I Carry the Suitcase of My Grief in Both Hands, Ma 3/4

[withdiamonds]

Part Two

They fought the tourist traffic back to their little beach cottage motel, stopping to pick up beer along the way. Once there, they ordered pizza.

"We're not getting those freaky-ass green things on it, Sam. Forget it."

"They're green peppers, Dean." Sam always got green peppers on his pizza.

"I don't care what they are. They're not touching my pizza."

"Just try them, Dean. They're not going to kill you." Sam stopped, stricken. Dean had been killed by tacos, sausage, an apple, beer, and Thousand Island salad dressing. There was really no reason to think he was safe from green peppers.

"You all right? Sam? Hey!" Dean looked worried and Sam mentally shook himself.

"I'm fine. Order what you want."

He went into the bathroom to take a piss and to tell himself to get a grip. He heard Dean on the phone, ordering a large pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms and green peppers.

While they waited for the pizza to arrive, Sam fired up his laptop and Dean paged through their father’s journal.

“Kathy Jackson’s necklace is the same design as the pattern of blood on the Harrison’s mattress,” Sam said.

“Yes, thank you, I did notice that, Sammy,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. “But I don’t see it anywhere in Dad’s journal."

Sam didn’t know if it was having details of a case to work on or the pizza and beer, but Dean seemed to have almost forgotten to be pissed at Sam. Sam didn’t trust it to last, but he was grateful nonetheless. Dean was a champion at compartmentalizing. No matter how mad he got, no matter what they were arguing about, he never let that get in the way of the job at hand.

Which was a very good thing, because there was no way Sam was going to stop trying to figure out how to get Dean out of his deal, no matter how pissy Dean got about it. Because I’m the oldest and I say so just wasn’t going to cut it anymore as a valid argument, no matter how much Dean insisted it was. So one of them needed to be able to keep focused on the job. Sam was having a hard time giving a crap, although he resolutely sat and tapped away on his laptop until he found something.

“I think I figured out the symbol,” Sam said slowly, clicking on a link and opening another window. “I think it has something to do with Isis.”

“Who-sis?” Dean said, squinting. He waved a hand when Sam started to answer. “Dude, I know who Isis is. Some Egyptian chick, right?”

Sam nodded, smiling. “Fertility goddess. Motherhood and power. And get this, one of her animal icons is a scorpion.”

“Wait, do scorpions make good mothers?” Dean asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I have no idea, Dean.” Sam tapped his computer screen. “The blood pattern, and that charm Kathy Jackson was wearing, it’s Egyptian. It’s a hieroglyph. Or, like, a symbol of one. I think it means mother.” He studied the picture on his laptop. “I should give Bobby a call.”

“You go ahead and call Bobby, I’m gonna go out for a while.” Dean didn’t look at Sam as he stood up and stretched, his back popping as he sighed, a look of pure bliss on his face. It was quickly replaced by a flat, expressionless look and his eyes were shuttered when he glanced at Sam. “I’ll be back later.”

“What?” Sam asked, startled at Dean’s sudden change of mood.

“I just need some air, is all,” Dean said. “You’ve been on me like white on rice, Sam, ever since the Trickster. I just need a little fresh air for a while.”

Hurt caused heat to rise in Sam's face at Dean’s words, but he tightened his lips to keep the angry retort behind his tongue. He could maintain the peace. He could.

Dean stood there a moment, as if waiting for Sam to react. When Sam managed not to, Dean snatched his jacket off the bed and shrugged it on, tugging the sleeves jerkily into place. He was at the door when Sam finally spoke.

“I’m not six years old anymore, Dean.” Sam didn’t know if he meant stop telling me what to do or I don’t need you to protect me. Probably a little of both. Neither was something his brother had ever been able to hear easily.

Dean’s hand tightened on the doorknob for a second, then his shoulders slumped and he muttered, “I know,” as he pulled the door open and walked through it.

Sam looked at the papers spread around his bed, Dad’s journal opened to an entry on Egyptian deities, and his laptop blinking ISIS: GODDESS OF FERTILITY at him. He slammed the laptop closed and swept the papers off the bed in a rage.

Who cared about this shit anyway? How was any of this going to help him save Dean?

Dean cared about it. Sam knew Dean, knew that caring about saving random people, killing random monsters, was the only way he was maintaining any kind of equilibrium at this point. It was the only distraction he had and had always been his big purpose in life. That was pretty much the only reason Sam was willing to spend time on jobs instead of devoting all his energies to finding a way to save his brother.

Sex wasn’t even distracting Dean anymore. The first few months after killing Azazel had been a virtual orgy of frenzied coupling, Dean nailing anything and anybody that would stand still long enough. Sam had looked the other way, even though he’d wanted to shake Dean. It wasn't like he had much of a choice.

But Dean did have a choice, and he knew he did.

He knew what Sam had on offer. Sam had placed it out there for Dean to do with as he saw fit, plain and simple, a long time ago. He had let Dean know in no uncertain terms what he wanted, what Dean could have, and Dean had said no, just as clearly. Even on the rare occasions when he said yes, he still meant no.

And now Dean was too terrified by what was coming to take refuge in meaningless sex, but he was too stubborn, too afraid, to take what Sam was offering, except under the most extreme circumstances. He tried to hide his dread and fear of what was happening to him from Sam, but Sam knew him better than anyone else in the world. He’d spent a lifetime studying Dean, and there was very little Dean could hide from him, although he still kept trying.

It was almost endearing, when it didn't make Sam want to punch him in the head.

Sammy was bored. The TV in their motel room only got three channels and they were soooooo boring. He’d already looked at all the pictures in Dean’s comic books twice. He could read some of the words, but not enough to tell the story. Dean wouldn’t read them to him because Dean was being mean.

Dean was mean and wouldn’t let him go outside, either. The sun was shining, even though it was almost suppertime. The motel had a pool, but Dean wouldn’t let Sam go play in it.

“There’s no water in it, dorkface. Just lots of leaves and stuff.” Dean turned back to the stove and stirred something in a pot. It smelled bad, like Sammy’s socks when he forgot to change them sometimes.

“Deeaann,” Sammy whined. “I’m bored. I wanna go outside and play. You’re stupid and I hate you.”

Dean whirled around, his face red. “Shut up, Sam! Just shut up!”

Sam backed up a step. “You’re mean!” he shouted, and he turned and stomped back to the couch. He huddled there, watching some guy on television talk about baseball, wanting Dad to come back and yell at Dean for being mean and take them away from this boring old motel.

Ten minutes later, Dean said, “Come eat, Sammy.”

Sam ignored him, ignored the sounds of plates and forks being put on the table.

“Sammy.” Sammy kept his face turned to the television. Dean was mean and Sammy wasn’t going to talk to him.

“Fine. Be a brat.” Dean’s voice sounded tired and Sam started to feel bad. Maybe Dean was bored, too. Maybe he wanted Dad to come back, just like Sammy did.

Sam walked slowly over to the little table in the corner of the room, his untied shoelaces trailing behind him. Whatever was on the plates still smelled like old socks, but his stomach was empty, so he sat down and picked up his fork. There was a glass of milk on the table in front of him, and a glass of water by Dean’s plate. Sam looked up at Dean, saw a frown wrinkling his forehead.

“Dean, you wanna trade drinks?” Sammy asked.

“What?” Dean’s face smoothed out. “No, stupid. Drink your milk.”

“I don’t like milk, Dean,” Sam said in his best whiny voice, the one that usually made Dad rub at that spot between his eyes. It wasn’t true. Sammy loved milk. He hated water; it always tasted funny when it came out of a sink.

“Yes, you do. Shut up and eat.” Sam shrugged and took a mouthful of food. It tasted better than it smelled, which made him feel more cheerful. There was even some hamburger in it. Hamburger Helper was gross when there wasn’t any hamburger in it.

Sammy watched Dean out of the corner of his eye. Every time he picked up his glass for a sip of milk, he put it down closer to Dean’s plate. Dean didn’t seem to notice, and Sam knew it was because Dean was tired. He usually noticed everything Sam did.

Soon, his glass was close enough to Dean’s that the next time Sammy took a drink, he picked up the glass of water instead of the glass of milk. Then he put it down on the other side of his plate and kept watching Dean.

Dean reached for the glass and took a drink, draining it almost dry before he figured it out. He set it down on the table with a clunk and glared at Sam. Sammy grinned back at him.

“You’re such a dweeb, Sammy,” Dean said, but he smiled.

“Sammy,” his mother said later, when Sam was asleep. “Sammy, you’re such a good boy. Remember that, Sammy. Your brother loves you. He’ll always take care of you, because you’re a good boy.”

Sam had fallen into a fitful doze by the time Dean let himself silently back into the motel room. He was instantly awake and alert when he heard Dean’s soft footfalls on the carpet, but he held himself still, keeping his breathing even and regular.

Dean wasn’t drunk, but he’d been drinking, Sam could tell that just by the way he moved around the room. The far bed creaked as Dean sat down to pull off his boots, and Sam bit back a grin when he heard a whispered curse over the shoelaces. Dean stood up and there was a muffled whump as his jeans hit the floor. He’d taken his boots off before he tried to take his jeans off, so Sam knew he wasn’t too far gone, unlike that memorable occasion in Minnesota when he’d ended up sprawled across Sam’s lap after hopping madly around the room while his clothing tried its best to hogtie him.

Sam had looked down at his brother’s boxer-clad ass, at the jeans tangled around his ankles and the boots still firmly on his feet and laughed so hard he was afraid he was going to be sick.

It had taken a week for Dean to forgive him and start talking to him again, especially since Sam had been unable to resist swatting the ass in front of him a few times before Dean managed to regain his feet. Even now, Sam could get Dean to scowl at him just by saying “Minnetonka.”

Dean brushed his teeth in what Sam recognized as his trying to be quiet mode, and then paused in the doorway, looking over at Sam. The bathroom light illuminated him from behind so Sam couldn’t see his face clearly, but what he could see made him swallow convulsively. The raw grief there was almost more than Sam could stand to look at, and he closed his eyes against it.

Dean made his way to the bed, pausing again to look down at Sam in the dim light from the blue neon dolphin that never ceased flashing outside their window. Sam didn’t move and sweat broke out on the back of his neck. His chest prickled with heat and he only realized how tense he was when Dean finally turned away and crawled into his own bed.

The crushing sense of irrational disappointment Sam felt when Dean turned away tightened his throat and made his eyes burn. He’d just spent six months sleeping alone, alone in bed, alone in dingy motel rooms, alone in the car, and it hit him again, every time Dean didn’t get into bed with him, that he was always going to be alone.

Dean hadn’t gotten into bed with Sam in a very long time. Those days were over, had ended when Dean had deemed Sam too old to need the warmth and comfort of Dean’s body when he slept.

Or on the very rare occasions Sam could persuade Dean to say yes.

But Sam would never stop needing Dean, and Dean didn’t understand that, the self-sacrificing bastard. The familiar rage and grief washed over Sam, driving him from the bed and into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him with a firm click.

He splashed cold water over his face then stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were dark, dark and desperate looking, and he took several deep breaths to calm himself down. The middle of the night was not a good time for a freak-out.

He’d had more self-control and discipline when he’d been alone than he did now. Dean distracted him.

He wasn't going to think about those months alone without Dean. It didn’t help to think about them, to dwell. He was barely keeping his rage in check as it was.

Someday, somebody was going to pay.

Wearily, he made his way back to bed and slid between cool sheets. The air-conditioning was doing its job, cranking out air cold enough that Sam thought he could almost see his breath in front of him. He huddled miserably, fighting the thoughts in his head, trying to keep it all at bay, until at last he sank into a restless sleep, filled with dreams.

It only took one shot to the heart to kill a werewolf, but Sam emptied his gun into the male lying helplessly trussed up at his feet. He pumped silver bullets into its chest and then its skull, until his gun was empty and there wasn’t much left of the thing’s head.

He was breathing hard and his arm shook as he lowered it, empty gun dangling uselessly from numb fingers. Slowly he raised his other hand and wiped his face, sweat and blood mixing together, smearing across his cheek.

It didn’t make him feel any better. No matter how many things he killed, no matter how much fury he killed them with, his sense of rage and need for retribution only grew.

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” the Trickster said. “You should have just left it at Tuesday. At least you would have had Dean, then.”

“Shut up!” Sam yelled. “Shut the fuck up, you son of a bitch!”

Sam sat straight up in bed, the Trickster’s mocking laugh echoing in his head. He should have killed that bastard when he had the chance. Dean would still be gone, but he was going to be gone soon anyway, and at least that son of a bitch would be dead.

He rubbed his fingers down his face and found his cheeks were wet. His heart pounded and he stared at his hands, but there was no blood. Blinking, he realized there were only tears on his cheeks, and he brushed them angrily away.

Dean stirred in the other bed, and Sam held silent, waiting for him to settle again. When he heard Dean’s gentle snores, he let himself relax.

As he fell asleep again, he realized he’d woken up before his mother had come to him.

When he woke again at dawn, he couldn’t remember if she ever had.

In the morning, Dean was quiet as he showered and dressed. Not hung-over quiet, just the kind of quiet he sometimes got when he was thinking something through.

The logistics of working a case, the need for conversation and consultation, seemed to have indeed mellowed Dean out. He didn’t seem angry so much as uneasy, and for that Sam was grateful. He hated it when Dean was mad at him. It made him feel like he’d failed.

He was failing, though. He was failing to find a way to save Dean from Hell. Killing the crossroads demon had been useless, even if it made him feel better. Dean had taken a while to get over that one, too, although he’d hidden it better than he did this time.

“Sam.” Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam’s nose and Sam’s eyes flew to his face, startled out of his reverie. “Dude, where the hell were you? Dreaming about ponies and unicorns?”

Sam bent down to finish putting his shoes on, hiding his face, his cheeks warm.

"Seriously, Sam, are you okay?"

"Why are you always asking me that? I'm fine," Sam huffed, straightening up.

"You just seem distracted, or something, "Dean shrugged.

"Well, I'm fine," Sam repeated. "But, um, thanks."

"Sam." Dean avoided Sam's eyes. "I've been thinking. And, um, maybe. I mean, maybe we could...if you want -" He stopped. "Dammit, Sam, I'm just worried about you is all," he finished gruffly.

Out that morass of defensiveness, Sam picked up on the words maybe we could and he smiled a little. "It's okay, Dean."

Dean cleared his throat and rummaged in his bag for his gun. Sam just watched him, still smiling.

“Hey.” Dean checked the safety on his gun, and then tucked it into his waistband. “You’d better not be thinking about what I think you’re thinking about.” The warning in his voice was unmistakable, as was the fear. Dean thought he could hide his thoughts and feelings from Sam, but really, he was as transparent as the windshield of the Impala. "No more of that summoning shit."

Sam shook his head as he stood up. “I’m not thinking about anything except breakfast,” he lied.

“Good. Because I will kick your ass if you pull that shit again. I mean it, Sammy,” Dean said, scowling.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam said. “You ready to go?” Sam tugged his sleeves down over his wrists as he spoke.

“Witches are skeevy and I don’t want you getting involved with them,” Dean said, pointing his finger at Sam. "No matter how many summoning rituals they dangle in front of you. I don’t care what your pet demon tells you, you got that?” Dean poked Sam in the chest with his finger, and Sam barely resisted the urge to grab it and bend it backwards like he’d done countless time when they were kids. The only thing that stopped him was the real fear in Dean's eyes.

“Put that finger away before you lose it, dude,” Sam said. He kept his voice neutral. He wasn’t going to argue with Dean about Ruby, not now. Ruby knew what Sam needed, and she’d let him know when she found it. No point in getting Dean all riled up again until he had to. Plenty of time for that when Ruby finally came through.

“I mean it, Sam,” Dean said again, as if Sam hadn’t heard him the first ten times, and he brushed by Sam and tugged the door open. “Now, who wants breakfast?”

And just that fast Sam was back in Broward County, in that motel room where he’d had to watch Dean get ready for the day over and over and over again. Most days they’d made it out the door, but some days they hadn’t. Dean slipped in the shower or electrocuted himself shaving or his gun went off accidentally - right, like that would ever actually happen - or, on one memorable occasion that Sam would never, ever be able to forget as long as he lived, he was so busy singing, trying to annoy Sam, that he tied his bootlaces together by mistake, stood up, took a step, and fell over and cracked his head open on the edge of the table.

Those days were the worst, because it was over so quickly and then Sam would wake up and have to start again, echoes of the previous morning’s gruesome death still ringing in his head.

“Jesus, what is wrong with you this morning, Sam? I swear, you’ve got the attention span of a fruit fly. Are you sure you're -”

"Dude if you ask me if I’m okay again, I swear..." Sam warned. With an effort, he pushed the memories aside and followed his brother out the door.

Their waitress at the diner this morning had a big round button pinned to her uniform, with a picture of a little boy on it, wearing a football uniform and a helmet that looked like it was twice as big as his head. His eyes shone proudly out from under the helmet, even though Sam thought the weight of it was probably putting a strain on the poor kid’s neck. PATRICK was proclaimed in big red letters.

“That your son?” Dean asked, after he’d ordered the breakfast special with a side of bacon.

A bright smile lit up the woman’s face. She nodded. “That’s my Patrick, yeah. Got his first game this afternoon.” She turned to Sam. “What can I get for you, sweetie?” She took his order and walked back to the counter with a jaunty sway of her hips.

When she brought their food, Dean’s eyes narrowed as he automatically peered down the front of her uniform when she bent over to slide Sam’s plate in front of him. Sam’s eyes flickered to her cleavage and he saw it, too.

A necklace with the same amulet he’d last seen hanging around Kathy Jackson’s neck.

“So,” Dean said around a mouthful of pancakes after she’d walked away. “That’s interesting.” He stabbed his fork in the air in Sam’s direction. Sam said a silent thank you that the fork was empty. That wasn’t always the case when Dean got to talking and eating at the same time.

“Yeah,” Sam said, looking around for some jelly to spread on his toast.

“What do you say we ask our waitress a few questions,” Dean said, as she came over to refill their coffee cups. “Hey,” he added, looking up through his lashes with the smile Sam knew from personal experience could literally charm the pants off just about anyone. Dean focused on her nametag.

“Kelly. Hi. Listen, my brother wanted me to ask you about your necklace.” Dean smirked as Sam glared at him. “Sammy here just loves fine jewelry, and he thinks your necklace is to die for.” Sam kicked him under the table and Dean grunted. “Can I ask where you got it?” He jerked his thumb toward Sam. “He’d ask you himself, only he’s a shy one with the ladies.”

Sam smiled awkwardly and silently plotted revenge.

Kelly put a hand hesitantly over her amulet, her fingertips rubbing the silver almost unconsciously. She looked down at Sam with an uncertain smile. “Penelope sells them. Down at the gift shop on the corner. The Uncommon Market.” She topped off Dean’s cup and turned away.

“Penelope?” Sam said.

Dean shrugged. “I guess we’re going shopping, honey.”

The Uncommon Market was uncommon, all right. It was crowded and dusty and full of candles. Between the candles and the incense, Sam could barely breathe. Beside him, Dean sneezed twice. “Shit.”

There were sparkling crystals and silver chains and soft, silky material draped all over the place. Small animal statues nestled together on every shelf. The woman behind the counter was dressed in low-riding jeans and a very tight t-shirt with what looked like a My Little Pony unicorn on it. She had long dark red hair and was wearing very little makeup. She didn’t need it.

She was stunningly beautiful.

Dean appeared to be stunned right into speechlessness, so Sam nodded in greeting and said, “Hey.”

She nodded back, watching them with a smile of amusement as they tried to navigate the cluttered space without breaking anything.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a cool voice.

“FBI,” Sam said, showing her his badge. “I’m Agent Jagger, this is Agent Richards.”

Dean came to with a start, closed his mouth, and after fumbling in his jacket pocket in a way that made the woman’s smile widen a bit, produced the crumpled up piece of paper with the drawing of the blood pattern that had been on Melissa Harrison’s bed. He unfolded it and held it out to her. “Do you recognize this symbol?”

The woman looked at the paper without taking it from Dean’s hand. She raised her eyes to his face and said, without blinking, “No.”

“You’re lying,” Sam said, stepping forward.

“Excuse me?” Now she blinked.

“Sam,” Dean started.

Sam felt a surge of impatience go through him. He wanted to be anywhere else right now, someplace where he could spend time working out Dean’s deal. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t have time for this meaningless case, and he certainly didn’t have time for lying bitches who made his brother’s mouth fall open in astonished lust.

“She is,” he threw at Dean. He turned back to the woman behind the counter. “What is this thing? What does it mean?”

She must have seen something in his face, because she shot an nervous look at Dean, then answered Sam with a shrug. “It’s a hieroglyph. It means mother.”

“Do you sell them here?” Dean asked.

She nodded, somewhat reluctantly, it seemed to Sam. “Yes.”

“I’m gonna need a list of names of all the people you’ve sold them to,” Dean stated. She looked at him in amused disbelief. “And I need to know where you got them from in the first place.”

“What is this, Law and Order? I don’t think so,” she retorted.

“We can come back with a warrant,” Dean threatened, as if he truly had the full weight of the Federal government behind him.

“No, you can’t,” the woman said, eying them scornfully. That infuriating smile lingered on her face, and Sam wanted to smack it off. He shoved his fists into his pockets.

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

“Penelope Waters,” she answered. She waved a hand dismissively. “You can find that out anywhere in town.”

Sam started to speak but Dean interrupted him. “A woman is dead,” he said. “Someone you sold one of those necklaces to, and this -” he waved the drawing under her nose - “is the blood pattern we found on her bed.”

Penelope paled and stared down at the paper. “I know she’s dead.” She brought her head up again and said fiercely, “But I don’t know why! It’s horrible, but I don’t know why.”

“Then help us,” Dean said. “Tell us who else you sold one of those necklaces to.”

She looked at them for a moment longer, then slowly drew out a piece of paper and a pen from under the counter and started to write.

It was Sam’s birthday and Dad was gone again. They were in Milwaukee, living in a small apartment in a crappy part of town. Dad had only been gone a couple of days, and he’d already called to say he’d be back tomorrow, but it was Sam’s seventh birthday and Dad wasn’t there, so Sammy was kind of mad.

“Come on, buttface. Let’s go out.” Dean held the door open and gestured at Sam.

“Go out? Where?” Sammy asked suspiciously. They really weren’t supposed to go out, but it was the middle of the day and it was probably okay, as long as Dean said it was.

Besides, Sammy didn’t care what Dad said. He wasn’t here. Sammy bounded down the stairs and out onto the street after Dean.

They walked down the cracked and uneven sidewalk, Sammy trailing along next to Dean. He made Dean stop and look in all the windows as they went. Lots of the storefronts were empty, dirty windows with dusty old piles of stuff behind them, but some of them were still open for business.

They came to a toy store, open and inviting, and Sam pulled on Dean’s arm. “Can we go in and look at the toys, Dean?”

“Sure, squirt,” Dean said, smiling.

Sammy frowned. “Don’t call me squirt.”

There were rows of shelves, piled high with toys. Sammy could tell they weren’t new, but that was okay. He looked around to make sure Dean was engrossed in flipping through a stack of comic books, and then headed straight for a bin filled with My Little Ponies.

Dean would tease him a lot if he saw, but there was something about the different colors and the long, silky tails that fascinated Sam. Some of the girls in his class brought their Ponies to school and played with them at recess. Sometimes they let Sam play, too.

Sam was holding a grubby white unicorn with a blue mane and tail when Dean’s voice said, right in his ear, “Aww, that’s so sweet, Sammy.”

Sammy felt his face go hot and he quickly dropped the unicorn back in the bin. He waited for Dean to tease him some more, but Dean didn’t. Dean’s hand snaked around him and plucked the unicorn from the bin.

“Two dollars, huh? That’s a lot of money for a chick toy, Sammy. But since you are a girl….” Dean headed for the cash register, and Sammy watched in shock as he handed over a few crinkled-up bills to the old guy behind the counter in exchange for the unicorn and a couple of tattered looking comic books.

As they left the store, Dean whapped Sam in the chest with the unicorn, handing it over with a grin. “Happy Birthday, Sammy.”

“Thanks, Dean,” Sammy said happily.

“Just don’t tell Dad where you got that, if he asks,” Dean said. “He thinks both his kids are boys."

That night when Sammy dreamed about his mother, her long, shiny hair was a silky blue.

“Okay,” Dean said as they headed back to the car. “Five names. Melissa Harrison, Kathy Jackson, Kelly Peterson, Monica Sullivan, and Sandy Olliver. We should go back and talk to Kathy Jackson again, and Kelly, too. I’ll do that, and you see what you can find out about the other two.”

“Okay. Ask if either of them saw the dark-haired girl Kathy Jackson was talking about,” Sam told him.

Dean dropped Sam off at their motel, yelling out the window as he peeled out of the parking lot, “And find out what bar Penelope Waters hangs out in after work!” with a cheerful leer.

Sam stood there, heat rising in waves from the hot asphalt, and fumed. He knew he should be glad for the leer, cheerful or otherwise, because it meant Dean’s dark mood had lifted at last.

On the other hand, the more cheerful Dean was, the more denial it meant he was in. He was like a duck swimming across a pond, all happy quacking on the surface, but kicking furiously and desperately underneath the water.

Sam went inside, the air conditioning hitting him with a blast of cold air. The sweat on his face immediately chilled, and he shivered. Reaching for his laptop, he settled himself on his bed, stretched out with his back against the headboard. He hesitated, and then pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“Bobby, hey,” Sam said when he heard Bobby’s voice.

“Hey, Sam. You guys still in Florida?”

“Yeah. I hate this damn place, Bobby.”

“So you've mentioned.” Bobby waited for Sam to speak, but now that Sam had him on the phone, he didn’t know for sure what he wanted to ask him. Bobby cleared his throat.

“So, Bobby, yeah, has Ruby been to see you lately?” As far as he knew, the last time Ruby had been at Bobby’s place was when she showed him how to fix the Colt, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“No. Why?” Bobby’s voice was flat. He didn’t hate Ruby the way Dean did, but he sure as hell didn’t trust her, either.

Sam sighed. “I was just hoping you’d heard from her. I’m waiting for -” he stopped. He wasn’t sure whether he should tell Bobby what exactly it was he was waiting for Ruby to bring him.

“This ain’t something to do with what you were telling me about last month, is it?” Last month? Sam still had trouble figuring out what month it was. Dean kept looking at him funny every time he thought it was August when it was really February. “Cuz I gotta tell you, Sam,” Bobby continued, “It won’t do to go and get yourself involved with no witches. Dean would kick your ass twice around the block if he found out, not to mention witches are -”

Sam interrupted Bobby mid-rant. “No, no, Bobby, of course not.” He paused and rubbed at his forehead. “It’s just…I have to do something, Bobby.”

“Well, just stay away from witches, Sam.”

“Okay, listen, sure, I will, thanks. If you see Ruby….”

“I’ll send her your way, yeah.” Even over the phone, Sam couldn’t miss the sarcasm in Bobby’s voice. “She’s a demon, ya moron. Dean’d kick my ass if I sent her your way.”

Sam sighed and decided not to argue. He wouldn’t get anywhere and chances were Ruby was nowhere near Bobby anyway. “So, listen, Bobby, did you find anything else out about that symbol?”

“Nope. It’s a hieroglyph, it means mother, and it has to do with Isis. Pretty simple.”

“Yeah. So what’s the lore?”

“She was the protector of women and children. It don’t pay to get on her bad side, she had some powerful magic.”

“Okay, Bobby. Thanks.” Sam sighed. There was nothing there he hadn’t already discovered from his own research.

Sam opened his computer and started digging around for information on the names Penelope had given them.

Half an hour later, he closed the laptop and looked at his notes. All five of the women on the list were married, had two children each, and were born in Sarasota. That seemed unusual. Sam thought most people living in Florida had come there from someplace else. Or, maybe not, he reasoned, everyone had to be born somewhere, sometimes even in Sarasota.

The door opened and Dean came in, tossing the car keys onto the table, carrying a six-pack of beer in one hand and a McDonald's bag in his teeth. He grabbed the bag with his other hand. “Dude, get this,” he said, once his mouth was empty.

"Monica Sullivan is already dead!” he and Sam said in unison.

“I know!” Again in unison. Dean smiled, delight written all over his face. It was irresistible and Sam could feel his answering smile widen.

“Apparently she died in a car accident,” Sam said, and he watched as Dean’s smile faded. Dean nodded.

“Yeah," he said, "and her husband wasn’t anywhere around at the time. I talked to him, and the guy’s still pretty shaken up. I saw the kids, too. They look like they might be too young to know what’s going on. Like, the oldest one is only four.” Dean looked away.

Right. Like four years old was too young to grasp that your mother died a violent death and you were never going to see her again. Sam's fists clenched with the need that itched underneath his skin all the time. The need, the absolute thirst for revenge that would never be slaked, no matter how many demons they killed or what color their eyes were.

That yellow-eyed bastard had taken both of Sam's parents away from him and Dean, and that red-eyed bitch had made a deal to take Dean away from him and then she refused, refused to make another deal with Sam.

Sam sometimes felt like he wouldn't rest until every demon in hell had been destroyed.

"So, yeah," Dean continued. "The guy didn't know much. The cops still don't know what happened. Her car just went off the road and hit a tree. She mentioned a girl with long dark hair a couple of times. He says their marriage was fine, no bullshit about loving her too much. He’s not crazy like that Harrison dude."

Dean sat down and put the beer on the floor between the beds. Sam sat up and reached for the bottle Dean had just opened with his ring. "Kelly Peterson wasn't home and Kathy Jackson closed the door in my face, after telling me that her jewelry was none of my business. I think she's scared," Dean said.

"She probably should be," agreed Sam. He watched as Dean tipped his head back and took a deep swig of his beer. The long line of his throat presented itself to Sam, and Sam had a sudden need to touch, to taste, to mark the smooth skin of it. His fingers clenched around his own beer bottle until his knuckles were white. *

"He misses me, Sammy. Dean misses me and it makes him sad sometimes," Sam's mother crooned in his ear, her voice like music. They were floating together, somewhere dark, Sammy didn't know where. He didn't like it, but his mother was singing to him and he tried not to be afraid. He was a big boy, too old to be afraid.

He’d fallen asleep to the sound of Dean’s quiet sobs. Dean cried in his sleep sometimes, but Sammy never told anyone.

When he woke up, Dean was still sleeping next to him, his face turned toward Sammy on the pillows, sunlight across his face. His freckles looked like gold. There were tear tracks on his cheeks and Sammy reached out to trace them with a fingertip. Dean shifted in his sleep, murmuring, "It's okay, Sammy. I'm here."

The Ollivers lived in a big, yellow stucco house with a red tile roof and fancy wrought iron bars over the windows. It looked like a Spanish villa, and there were red hibiscus trees all around it. Sandy Olliver answered the door with a small child at her feet, just like Kathy Jackson had.

Unlike Kathy, though, she frowned down at her child, a thin-looking boy of indeterminate age and hissed, “Go back to the kitchen!”

The child cast a scared look up at her and scurried away down the dimly lit corridor behind them.

Sandy turned back to the door with a pleasant smile replacing the irritated frown she’d directed at her little boy. Sam’s anger, never far from the surface, started trying to make itself heard. He closed his mouth and let Dean do the talking.

But Dean wasn’t happy about seeing children mistreated in any way and he was too busy glaring at Sandy Olliver to make the usual introductions. Sandy’s smile faded and her face tightened into something strained and ugly.

“Can I help you?”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about your necklace,” Dean said without ceremony or introduction. He pointed to the pendant around her neck.

Sandy paled under her Florida tan and she stepped back, trying to close the door as she did. Sam put out a hand to stop her.

“Did you know that Melissa Harrison and Monica Sullivan are dead?” Sam asked bluntly.

Her eyes widened and she stared at Sam, fear written all over her face. He tried without much success to arrange his features into his usual expression of sympathetic understanding and she nodded shortly.

There was the sound of soft crying coming from somewhere inside the house and her eyes narrowed.

“Chrissy!” The sound of her suddenly raised voice echoed stridently in the still morning air. “Chrissy, get in here!”

A pale blonde girl, who looked even thinner than her brother, edged into the hallway. She approached her mother cautiously, and Sam noticed she stayed well back out of reach. She glanced nervously at the two strange men at the door.

“Go feed your brother. Give him a bowl of cereal. The measuring cup is on the counter. A half-cup, no more.” Sandy’s voice was cold and Sam had a good idea what living in that house must be like.

The little girl bit her lip and looked up at her mother. She took a deep breath, like she was gathering her courage, and said, “Can I -”

“May I,” her mother snapped. “And, no.” She waited a moment, but the little girl didn’t move. “Go!”

Chrissy hurried away.

Sam was afraid to even look at Dean’s face. He could feel him practically vibrating with tension beside him.

“Mrs. Olliver. We need to know about the necklace. Two people are dead, Mrs. Olliver.” Sam managed a reasonable facsimile of his we’re just trying to help here voice, but it wasn’t easy.

“I bought it at the Uncommon Market. I bought it because I liked it. I didn’t know Melissa and Monica until after I bought it. We were all at the beach at the same time one day, and we were all wearing our necklaces. We started having play dates with our kids after that. That’s all I know.”

Sam nodded and reached into his suit coat pocket for a card. He held it out to Sandy Olliver and said, “Call us if you think of anything else.”

Sandy snatched the card out of his hand, stepped back and slammed the door in their faces.

This time Sam let her.

Dean was silent until he slid behind the wheel of the Impala. He slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel and snarled, “That bitch!” Sam placed a gentle hand on his wrist. Dean didn’t shake him off.

“I know,” Sam said. “I know.”

“Those kids - that little girl was hungry, Sam, and that bitch wasn’t gonna let her eat anything.” His breath hitched and for a moment Sam had to fight the impulse to march back into that house and take those two kids away with him.

“There are all kinds of mothers, Dean,” he finally said.

They sat in silence for a minute, and then Dean did shake Sam’s hand off. He patted the steering wheel apologetically. “I’m sorry, baby,” he said, and Sam felt a rush of affection for his goofy brother. He bit his lip to hide his smile.

Dean looked at his watch. “It’s lunch time. Let’s go to the diner and see if Kelly is working. One of these women has got to talk to us. What the hell does any of this have to do with that Isis chick? What’s the lore?”

“Well," Sam said, “Isis was an Egyptian goddess of motherhood and fertility, among other things.”

“What other things?” Dean asked as he pulled out of the Ollivers’ street.

“Power and magic,” Sam answered. He dug out the notes he’d brought with him from his research yesterday. “And I quote - “The Mother is a life-giver and the source of nurturing, devotion, patience and unconditional love. The ability to forgive and provide for her children and put them before herself is the essence of a good mother.”” He paused for breath, and then continued.

“’In its shadow aspect the Mother can be devouring, abusive and abandoning. The shadow Mother can also make her children feel guilty about becoming independent and leaving her. It is not necessary to be a biological Mother to have this stereotype. It can refer to anyone who has a lifelong pattern of nurturing and devotion to living things.’”

Sam thought that pretty much covered it.

Sometimes when Mary came to him, Sam was angry at her. “You left me,” he would cry. “How could you leave me if you loved me?”

“I didn’t want to go, Sammy. I do love you,” she would sigh. Her tears left shimmering tracks down her soft cheeks.

“Go away. I don’t love you.” Sam turned away from her.

When she disappeared, he would call after her to come back, that he didn’t mean it, that he loved her.

But she was always gone. Eventually, he stopped being angry at her.

Part Four