn’t six years old anymore!
“If the interviews don’t help, we’ll hit the newspaper office or the library tomorrow and see what else we can find,” Dean said, ignoring Sam’s belligerent stare.
“We?”
“Yeah. As in you and me,” Dean said between mouthfuls.
We. There sure hadn’t been much of that lately. Sam let slip a soupçon of hope that perhaps Dean was finally getting his head in the game. Maybe big brother was here to stay.
-0-
“What are we?” Sam asked as they left Juanita’s and headed back to the motel.
“Huh?”
“FBI, CIA, what are we?”
“Serial killer, so FBI,” Dean answered.
They settled into the Impala and Sam dug a couple of FBI badges out of their hoard. Handing one to Dean, he slid the one with his photo on it into his hoodie pocket.
“We’re not going to change clothes?” Sam asked as Dean started the car.
“Nope. I hate those damn suits. They ask, we’ll just say the airline lost our luggage. That work for you?”
“Yeah, I guess.” At this point, Sam didn’t really care. His headache was coming back, and his stomach was unhappily talking to him about the salsa that had been on his salad.
“So?” Dean’s hands tapped a beat against the steering wheel.
“So what?”
“So where are we going?” Dean demanded impatiently.
“Sorry.” No he wasn’t, not really. Taking out his phone he mapped the address. “329 South ”J” Street. Turn left here then left on “J”.”
Without a word Dean followed Sam’s simple directions, pulling up a few minutes later in front of a small, older house with a yard in desperate need of a good lawnmower. He slowed to a stop and just sat there.
“Are you planning on getting out?” Sam asked, confused.
“Are you planning on telling me who lives here?” Dean parroted back.
“Right. Sorry.” Again… Couldn’t do anything right, could he? “David and Charles Weir; they’re cousins, David is the one who was killed. The first victim.”
“Okay.” Dean opened his door and led the way up the walk to the front door. “Ready?”
Since when did either of them ask that? They were both so far off their game they weren’t even in the stadium. Sam nodded.
The man who opened the door could have almost been the son of the cro-magnon dude back at the motel, although this one was slightly cleaner. His beer belly looked like it was ready to give birth to several six packs any second now.
“Yeah?” Add highly-educated to the man’s list of attributes. Not. With some difficulty, Sam managed to keep his face expressionless.
Dean held up his badge. “I’m Agent Taylor this is Agent Le Bon, FBI. We’re looking into the deaths that have occurred up on Harris Grade.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Dean snorted. “Your cousin was the first victim.”
“Yeah.”
Oh, this one was a real winner. Sam simply couldn’t help himself and he sighed. “Can we come in?”
Charles stepped back, allowing them to enter.
The inside was rather pleasant, and definitely not what Sam had been expecting. It was one of the old turn of the century craftsman style homes and had been cared for inside much better than the outside yard. Perhaps Charles’ attitude and appearance was simple grief rather than lack of personal attention.
Or not.
Charles plopped down in an easy chair, waved a hand at the couch, and picked up a half-finished bottle of beer. He gestured with it in their direction, his eyebrow lifted.
“No, thanks,” Sam said before Dean could take him up on the offer. He was careful not to look at his older brother.
“So what can you tell us about your cousin’s death?” Dean asked. Sam could tell from the tone of voice that Dean was not pleased about passing on the beer.
“Huh? He was killed.”
“Is there anyone who would want your cousin dead?” Sam didn’t hold out much hope they were going to get anything out of this idiot.
“Nobody. Don’t know why he’d stop at that spot and just get out of his car.”
“Did he always take Harris Grade?”
“Yeah. It’s faster than going around by Vandenberg. I don’t like it though,” he added almost as an after-thought.
“Why not?”
“I get car-sick.” Charles grimaced and took another slug of beer as if to wash out any possible taste of potential vomit.
“Right.” Sam glanced over at Dean who gave a slight shrug. Apparently he had nothing to contribute.
Sam thought over what Charles had said so far. The way the idiot had said ‘that spot’, maybe…
“What is it about that particular area of Harris Grade that bothers you?”
“Huh? Besides David dying there?”
“Yeah,” Dean said sarcastically, “besides that.”
“Nothing. It’s just a spot.” Charles guzzled the last of his beer and quickly reached for another. “Sure you don’t want one?”
“Yes. Just a spot?” Sam tried to keep the skepticism out of his voice but knew he'd been unsuccessful when Charles glared at him. “Okay, fine, thanks. You’ve been a big help, and we’re very sorry for your loss.”
“He’s hiding something,” Sam said as they walked back to the car.
“No kidding. I thought he was going to puke right in front of us.” Dean slid behind the wheel and turned the key. “Wonder what it is about ‘that spot’ that upset him so much.”
“More research?” Sam shut the door and settled back into his seat. “Or on to our next interviewee? Maybe he’ll have the same feeling about that spot.”
“That would be too easy; we don’t have that kind of luck. Where to now?”
“Steven and Maggie Day.” Sam fiddled with the GPS on his phone. Best invention ever, in his opinion. “Turn left at the first street, then right on Pine Ave. It’s 1459.”
“Which one died?”
“Maggie. She’s the most recent victim,” Sam answered. He wasn’t going to tell Dean she’d had a six-month-old daughter; six-month-old babies were a sore spot for both of them.
The Day’s house was very similar in style to the one owned by the Weir cousins - with the exception being the nicely groomed front yard. These owners seemed to be into the latest in curb appeal. No overgrown grass for them. Even the front door was freshly painted. Sam raised his hand and knocked.
The man who invited them inside was holding a baby dressed in pink with a little bow affixed to her almost hairless head. He was understandably distraught and at first Sam didn’t think he was going to be much help. After the introductions and explanations, Steven led them into the living room, talking as they walked.
“We grew up here-Maggie and me. Started in kindergarten together, graduated from Cabrillo, went to college, came back and got married. Thought it would be a great place to raise our kids.” He sat down in a rocking chair and gave the baby a little jiggle even though she wasn’t fussing.
“It seems like a nice town,” Sam said politely as he sat next to Dean on the couch. He gave a fleeting notion to what it would have been like to grow up in a one town and actually have friends and neighbors. Probably just more people to watch him mess up his life. He quickly he shoved the thought out of his head.
“It is. What’s funny is we never use Harris Grade when it’s foggy. It’s stupid, but there’s an old story about this woman named Agnes who was killed and she comes back on foggy nights looking for her missing baby. Just a story, but it bothered Maggie - especially after Juliet was born. I don’t know why she decided to come back that way this time, but… I don’t know. Don’t know.” He was almost in tears.
“Do you know how long ago this Agnes died?” Dean asked.
Steven looked at him with a strange expression. “It’s a story, it’s not real, a story to scare kids. When our parents were little, it was Mary looking for her lost dog on the hill. Just a story. It wasn’t a ghost that killed my wife.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” Sam said soothingly. “Thank you for your help. We’ll show ourselves out and let you know how the investigation goes.”
He and Dean left the grieving man with his daughter and quietly let themselves out.
“We’re going to let him know how the investigation goes? What the hell, Sam?” Dean pushed past his brother and climbed into the Impala.
“Of course not.” Sam curled up on his side of the car and frowned over at Dean. So much for the big-brother persona sticking around.
“Then why did you say we would?”
“What’s wrong with leaving him with a little comfort? Letting him know someone’s working on his wife’s death?”
“And when we don’t show up and the cops never come up with a cause of death?” Dean pulled out into the street. “How comforted will he be then?”
“Shut up, Dean. Just shut up.” Of course Sam was wrong to tell the dead woman’s husband what he did. Always wrong. It was second nature now.
-0-
After a brief drive-thru at the local Jack-in-the-Box, the brothers hunkered down back at the motel for the night.
“You were right,” Sam said in-between bites of his greasy Jumbo Jack.
“Of course I was.” Dean finished chewing, swallowed, burped, and asked: “about what?”
“It is supernatural. We just have to find the ghost, and figure out why she suddenly started killing people.”
“More research, Sammy. Just what you’re good at it.” Dean balled up his burger wrapper and successfully lobbed it at his unsuspecting brother’s head. “Score!”
Sam merely rolled his eyes and started tapping away at the computer. Ladies named Agnes whose baby died on Harris Grade in Lompoc. Much to his surprise, he got a lone hit from a gardener’s website. In between the rhapsodizing about the various flora and fauna along Harris Grade Sam found a nugget of information.
“Dean, come check this out.”
“I’m comfortable,” came the answer from where Dean was sprawled in the lopsided recliner. “Read it to me.”
“Lazy ass. It’s talking about the spot where a local woman is said to have died in the 1920’s. The legend goes that she had a fight with her husband in Santa Maria and left her home in the middle of a gully-washing rainstorm. It says she was driving, and crying, with her infant child screaming in her Model T; she missed the turn near the top of the hill and her car went over the abyss. Her vehicle was found the next morning, hundreds of feet below the road; her body was said to have been taken out by the emergency crews, but they never found her baby. It was presumed to have been dragged off by coyotes.”
“There she is, we just have to find her,” Dean said when Sam had finished.
“Yeah, I see a trip to the library in our immediate future.”
“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” Dean said out of the blue.
“I don’t want to sleep in here at all,” Sam countered. “Did you bring in our sleeping bags by any chance?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. I was thinking ahead, Sammy, something you should consider.” Dean pulled himself out of the chair and grabbed both bags out of the closet, tossing one over to his brother. “You kick me or drool on me and you’ll finish the night on the floor.”
“You fart in my face and you’ll be the one sleeping on the floor,” Sam shot back as he spread out his sleeping bag on the bed. Toeing his shoes off and loosening his jeans, he crawled inside.
He wouldn’t dare mention it to Dean, but it was comforting having his big brother curled up beside him. That was just about the only thing that wasn’t wrong in his life right now.
END OF PART THREE
Episode 12: These Broken Wings
Original airdate: 2010.04.26
Summary:
In the aftermath of Alastair’s attack, the brothers are broken in mind and spirit. Despite Bobby’s best efforts, the boys continue to struggle with their fears and weaknesses. Can they conquer these new wounds in time to save each other? Or will they end up as victims after all.
Excerpt:
"Nothing I can't make right," John said. "But I need your help. You have to take care of my boys. Bobby. Please."
The request was plaintive, emphatic. If this was a con, it was a pretty damn good one.
But Bobby couldn't help it. He just couldn't. He could still remember John's face the first time he showed up on Bobby's doorstep all those years ago, those two damn rug rats in tow. They'd all been younger then, but John's face had been just as tired and grizzled as ever.
If he was honest, Bobby knew he'd been whipped since then. One look from John's deep, sad eyes, one glimpse at those two boys holding onto each other like they were all the other had--and Bobby had never even had a chance.
Resigned, Bobby picked up a piece of paper and a pencil. "I need a location, John," he said, voice tight and even. He had his priorities. The boys came first. Always.
"Fargo, Georgia," John repeated. "The hospital."
Bobby's panic sprang to life, questions coming to his tongue. But before he could ask anything, before he could utter another word, the line went dead, the dial tone resounding heavily in Bobby's ears.
Written by: deej1957 and faye_dartmouth
Artist: faye_dartmouth
PART THREE
This fog gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘pea soup’, thought Maggie as she lifted her foot off the accelerator and peered through the windshield at the gray gloom surrounding her. Slowly she pressed down on the gas pedal and started inching the car forward around the sharp turn of the narrow winding mountain road. This was the last time she would take Harris Grade back from Santa Maria after dark. So what if going past Vandenberg took longer? Going two miles an hour in this fog made it all -
“Oh my God!” She slammed on the brakes, grateful she was going so slowly. “What on earth…”
-0-
The sun broke through the heavy rain clouds, the rays laying a shiny path for the black Chevy Impala as it travelled down the lonely highway.
“You keep driving like an old lady and the entire state of California will be dead before we get there,” Sam complained, glaring at his brother across the front seat before slapping on his sunglasses.
The only answer to Sam’s comment was the rumble of the engine and the hiss of the tires on the wet road as Dean’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
“Come on, man, I know you don’t want to do this,” Sam said. “What do you want to do? Turn around, go back to Bobby’s? Tell him to find someone else because we can’t do this anymore?” Sam waited, hoping for some type of reaction from his stoic-faced brother. He watched as Dean’s jaw muscles bunched up.
“Dean?” Silence from the other side of the car. “Dean!”
“Fine.”
The Impala’s rapid acceleration jerked Sam into the back of his seat as Dean slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.
“Jesus, Dean, slow the hell down!” Sam grimaced as pain shot through his newly-healed shoulder.
“You wanted faster.” Dean didn’t take his eyes off the road -- a road that was thankfully empty of any other vehicles.
“Not like this. DEAN! I’ve already been dead once, I don’t want to die again. Slow down!”
The heavy car fishtailed as Dean slammed on the brakes and steered them jerkily off to the side of the road. He yanked the gearshift into park and sat there drawing in huge gulps of air as he stared stubbornly out the windshield.
Sam clutched the dashboard as though his very life depended on it. He was doing his own version of jaw-clenched heavy breathing and wanted nothing more at this moment than to smack his blasted big brother right upside the head. What was wrong with him?
Sam shook his head; he knew what was wrong with Dean, what was wrong with both of them.
Alastair.
“Just what exactly do you want from me?” Dean took his hands off the wheel and flexed his fingers with a slight scowl.
“A little bit of normality would be appreciated,” Sam muttered under his breath. “Not that kind of normal,” he added quickly before Dean could react. 'Normal' was like a red cape to a bull when it came to Dean. “Normal for us.”
“Well, I don’t happen to feel too normal right now, Sam. Do you want to do this hunt or not?”
“Do I…?” Sam scowled. “You’re the one who’s dawdling along like a one-legged man in a snow drift. Can’t you simply drive like normal? We can get a motel or drive straight through, like normal, and we can do this stupid hunt, like NORMAL. You know? The family business? Saving people, hunting things?”
Sam very carefully did not add that it was the last thing he wanted to be doing either. He wasn’t sure they were even ready for this hunt. If it actually was one.
“You’re awfully eager for this hunt all of a sudden, why?” Dean glanced out the side window and Sam realised his brother hadn’t looked at him straight on since they’d started the trip west.
Sam slumped in his seat. He couldn’t do this. How could he get Dean to want this when he couldn’t even get himself on board? What right did he have to push Dean into doing something he didn’t want to do himself? What was the point to all this anyway? He’d been a worthless hindrance to their dad, and now he was broken limb dragging his brother down. What had Bobby been thinking, to send them on this hunt?
Bobby… Their friend had gone above and beyond the call of duty when it came right down to it. He’d been there whenever they needed him and lately he’d pretty much put his life on hold while they tried to put themselves back together. They owed Bobby more than they could ever repay him.
“I don’t want to let Bobby down,” Sam replied softly, ignoring his inner voice. “He’s done a lot for us, not just lately, but ever since…” He shut his mouth before 'Dad died' could get out. Another red cape warning for his brother.
Dean was quiet for a moment as the sun disappeared behind the incoming thick grey clouds and the rain started up again, the drops splashing against the outside of the car. Sam could imagine the thoughts running through his brother’s head as he pondered what Sam had said. Which way was Dean going to swing? For the hunt? Or back to Bobby’s?
“Point. Okay, so tell me about this case.” Dean put the car in gear and slowly pulled back onto the road.
Sam slipped his sunglasses off and waited, watching as Dean increased their speed until they were finally back to the ‘normal’ race-car style the Impala was used to.
“It’s in a town called Lompoc,” Sam began. ”Several people have been killed recently, um, falling down a mountain, leaving their cars behind on the road. Nobody knows why, and the police are stumped."
“Stumped cops, what a surprise,” Dean said dryly.
“They’re dying from injuries sustained in a car accident, except their cars are fine and no-where near them.”
“Huh. Sounds like a ghost.”
“That’s what Bobby’s friend thought. We… I… We’ll need to do more research once we get there; the newspaper’s online, but not very complete.” Research. He was good at looking up obscure bits of trivia. If nothing else, he could still do that properly.
“Yeah.”
Sam didn’t know what to do with his brother. He simply didn’t recognise this Dean. While an over-protective, hovering brother drove him crazy at times, Sam had to admit to the feeling of comfort it also gave him. He’d always known no matter what, Dean would be there.
Until now. Dean’s uncaring, cavalier attitude towards what had happened to them and to Sam’s injuries was something he’d never experienced before. This was not the big brother who’d sold his soul to the devil in order to bring Sam back from the dead. And while Sam - intellectually - knew it was Dean’s way of coping with all that had gone on, emotionally it hurt almost as much as Alastair’s knife.
He’d forgiven Dean for ignoring him and treating him like crap. He had. It had been difficult, but he loved his brother and could understand where Dean was coming from in all this.
Sam sighed. At least Dean was commenting on the case now; that he was retaining anything was an entirely different ball of wax.
Bobby had called this a simple salt and burn. Sam leaned his head against the side window; in his experience nothing was ever simple when it came to the Winchester family.
-0-
Lompoc was a small town with nothing to really set it apart from any other average city in the United States. It most likely wouldn’t even exist if it weren’t for the Air Force Base it supported. At least it wasn’t raining here. As they slowly cruised down what appeared to be a main street, Sam pointed out a hotel on the left.
“There. Star Motel. They have kitchenettes,” he added hopefully, reading the small print on the dilapidated sign; anything to break up the greasy monotony of diners, drive-ins and dives.
Making a quick turn across the oncoming traffic into what passed for a parking lot, Dean grunted. “Looks like it hasn’t been updated since man discovered fire.”
“Hopefully their credit card system is just as antiquated. What?” he added as Dean turned to stare at him, right eyebrow raised.
“Antiquated?”
“Yeah, it means―”
“I know what it means, Sam,” Dean spit out. “You couldn’t just say ‘old-fashioned’?”
Sam glared at his brother. “Apparently not. So who’s checking us in?”
Dean shifted around till he could reach into his back pocket for his wallet. Pulling out a credit card, he blithely waved it under Sam’s nose, laughing when Sam proceeded to slap at the offending hand. “Jerry Corbetta is going to be shelling out for this trip.”
The lobby―although it was pretty much a misnomer, being more of a miniature closet than an actual space to allow people to gather with their luggage for the check in process―was tiny, dark and dingy.
“Yeah?” The old man sitting behind the counter was old enough to have been sharing space with the hotel when fire was discovered.
“We need a room.” Dean smiled and Sam tried to hide his own grin. To anyone who didn’t know his brother, the smile was friendly and inviting; just the kind to lure unsuspecting fish into the shark’s big mouth.
“One bed or two?”
“Two,” Sam said, just a half-beat ahead of Dean.
“Only got rooms with one bed. Can give you one with a couch, too, though.” He cleared his throat and spit the results out onto the floor.
Sam casually took a step back. “Then why did you ask… Never mind. The sign said you have kitchenettes?”
“Yeah, want one? Extra $100 a week.”
“A week? What if we only want one night?” Dean asked, pissed.
“Embassy Suites, Holiday Inn, Quality Inn―all down on ‘H’ Street. Best Western next door; you want cheap, or you wouldn’t have stopped here,” the old guy pointed out. “We do weeks, $250. $350 with the kitchen.”
“Fine,” Dean ground out. “You take credit cards?”
A dirty hand was held out. Apparently, the answer was yes. Dean handed over good ole Jerry’s card and Sam smiled as he saw the old-fashioned manual imprinter.
After they’d taken possession of the room key―singular―there wasn’t an extra one - the brothers gathered their duffle bags and cautiously entered the room. It had a lot in common with the old man in the pseudo-lobby and smelled even worse.
“This is…gah, Dean, I swear there’s something dead in here,” Sam gagged. The walls were that yellow-ish mud color created by who-knew-how-many years of cigarette smoke build-up.
“Open the windows.”
It was a rather superfluous order since Sam was already struggling with one. He grunted in frustration; the damn thing wasn’t being terribly obliging.
“We’re not eating in this kitchen,” Dean said as he finished a quick perusal of the small rooms. “I’m not taking a piss or a dump in this bathroom, either,” he added after a short glance behind the rickety door.
“There’s a Quik-Stop next door,” Sam pointed out, moving on to the second window having wrestled the first one into submission. “Maybe some cleaning supplies are in order?”
“It’ll take more than soap to make this place liveable,” Dean complained. “I’ll be back. Behave yourself while I’m gone.”
Sam was tempted to stick his tongue out at Dean’s retreating back, but somehow he knew his brother would sense the childish gesture and retaliation would not be sweet. Instead, he focused his energy on wiping down what was trying to pass itself off as a kitchen table so he could set up his laptop. There had to be wi-fi floating around somewhere that he could ‘borrow’.
And….there was. Twenty minutes later Sam had access to the internet courtesy of a David Hawkins who obviously knew nothing about security, and was busily checking the history archive of the Lompoc Record.
A loud kick at the door was followed by Dean’s shout to “quit playing with yourself and open the damn door now!”
Sam got up from the table, frowning. He had asked for normal. “Forget the key?”
“Duh.” Dean held up both arms, hands full of plastic bags. Comet, bleach, dish soap, some towels…
“You couldn’t bring back anything to eat?” Sam complained.
“Brought beer.”
“To eat, Dean. You know, sustenance? Protein?”
“Not in this piece of landfill kitchen.”
“Well, great.” Sam waited till Dean had unloaded the bags before grabbing a beer and sitting back down at his laptop. He’d research and Dean could clean. Perfect division of labor as far as he was concerned; what Dean thought of it, well, that was something Sam couldn’t be bothered to even consider right now. He’d most likely guess wrong anyway.
-0-
Sam rubbed his head tiredly. His shoulder throbbed from all the tap-tap-tapping at the keyboard, his head hurt from page after page of tiny print; hell, his entire ginormous body was one huge ache. He jumped slightly when four Tylenol and a glass of water were quietly placed next to his right hand. Sam glanced up but Dean already had his head and hands back in the sink, quietly scrubbing away.
“Thanks.”
A shrug and a slight hand wave were Dean’s only reply.
“Do you want to hear what I’ve found out?” Sam asked softly.
Dean paused, shrugged again, before finally turning slowly around. “Sure.” Neither his face nor his posture agreed with his affirmative reply.
Sam took a deep breath and began. “The road is Harris Grade; it’s a short cut between Santa Maria and Lompoc. It's one of those narrow old mountain roads. People started dying last November and there really isn’t anything tying them together that I can find in the news accounts. We have six dead people and no leads.”
“That’s about as useful as tits on a boar, Sammy,” Dean commented as he gathered up his cleaning materials. “You keep going maybe you’ll find something before someone else dies.”
Sam sucked in a deep breath; his brother did not just say that. He watched as Dean paused for half a second then continued putting things away. No, Sam simply didn’t hear right; Dean would never accuse Sam of something like that. Even if … no, he just wouldn’t do it.
“We need to get out and start talking to the victims’ family or friends,” was all Sam said.
Dean grabbed a beer and planted himself firmly in the lopsided recliner―this was apparently the promised ‘couch’―and switched on the TV.
“Dean?”
The remote quickly switched to another channel, then another one.
Sam sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
“You hungry, Dean?” After trying unsuccessfully for several minutes to gain his brother’s attention, Sam finally stepped directly in front of the television.
“Make a better door than a window,” was Dean’s only response.
“What does that mean, anyway?” Sam asked.
“It means move your ass out of my way,” Dean growled. Sam didn’t move. “Okay, yeah, I’m hungry. Go get something.”
“I’m not your personal slave, dude!”
“No, you’re my personal geisha girl. Fine, let’s go eat then we can get this show on the road. You’re really dragging your ass on this one, Sam. What’s wrong with you? You’d think you wanted more people to die.” Dean switched off the TV and tossed the remote on the floor.
Sam could feel his jaw drop. It made a little cracking sound as it flopped around in the breeze below his open mouth. That was the second time Dean had made a comment like that. It proved to Sam how unlike himself Dean was being, that he still wasn’t over what happened with Alastair.
He sighed. He wasn’t over it, either. Why did he expect Dean to be?
“Stop sighing, Sammy, you sound like a wheezing geriatric,” Dean said as he gathered up his jacket and headed for the door.
“Geriatric?”
“Yeah, it means--”
“I know what it means, Dean, I’m just surprised you do.”
“I’m not as stupid as you look, little brother,” Dean smirked and waltzed out the door.
Instead of heading for the car, however, Dean continued around the front of the motel and into the restaurant―and Sam used the term loosely―next door.
Juanita’s Kitchen resembled the dive it sounded like and Sam hoped Juanita’s kitchen was cleaner than their kitchenette had been before Dean attacked it with the scouring pad. It was small and dark and smelled like hot peppers and various spices. The green and white paper lanterns placed strategically around the ceiling didn’t do much to help with illumination any more than the kitschy candles on the tables did.
Dean paid very little attention to the waitress, Maria - according to her name tag - who appeared to take their order. If Sam needed any proof than they weren’t back to normal yet, this pretty much clinched it. It was almost impossible for Dean to NOT hit on anything female, especially if it was over 18 and had as much thrusting forward as this one did.
“I’ll have a number four and a beer.” Dean closed his menu and handed it over, barely glancing at the waitress.
She turned her attention to Sam. “Taco salad, please, and a beer.”
Sam sat there quietly wondering if Dean was going to show any interest in the hunt or not - assuming it really was a hunt. Perhaps it was simply a psycho going around murdering people for reasons that had nothing to do with the supernatural. Maybe they were wasting their time here. He could be totally wrong about what was going on. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’d been wrong about something.
“I think I need to do more research.”
Dean looked up from where he’d been playing with his silverware. “What?”
“Look, this may not even be a case for us. I think I need to do more research, make sure it isn’t some nut-job out whacking people for the thrill of it.”
“I thought you said you’d found everything you could online.”
“I did, but―”
“Then you found everything available. Research is what you do best, Sammy. If you can’t find it, then it doesn’t exist.”
Sam took a deep breath and let it slowly, trying his best to make it not sound like a sigh. Dean was bouncing back and forth between being a complete and utter jerk one minute and his supportive big brother the next. Not knowing what was going to come out of Dean’s mouth next was driving Sam crazy. Currently it seemed big brother mode was winning.
Sam carefully re-arranged his napkin to sit underneath his knife and spoon, ignoring the strange look he got from Dean. “But what if it isn’t supernatural?”
“Then it won’t―” Dean stopped as the waitress came up to the table with their food. He was quiet as the plates were placed in front of them and the usual―these are hot, don’t touch―warning was given. After the beers were set down and Maria had left, Dean took a drink before going on. “If it isn’t supernatural, it shouldn’t take us long to figure it out.”
Sam repeatedly jabbed his fork into the pile of lettuce in front of him.
“Eat it, don’t play with it.” Dean spooned salsa onto his taco and took a big bite, crunching contentedly.
Sam shoved a forkful into his mouth while glaring at his brother. He wasn’t six years old anymore!
“If the interviews don’t help, we’ll hit the newspaper office or the library tomorrow and see what else we can find,” Dean said, ignoring Sam’s belligerent stare.
“We?”
“Yeah. As in you and me,” Dean said between mouthfuls.
We. There sure hadn’t been much of that lately. Sam let slip a soupçon of hope that perhaps Dean was finally getting his head in the game. Maybe big brother was here to stay.
-0-
“What are we?” Sam asked as they left Juanita’s and headed back to the motel.
“Huh?”
“FBI, CIA, what are we?”
“Serial killer, so FBI,” Dean answered.
They settled into the Impala and Sam dug a couple of FBI badges out of their hoard. Handing one to Dean, he slid the one with his photo on it into his hoodie pocket.
“We’re not going to change clothes?” Sam asked as Dean started the car.
“Nope. I hate those damn suits. They ask, we’ll just say the airline lost our luggage. That work for you?”
“Yeah, I guess.” At this point, Sam didn’t really care. His headache was coming back, and his stomach was unhappily talking to him about the salsa that had been on his salad.
“So?” Dean’s hands tapped a beat against the steering wheel.
“So what?”
“So where are we going?” Dean demanded impatiently.
“Sorry.” No he wasn’t, not really. Taking out his phone he mapped the address. “329 South ”J” Street. Turn left here then left on “J”.”
Without a word Dean followed Sam’s simple directions, pulling up a few minutes later in front of a small, older house with a yard in desperate need of a good lawnmower. He slowed to a stop and just sat there.
“Are you planning on getting out?” Sam asked, confused.
“Are you planning on telling me who lives here?” Dean parroted back.
“Right. Sorry.” Again… Couldn’t do anything right, could he? “David and Charles Weir; they’re cousins, David is the one who was killed. The first victim.”
“Okay.” Dean opened his door and led the way up the walk to the front door. “Ready?”
Since when did either of them ask that? They were both so far off their game they weren’t even in the stadium. Sam nodded.
The man who opened the door could have almost been the son of the cro-magnon dude back at the motel, although this one was slightly cleaner. His beer belly looked like it was ready to give birth to several six packs any second now.
“Yeah?” Add highly-educated to the man’s list of attributes. Not. With some difficulty, Sam managed to keep his face expressionless.
Dean held up his badge. “I’m Agent Taylor this is Agent Le Bon, FBI. We’re looking into the deaths that have occurred up on Harris Grade.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Dean snorted. “Your cousin was the first victim.”
“Yeah.”
Oh, this one was a real winner. Sam simply couldn’t help himself and he sighed. “Can we come in?”
Charles stepped back, allowing them to enter.
The inside was rather pleasant, and definitely not what Sam had been expecting. It was one of the old turn of the century craftsman style homes and had been cared for inside much better than the outside yard. Perhaps Charles’ attitude and appearance was simple grief rather than lack of personal attention.
Or not.
Charles plopped down in an easy chair, waved a hand at the couch, and picked up a half-finished bottle of beer. He gestured with it in their direction, his eyebrow lifted.
“No, thanks,” Sam said before Dean could take him up on the offer. He was careful not to look at his older brother.
“So what can you tell us about your cousin’s death?” Dean asked. Sam could tell from the tone of voice that Dean was not pleased about passing on the beer.
“Huh? He was killed.”
“Is there anyone who would want your cousin dead?” Sam didn’t hold out much hope they were going to get anything out of this idiot.
“Nobody. Don’t know why he’d stop at that spot and just get out of his car.”
“Did he always take Harris Grade?”
“Yeah. It’s faster than going around by Vandenberg. I don’t like it though,” he added almost as an after-thought.
“Why not?”
“I get car-sick.” Charles grimaced and took another slug of beer as if to wash out any possible taste of potential vomit.
“Right.” Sam glanced over at Dean who gave a slight shrug. Apparently he had nothing to contribute.
Sam thought over what Charles had said so far. The way the idiot had said ‘that spot’, maybe…
“What is it about that particular area of Harris Grade that bothers you?”
“Huh? Besides David dying there?”
“Yeah,” Dean said sarcastically, “besides that.”
“Nothing. It’s just a spot.” Charles guzzled the last of his beer and quickly reached for another. “Sure you don’t want one?”
“Yes. Just a spot?” Sam tried to keep the skepticism out of his voice but knew he'd been unsuccessful when Charles glared at him. “Okay, fine, thanks. You’ve been a big help, and we’re very sorry for your loss.”
“He’s hiding something,” Sam said as they walked back to the car.
“No kidding. I thought he was going to puke right in front of us.” Dean slid behind the wheel and turned the key. “Wonder what it is about ‘that spot’ that upset him so much.”
“More research?” Sam shut the door and settled back into his seat. “Or on to our next interviewee? Maybe he’ll have the same feeling about that spot.”
“That would be too easy; we don’t have that kind of luck. Where to now?”
“Steven and Maggie Day.” Sam fiddled with the GPS on his phone. Best invention ever, in his opinion. “Turn left at the first street, then right on Pine Ave. It’s 1459.”
“Which one died?”
“Maggie. She’s the most recent victim,” Sam answered. He wasn’t going to tell Dean she’d had a six-month-old daughter; six-month-old babies were a sore spot for both of them.
The Day’s house was very similar in style to the one owned by the Weir cousins - with the exception being the nicely groomed front yard. These owners seemed to be into the latest in curb appeal. No overgrown grass for them. Even the front door was freshly painted. Sam raised his hand and knocked.
The man who invited them inside was holding a baby dressed in pink with a little bow affixed to her almost hairless head. He was understandably distraught and at first Sam didn’t think he was going to be much help. After the introductions and explanations, Steven led them into the living room, talking as they walked.
“We grew up here-Maggie and me. Started in kindergarten together, graduated from Cabrillo, went to college, came back and got married. Thought it would be a great place to raise our kids.” He sat down in a rocking chair and gave the baby a little jiggle even though she wasn’t fussing.
“It seems like a nice town,” Sam said politely as he sat next to Dean on the couch. He gave a fleeting notion to what it would have been like to grow up in a one town and actually have friends and neighbors. Probably just more people to watch him mess up his life. He quickly he shoved the thought out of his head.
“It is. What’s funny is we never use Harris Grade when it’s foggy. It’s stupid, but there’s an old story about this woman named Agnes who was killed and she comes back on foggy nights looking for her missing baby. Just a story, but it bothered Maggie - especially after Juliet was born. I don’t know why she decided to come back that way this time, but… I don’t know. Don’t know.” He was almost in tears.
“Do you know how long ago this Agnes died?” Dean asked.
Steven looked at him with a strange expression. “It’s a story, it’s not real, a story to scare kids. When our parents were little, it was Mary looking for her lost dog on the hill. Just a story. It wasn’t a ghost that killed my wife.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” Sam said soothingly. “Thank you for your help. We’ll show ourselves out and let you know how the investigation goes.”
He and Dean left the grieving man with his daughter and quietly let themselves out.
“We’re going to let him know how the investigation goes? What the hell, Sam?” Dean pushed past his brother and climbed into the Impala.
“Of course not.” Sam curled up on his side of the car and frowned over at Dean. So much for the big-brother persona sticking around.
“Then why did you say we would?”
“What’s wrong with leaving him with a little comfort? Letting him know someone’s working on his wife’s death?”
“And when we don’t show up and the cops never come up with a cause of death?” Dean pulled out into the street. “How comforted will he be then?”
“Shut up, Dean. Just shut up.” Of course Sam was wrong to tell the dead woman’s husband what he did. Always wrong. It was second nature now.
-0-
After a brief drive-thru at the local Jack-in-the-Box, the brothers hunkered down back at the motel for the night.
“You were right,” Sam said in-between bites of his greasy Jumbo Jack.
“Of course I was.” Dean finished chewing, swallowed, burped, and asked: “about what?”
“It is supernatural. We just have to find the ghost, and figure out why she suddenly started killing people.”
“More research, Sammy. Just what you’re good at it.” Dean balled up his burger wrapper and successfully lobbed it at his unsuspecting brother’s head. “Score!”
Sam merely rolled his eyes and started tapping away at the computer. Ladies named Agnes whose baby died on Harris Grade in Lompoc. Much to his surprise, he got a lone hit from a gardener’s website. In between the rhapsodizing about the various flora and fauna along Harris Grade Sam found a nugget of information.
“Dean, come check this out.”
“I’m comfortable,” came the answer from where Dean was sprawled in the lopsided recliner. “Read it to me.”
“Lazy ass. It’s talking about the spot where a local woman is said to have died in the 1920’s. The legend goes that she had a fight with her husband in Santa Maria and left her home in the middle of a gully-washing rainstorm. It says she was driving, and crying, with her infant child screaming in her Model T; she missed the turn near the top of the hill and her car went over the abyss. Her vehicle was found the next morning, hundreds of feet below the road; her body was said to have been taken out by the emergency crews, but they never found her baby. It was presumed to have been dragged off by coyotes.”
“There she is, we just have to find her,” Dean said when Sam had finished.
“Yeah, I see a trip to the library in our immediate future.”
“I’m not sleeping on the floor,” Dean said out of the blue.
“I don’t want to sleep in here at all,” Sam countered. “Did you bring in our sleeping bags by any chance?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. I was thinking ahead, Sammy, something you should consider.” Dean pulled himself out of the chair and grabbed both bags out of the closet, tossing one over to his brother. “You kick me or drool on me and you’ll finish the night on the floor.”
“You fart in my face and you’ll be the one sleeping on the floor,” Sam shot back as he spread out his sleeping bag on the bed. Toeing his shoes off and loosening his jeans, he crawled inside.
He wouldn’t dare mention it to Dean, but it was comforting having his big brother curled up beside him. That was just about the only thing that wasn’t wrong in his life right now.
END OF PART THREE