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Black-Throated Wind 1/3
Black-Throated Wind
Supernatural Crossover
Pairing: Dean/*cough*mutter*mumble, um, take your best guess?
Rating: NC-17; violence, sex, language; y'know, pretty much all of it
Disclaimer: At the end, to not spoil the pairing.
Co-written by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
topaz119 and without_me for the "All CW All The Time" Kink/Cliche Challenge. We ended up using the prompts bruising in compromising places, biting to leave marks, and enclosed spaces. If you tilt your head and squint, we might have also managed a passing nod to masturbating for your partner.
Many thanks toaproposofnothin, cardamom_23, darkseaglass, and liz_w for reading and beta duties.
Also posted in one part on AOOO, here.
What's to be found, racing around,
You carry your pain wherever you go.
Full of the blues and trying to lose
You ain't gonna learn what you don't want to know.
***
***
It's still too much to ask Sam to just go, without the bitching and moaning about Dad and following orders and a million other things that Dean tunes out, but at least this time Sam's only muttering under his breath while he checks out the coordinates, habit more than anything, and even that stops when the location pops up. He lunges for the journal like he knows what he's going to find, and when he looks up, Dean's rolling to his feet before Sam can say a word.
"Dad thinks it's every twenty-one years," Sam tells him as they stuff clothes into bags and double-check the weapons cache. "Two little kids, like, little, Dean, babies, not even old enough to walk sometimes. They disappear on the same night in May, and if they find the bodies, there's not a mark on them, no fucking reason for them to have died, their hearts just stopped beating."
Savannah's 1100 miles away and they've got two days to get there and Dean just nods and keeps his eyes on the road.
***
The first thing you notice is that the shrieking sounds different. More echo? Less? It takes you a while to realize the part you probably should have gotten first: you're in your body again.
You're face-down on a concrete floor, curled in on yourself, and while you still hurt--you've mostly forgotten not hurting--it's... duller? than usual. Or something.
There are voices around you; yelling, and explosions--gunfire, some part of your brain translates--and you try to make yourself smaller, flatter, eyes squeezed tight don't notice me don't notice me...
After a while, things quiet down, and when you realize the low, grunting whimpers you're hearing are you, you bite down hard on your tongue and hold your breath until your head feels like it's going to explode.
It doesn't help, though; the voices are back, and then there's a hand on your shoulder, and your body reacts automatically, coming up swinging--but you've got nothing, and there's more than one of them; a fist connects with the side of your head and you think, Doesn't hurt as much as the rest of it, as you hit the floor again, hard.
***
There are days when Dean wants to take a tire iron to the idiots who play with things they know goddamned good and well they shouldn't touch, but they're too greedy, too hungry for power to stop and think. He'd do it right now, except he's too busy trying to breathe through the stench of sulphur and blood. Sam's probably going crazy outside, what with all the hellfire that's going on in here, but the warding circle's holding, at least so far, and there's not a whole lot Dean can do but watch the body parts fly.
He hopes like hell that splitting up, Sam grabbing the kids while Dean went for the altar--and God, he really hates the ones who plan it out enough to have all the bells and whistles--was the right thing to do, that Sam won't do anything stupid, like try to bust back in here without anything to protect him. Sam knows Dean's been warding since before he could write the alphabet, but for all that Sam keeps trying to ditch this gig, he doesn't seem the least bit convinced that Dean would survive half an hour without his protection.
Dean's phone is vibrating against his hip, and if he had a spare hand he'd grab it, but things are coming a little too close to his protected corner and it's time to throw a couple barrels of rock salt into the mix, hopefully discourage whatever these things are from coming any closer. The shotgun's loud enough that Sam should be able to hear it from outside and hang up and stop bothering him. He doesn't, of course--when has Sam ever let go of anything--but eventually the fighting and screaming dies down and the choking smoke clears enough for Dean to see the bits and pieces of bodies on the floor. There were three humans when he got there, but he's not really inclined to go count heads. Or anything else.
Dean wishes he could believe that whatever'd done this was satisfied, time to go home, but that would be way too easy. For the moment, he'll settle for "not here anymore." He counts to a hundred once, then does it again, before he steps out of the circle and goes to unlock the door.
"Answer your damn phone," Sam says, and Dean would love to give him shit about the worry in his eyes, but breathing air that isn't fouled by whatever the idiots called up is way more important.
"I was busy," he manages. "Show's over now, though." Sam waits while he coughs his lungs at least a little clearer and then follows him back inside.
"All dead?" Sam asks, and Dean's about to say "Everything that's still here," when he hears a low, muffled whimper. Sam hears it, too; smoothly pumps the shotgun he's carrying. "Rock salt," he murmurs.
Dean pulls the .45 out from where it's been snugged, tight and comforting, at the small of his back, and nods. "Good old-fashioned consecrated lead," he answers, motioning with his head. Sam drops back and away, so they can flank whatever it is, and lets Dean take the lead.
***
When you come to, there's something softer under you, and the noise you hear resolves into music--something you recognize on some level--and the rumble of a car motor. You don't move for a long minute, then slit your eyes open to try to figure out just what the fuck is going on.
You notice that your arms hurt more than the rest of your body--your body--and after a while you realize that's because your hands are cuffed behind you, and you're lying on them.
"You stink, you know that, right?"
"I don't know, Sammy; I think I smell pretty damn fine for standing in where you say I did."
Two voices, and a low growl to the engine. V8, slides into your head. Rebuilt.
"Besides," the second voice continues. "It's not just me; John Doe back there ain't exactly springtime fresh."
Every nerve locks down at that, and you curse the car and the music and the blood pounding in your ears because John Doe, that's you, and even if you don't know a better name, you know you need to know everything about them and you, and the sooner the better.
"You're sure about him?" the first voice asks, his voice dropping lower, and you strain to hear.
"C'mon, dude, you saw it, too." The car turns sharply. "Inside the burn marks, wrong side of the altar; only thing in there except me that didn't end up as biohazard wallpaper."
"Yeah, yeah," and the words come out on a sigh. "I saw; I just--" The car stops and the doors open, the squeak of metal on metal driving straight into your skull, so that you curl into yourself. You manage to bite back the moans until there are hands on your arms, pulling you out of the car, standing you up, holding you up, because your legs don't work and your balance is shot.
"What's the matter, Sam," the second voice asks, close to your ear, and it's his shoulder that's hard under your arm. "You're not up for a visitor from hell?"
***
As truck stops go, this place is pretty primitive, but Dean hasn't caught a blast of sulphur this bad in years, maybe ever. Add that to the blood and the stupid goddamn incense -- patchouli, for Christ's sake, fucking hippies -- and he's not in a picky mood. Any place that lets him get a start on washing the stink out of his skin is fine.
They've got the place to themselves, too early for the overnighters to be stopping, too late for anyone else. Sam sets up by the door, just in case, even though there's no sign anything is after them. Watching the deceptively lazy slouch Sam's perfected, Dean thinks Dad should be proud. He's not, of course, at least not to where he'd say anything about it, but looking at Sam, all anyone sees is worn-out jeans and shaggy hair, nothing but a punk-ass college boy slumming it. Nobody ever looks close enough to see the hard-won muscle under the baggy shirts, and Sam's worked hard to camouflage how fast that slouch can turn into a roundhouse kick, or an elbow to the face. They've definitely come a long way from the days when he was all arms and legs and tripping over his own feet. Dean could still take him down any time he wanted, of course, but he doesn't have any qualms about Sam covering his back.
Dean props their guest against the shower wall and turns the spray on him, hoping the water will bring him around a bit more, but by the time he gets his own clothes off, the guy's curled on the floor again. The fact that a stumbling guy wrapped in nothing but a ratty blanket getting helped to the showers by another guy didn't even raise the cashier's eyebrows leaves Dean wishing he didn't have to touch anything in the entire building, but he figures he shouldn't complain. Heck, he probably didn't even need to take the cuffs off the guy, but he doesn't seem to be much of a threat in any case.
He scrubs himself fast, then gets his hands under the guy's armpits, hauling him back up. Everything is slippery, and this is really a lot closer than he usually gets to naked guys, at least when Sam's in the room. Still, brimstone isn't going to wash off without soap, and their mystery visitor doesn't seem to be any more with it than he was an hour ago. "Little help here, Sammy?" he calls.
Sam's got the curtain pulled aside, knife poised, before Dean even finishes his name.
"Whoa, tiger," Dean says. "Nothing more dangerous here than whatever's growing on the grout. But I could use a hand with our new friend."
Sam grumbles, but he sheathes the knife and pushes his sleeves up, then fastens his hands around the guy's ribs so Dean can wash him clean.
The guy manages to stand on his own--or close to it--around the time they get him out and start toweling him dry. His hair's long, longer than Sam's, and wet, twisted strands flop in his face, covering his eyes. He doesn't try to push them away, but Dean can see him peering out from behind, suspicious, wary.
"Hey," Dean says. "Anyone home?" No answer. "You speak English?" Which, really, Dean's always thought is the stupidest question ever. Is someone gonna answer no?
With the way the guy's been needing to be held up, Dean doesn't catch on that the reaching hand isn't for support until it touches his amulet.
"Meket," the guy says, voice rusty and almost painful to hear, but his eyes are sharp and clear and blue when they flicker up at Dean. "Meket," he says again.
"Whatever, buddy," Dean answers, stepping back and letting Sam pull the guy away. "Time to get dressed."
***
The building--restaurant, you think; diner--is bright and smells of grease and coffee. It feels loud, even though it's mostly empty, and you duck your head as you enter, trying instinctively not to be noticed. Your legs are working better now, but the guys are still on either side of you; you can feel them ready to grab you at any second. Part of you wants to tell them to back off. You keep quiet and slide into the booth they choose; move over so you can lean against the wall.
The one with the meket takes the seat next to you, penning you in, and again you keep your mouth shut. There are two of them, and they're big, and you can barely stand up on your own; you've got nothing to gain by trying to take them on. They haven't done anything bad to you, you remind yourself. Realistically, you're probably a lot safer with them than you would be without them... whoever they are.
The waitress comes over and they order, the taller one glancing at you and saying, "Just scrambled eggs and toast for him. And tea."
"A little too much bachelor party?" she asks knowingly, and you turn your face further away. You're in no shape to fight, but that doesn't mean you like being laughed at.
"Something like that," one of them says.
The waitress is back almost instantly with coffee for them and a mug and metal teapot for you. You remember coffee and think you might be willing to kill something for some, but you take the tea when the taller one pours it for you; hold the mug between your palms, feeling the heat, breathing the steam.
"I hope it doesn't take long for the hospital to find the kids' parents," the taller one says.
"I hope the parents weren't the ones who signed them up for satanic altar duty," Meket replies.
"You don't really think that, do you, Dean?" Dean. "I mean, there's never been anything weird about the victims' families, right? Did Dad say something?"
"Nah," Dean says. "You know. Just... getting cynical, I guess."
"Well, let's worry about the shit we know we have to deal with," the other says. "Like, what the hell was it that got away, and..." he nods in your direction, "what do we do with him?"
"Whatever it was that got out, it wasn't corporeal," Dean says, lowering his voice as the waitress comes back with plates heaped with eggs and hash browns and grits and bacon. A smaller plate is set in front of you, and your mouth waters at the smell of the bacon, but you pick up a fork and take a bite of your plain eggs. They're bland and undercooked, and better than anything you've tasted in as long as you can remember, so you eat quietly and hungrily, sipping your tea, and listen to the two of them talk.
"What would make one thing come back as a spirit and another in a body?" Dean asks, and the other one shakes his head.
"I dunno. When we get to the motel, I'll poke around online, see if I can find anything. Maybe... one had more power than the other?" He looks at you, speculative, and you keep your face blank, passive.
"If he's got more power than whatever it is those jokers were calling, he's doing a hell of a job hiding it," Dean says. "But you're the psychic-boy, Sammy, you tell me."
Sammy--that's right, you remember that from earlier--sighs. "One of these days, I'm gonna figure out how to, I don't know, Dean. Make you spill your beer on every girl you try to pick up, or something."
You don't have to look; you can feel Dean tense up. "That's not funny, Sam."
"Well, quit with the psychic-boy shit, all right? I... I don't know. He doesn't seem like anything to me, anything weird. I mean, aside from the whole naked-by-the-black-altar thing."
"That's weird enough," Dean says. "He wasn't in the room when I drew the circle; he came from somewhere. So he must be related to this whole thing somehow."
"Frankly, I'm more worried about where the spirit went," Sam says. "That felt... nasty. It didn't come all that near me, but... I don't think it's just going to go away."
"I don't, either," Dean says. "I'll take another look at Dad's journal. Maybe there's something in there I missed."
They've been talking about you like you're not even there, and you've been doing your best to pretend that's true--not that here isn't about a trillion times better than where you were, but you don't really feel ready to talk, let alone try to explain anything, so quiet seems like the best choice. A minute later, though, quiet suddenly stops being an option.
They both look at you, startled, when you shove at Dean's side, desperately trying to get out of the booth. "What--" Sam says, and Dean is solid and hard to get past, but your gut is twisting and if you don't get out of here fast--
You make it--barely--to the blacktop outside before you fall to your knees, retching up eggs and tea and then, when that's gone, gout after gout of acidic bile until you start to think maybe this whole thing is just another version of hell, a hot shower and the smell of coffee to bring the suffering back into sharper focus. You can taste brimstone in the back of your throat when the spasms finally subside, and the shirt and pants you're wearing are clammy with sweat.
There's a hand near your face, offering a bottle of water. You rinse and spit, again and again, and let them pull you back to your feet, back to the car, where you curl up and close your eyes, pressing the cool bottle to your face, while the engine growls to life and the car lurches out of the lot.
***
Sam has that pissy look. Dean knows without looking, he can tell from the way Sam's leg is practically vibrating with energy.
"What?" he asks, without taking his eyes off the road.
"He's gonna need some clothes," Sam says.
"Oh, no," Dean says. "No shopping. He's fine."
"Yeah," Sam says. "Cause explaining that he's the hung-over groom when he's wearing sweats you've had since Clinton was in office isn't going to get old fast. But sure, fine. It's not my stuff he's freeballing in."
"Hell," Dean mutters, but there's a Wal-Mart just ahead. Sam doesn't even pretend not to smirk.
"Fine," Dean says, pulling into a parking space. "Knock yourself out, Sammy. Me and JD'll chill here."
"JD?"
"John Doe? Jack Daniels? I can't keep calling him 'hey you' in my head, and John's a little on the weird side, don't you think?" Sam snorts at that. "Just, c'mon, I'm beat. Go get him some stuff, and some food for later while you're at it, and let's find a place to crash."
Sam shakes his head and gets out of the car, but leans back in to say, "Call me if you need anything." He cuts his eyes to the back seat and really, he needs to stop with the overprotective shit, especially when what he's worried about is currently a scenic greenish-gray lump curled into a corner of the seat. Dean's not even sure if he's conscious.
"Dude, the only thing I'm gonna need is a six of something that isn't any of your micro-brew crap, and food to go with it. For when I wake up, which in case you haven't noticed, I haven't gone to sleep yet, because somebody is standing in the parking lot of a fucking Wal-Mart telling me stuff I knew when he was in diapers. Weird shit happens, I will call. Go."
"Ass," Sam mutters, but he slams the door and sets off across the parking lot with the freakishly long stride that drives Dean nuts.
***
You come awake easier this time, no jolt, no slam of fear, but it still takes a while to figure out where you are, where you're not. There's a bed under you, and you vaguely remember being helped inside. It's dark and cool, the only light coming from the computer in front of Sam. The other one--Dean--is asleep; you hear his breath, deep and even, but he's not in your line of sight and you're not ready to move yet, not ready to let them know you're there.
You'd stay like that forever, you think, but your throat is dry and your mouth is foul from throwing up and it's a pitiably small irritation, nothing in the big picture, but you can't get it out of your mind.
As soon as you move, Sam's on his feet and crossing the room. He keeps his distance, though, holding out a bottle of water, letting you reach out and take it from him.
"Slow," he says, low and quiet. "Easy." You want to gulp, to drain it in a single breath, but your stomach cramps a little just at the thought, and you force yourself to sip.
He watches you quietly while you drink, and you wish he'd stop but wishing's never done you much good. You're not sure how you know that when you still have no clue what your name ever was, but there it is.
"I've been doing some research," he says when you put the bottle down, his voice still quiet. He looks at you, a silent You with me?, and you think about playing dumb, but that doesn't seem like a good long-term bet. You nod, and he continues, "Trying to trace who owns the warehouse where this all went down last night." He taps a leather-bound book with one finger, muttering, "Because writing down anything other than an address is too much effort for some people..."
He stops there, and after a moment you clear your throat. "Find anything?"
He blinks, like he's surprised at your question, which, given the sum total of your interaction so far, isn't that much of an insult. "Nothing useful--one dummy corporation piled on the next. I guess the one thing I'm pretty sure of is that whoever does own it doesn't want to be found."
"That's an answer right there," you say, forcing your throat and mouth to work, taking pleasure in being heard and understood. "If their lawyers know their stuff, you won't be able to trace it. Especially if they had... help."
He looks more closely at you. "What do you mean, help?"
You think a moment. You're probably as startled as he is--if not more so--at what you said, but there's a woman's voice in your head, acid-sweet as she tells someone, Regardless of the evidence, the jury won't convict you. "Who are you?" you ask.
Even in the dim light, you can see his eyebrows go up. "I could ask you the same thing."
You chuckle, low and unamused. "You can ask all you want."
"You don't know?"
He sounds skeptical, and you don't blame him. "You can believe me or not, your choice," you say. Your voice still feels rusty, but it's coming back fast. You hope other stuff will, too. "Not much I can do about it." You pause. "Just like, you can tell me whatever kind of story you want about who you are... but, y'know, pick something you can stick to, I guess. Unless... I mean, I'm presuming if I just walked out that door right now, you'd have a problem with that."
Sam tilts his head. "To be honest, I'm not sure you could walk out the door. You want to try it?"
He has a point. You're not exactly in fighting shape. And while these guys may not be your best buddies, right now they seem a lot better than the alternative. "Not really," you say, and he cracks half a smile.
"My brother's calling you JD," he says. "That okay until you come up with something better?"
"Works for me," you say. Brother, you think, and file that one away for later. "Guy could do worse than be named after Jack Daniel's."
Sam does laugh at that, still soft and quiet, eyes flickering to the other bed, where Dean's stretched out on his belly, dead to the world, but when he turns back to you, he's focused again. "What you said before, in the shower. Meket. When I got sick of going around in circles on the land title, I did a little other looking around. In ancient Egyptian... that's what you meant, right? What Dean wears. Protection."
You nod.
"How'd you know that? I mean, yeah, that's what it is, but nobody I know's ever called it by that name. You're not... you sure don't look Egyptian."
You bark at that, only once before Sam's frown--boy could be a librarian, maybe--quiets you down. "No, I'm pretty sure not," you say. "I..." Trying to think, trying to remember. Trying to decide what to say regardless of what you know or don't know. "I must have studied, sometime."
"Studied Egyptian protective amulets?"
You shrug. "You don't have a problem with me being here--" visitor from hell, you hear Dean say, "but you're surprised I took an art history class in college?" You don't think that's where you pulled it from, and from Sam's expression he doesn't either, but he doesn't argue.
"You might as well get some more rest," he says. "Dean's probably not gonna be up for a while yet, and I haven't quite given up on beating my head against those damn records."
More rest sounds like a great idea--just lying on a bed, with nothing assaulting you, body or mind, is honestly more than you can grasp yet. "You don't sleep?" you ask, as you settle back down on your side, facing him and the other bed. You don't really think he's suddenly going to come after you, but you don't turn your back on people; you just don't.
"Not a lot," he says softly, waking up the laptop, and you watch him for a few minutes before your eyes slide shut again.
***
"Tell me again why I'm trying to parallel park on streets that were definitely not built for this car," Dean says, angling hard to the right, cutting the steering wheel back with inches to spare and easing off the gas.
The neighborhood, at least the street they're on, is right on the edge of big money coming in. For every house that's been restored, there are still three or four that are working on falling down around their owners, but even if the funds for repairs are lacking, the houses have the air of being cared for.
"Because we got nothing on the warehouse, except we're five layers down and whoever actually owns it really doesn't want to be found." Sam pauses and then says quietly, "And because twenty-one years ago, two little girls, cousins, were playing outside Saint Ann's, that church we passed a couple of blocks back, and when their grandmother came out to take them home, they were gone."
His voice is flat and unemotional, which means he's trying to pretend this one isn't doing a number on him. Dean's willing to play along for now, but that doesn't mean he won't get up in Sam's face about it if he needs to.
Dean cuts the engine, and Sam opens his door and gets out. Dean looks over his shoulder at where JD's staring out the window. He could be taking in the scenery or, hell, plotting world domination with as little as that poker face lets on. "C'mon, man, let's roll." No answer. Dean knows he heard the guy talking to Sam in the hotel room--he's never going to sleep deep when there's a stranger around--but apparently, Dean only rates a silent nod and a long steady look from behind the hair. Whatever.
Sam's a block away by the time they get out of the car, and oh, yeah, he's on a mission, already in the churchyard before they can catch up, in front of a moss-covered statue, talking to someone small and white-haired. Dean recognizes the set to Sam's shoulders. Nobody can resist that earnest, intent look, mostly because even when Dean knows Sam's working a scam, that look's always the real deal.
Dean holds up on the sidewalk until Sam glances over with the cue to push open the low iron gate and walk into the small courtyard.
"Miss Evelyn, this is my brother, Dean, and our friend, JD." Sam has to lean down and his voice is pitched louder than usual, but the eyes that peer up at Dean are crackling with life and the smile aimed his way is sharp and knowing. Dean looks as trustworthy and above-board as he can, which is pretty much wasted on the old girl, because she's got his number, he can just tell.
"We'd like to know more about Corinna and Isabel," Sam says, and her eyes go distant, seeing into her memories as she turns back to touch the statue, two small angels with their arms wrapped around each other.
"Oh, it was a bad, bad day, that day. We sat right here, Louisa and I, and everbody walked up and they couldn't even say it. They all just looked at me and shook their heads. The preacher we had then, he was a good man, but he wasn't from here, he didn't know. He kept organizin' folk, sending them out to knock on people's doors, calling the police, wanting them to drag the river, wanting them to do something, but Louisa knew, I could feel it how she held my hand."
Sam guides her to a bench and she fumbles in her purse before pulling out a small handkerchief, faded and yellowed with age.
"We stayed until the sun came up and then Louisa went home and laid herself down on her bed and that's where she stayed until they brought her back here for good."
Sam takes her hand, and Dean wants to shake his head. Sam can't keep on like this; he can't keep taking everything personally. These kids, Sam was in diapers when they were taken, he can't feel guilty about not being able to bring them back.
"You said you knew?" Sam says, gently, and Dean breathes a little easier. Sam might care too much, but he almost always remembers why he's there, what's really important. "What did you know?"
"Oh, those babies weren't never coming back. Sometimes," she says, and the shift in her voice is an awful thing to hear, "sometimes, their people might find the bodies, poor things, but we never did, not with Louisa's grandbabies."
She smiles at Sam and pats his hand. "After Louisa was gone, we had a fish fry and raised the money for the statue, and I come sit here every day and talk to her. She was my daddy's favorite cousin, you know."
"No, ma'am," Sam answers. "I didn't know that."
"Miss Evie, you okay?" And they're done for the day, Dean knows, no matter how many questions are still in Sam's eyes, because while the older of the two guys who just walked out of the church might be wearing a jacket and white collar, both of them are pinging Dean's linebacker radar. As in big, fast, and no sense pissing them off. Yet.
"I'm fine, just fine. You boys worry more than your mamas ever did," she answers, sharp and crisp, but her smile is fond. Sam thanks her for her time and she pats his hand again, her voice sliding back through the years when she says, very softly, "Nothing you can do when he comes for his babies."
She takes the younger guy's arm and lets him lead her back inside the church, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder.
"We're not going to be seeing you anymore, are we?" the minister says, and it's not so much a question as an order. "The last thing Miss Evie needs is outsiders coming and stirring things up just because they're curious. She's a good woman, but she's going on near ninety and she's lonely for someone to listen to her. She loves to spin stories, always has. That's all this is."
Sam opens his mouth--of course he does, he never knows when to quit--but Dean cuts him off. "We're good," Dean says, and gets Sam out the gate.
***
"C'mon, Dean," Sam hisses, just loud enough for you to hear him through the noise and music of the dive bar Dean picked for dinner. "You don't really believe what he was trying to tell us--"
"No, Sam," Dean says, the exaggerated patience in his voice obviously jacking Sam up yet another notch. "Like I said, I know a pretty cover story just as well as you do, but dude, you gotta let it go every now and then." Sam smacks his beer onto the gouged and pitted wooden table. "Or not."
Dean shrugs and flags down the waitress, and this time, when she turns to you, you say quickly, "Burger and fries. And a beer." It's nearly dark outside, and your stomach's been making noises that are a lot more "lemme at it" than "no fucking way."
Dean looks at you for a long moment, but only says, "Do us all a favor and don't puke in my car," before turning back to Sam.
They seem to be mostly taking you for granted now, talking to each other about what they learned today--which was not a whole lot, as far as you can tell--without any obvious attempt at keeping you out of it, though Sam does shoot you an occasional sharp glance the few times you offer an idea. For the most part you're just as happy to keep quiet, working your way slowly through your food and now and then allowing yourself a small sip off a Budweiser that tastes awfully close to heaven.
They argue their way through their own meals and beers, Dean sliding back and forth between theories about various malevolent entities and ogling everyone in the place under thirty. Male or female, as far as you can tell, and that's interesting, but not half as interesting as the way Sam's mouth tenses up and he strong-arms the conversation back to business every time Dean elevator-eyes a guy standing at the bar or making his way toward the pool table in the side room. At first you think Sam just doesn't like having a fag for a big brother, but after a little while the cues start pointing another way. Not homophobic--protective. Or... possessive.
You're pretty sure Sam's got nothing to worry about; as far as you can tell, Dean doesn't have the kind of death wish that would go along with seriously trying to pick up a guy in an unfamiliar bar in the South. Not that you'd bet against him pulling it off if he really wanted to; his smile is compelling enough that you find yourself wondering if he's entirely human. It doesn't feel like a glamour--though a cynical voice in the back of your head reminds you that you wouldn't be able to feel a good one anyway, and fuck, where is this shit coming from? You know Sam--and Dean, maybe to a slightly lesser extent--is still wondering who and what you are. What you hope they don't entirely realize is that you're wondering the same damn thing.
The burger sits better than you were afraid it might, though you regretfully decide against killing the remaining half of your beer when they get up to go. Back at the motel, Dean and Sam have some kind of silent pissing match over who's going to go to sleep. You'd go with "both of them," but you don't get a vote. In the end, Dean plants himself at the small table, laptop in front of him, and simply ignores Sam until Sam gives up and stretches out on one of the beds.
If you can't have the privacy of them both being asleep, you wouldn't mind some more rest yourself, but you get up from where you're sitting, move to stand behind Dean and look over his shoulder at the screen. He gives you a narrow-eyed glance, but then goes back to his searches. Legends, ghost stories, reports of unexplained deaths. Your fingers itch to take over the computer, put different keywords in and see what comes up, but you keep quiet, watching, and then when he seems to have forgotten you're there, you stretch, yawning, and head leisurely to the small bathroom.
You never would have thought pissing would make the list of life's great pleasures, much less brushing your teeth, but maybe it really is the little things. You splash some water on your face, and blink at the sudden vague sense-memory of not being able to do this--not being able to do it right, anyway, and that's just weird, but there's nothing more connected to it, so you shrug and head back into the bedroom, face still wet, drying your hands on the cheap new jeans that were waiting for you this morning.
Sure enough, you can feel Dean's eyes on you as you cross close to him, heading for the empty bed. You shuck the jeans and T-shirt off; slide into bed in briefs and a 'beater. "Shout if you need anything," you drawl, and grin to yourself when there's a long pause before you hear the keyboard clicking again. You still have no clue who you are--or why you're here--or how long this reprieve is going to last, but you might as well have some fun while you're hanging around.
***
Part 2
Supernatural Crossover
Pairing: Dean/*cough*mutter*mumble, um, take your best guess?
Rating: NC-17; violence, sex, language; y'know, pretty much all of it
Disclaimer: At the end, to not spoil the pairing.
Co-written by
topaz119 and without_me for the "All CW All The Time" Kink/Cliche Challenge. We ended up using the prompts bruising in compromising places, biting to leave marks, and enclosed spaces. If you tilt your head and squint, we might have also managed a passing nod to masturbating for your partner. Many thanks to
aproposofnothin, cardamom_23, darkseaglass, and liz_w for reading and beta duties.Also posted in one part on AOOO, here.
What's to be found, racing around,
You carry your pain wherever you go.
Full of the blues and trying to lose
You ain't gonna learn what you don't want to know.
***
***
It's still too much to ask Sam to just go, without the bitching and moaning about Dad and following orders and a million other things that Dean tunes out, but at least this time Sam's only muttering under his breath while he checks out the coordinates, habit more than anything, and even that stops when the location pops up. He lunges for the journal like he knows what he's going to find, and when he looks up, Dean's rolling to his feet before Sam can say a word.
"Dad thinks it's every twenty-one years," Sam tells him as they stuff clothes into bags and double-check the weapons cache. "Two little kids, like, little, Dean, babies, not even old enough to walk sometimes. They disappear on the same night in May, and if they find the bodies, there's not a mark on them, no fucking reason for them to have died, their hearts just stopped beating."
Savannah's 1100 miles away and they've got two days to get there and Dean just nods and keeps his eyes on the road.
***
The first thing you notice is that the shrieking sounds different. More echo? Less? It takes you a while to realize the part you probably should have gotten first: you're in your body again.
You're face-down on a concrete floor, curled in on yourself, and while you still hurt--you've mostly forgotten not hurting--it's... duller? than usual. Or something.
There are voices around you; yelling, and explosions--gunfire, some part of your brain translates--and you try to make yourself smaller, flatter, eyes squeezed tight don't notice me don't notice me...
After a while, things quiet down, and when you realize the low, grunting whimpers you're hearing are you, you bite down hard on your tongue and hold your breath until your head feels like it's going to explode.
It doesn't help, though; the voices are back, and then there's a hand on your shoulder, and your body reacts automatically, coming up swinging--but you've got nothing, and there's more than one of them; a fist connects with the side of your head and you think, Doesn't hurt as much as the rest of it, as you hit the floor again, hard.
***
There are days when Dean wants to take a tire iron to the idiots who play with things they know goddamned good and well they shouldn't touch, but they're too greedy, too hungry for power to stop and think. He'd do it right now, except he's too busy trying to breathe through the stench of sulphur and blood. Sam's probably going crazy outside, what with all the hellfire that's going on in here, but the warding circle's holding, at least so far, and there's not a whole lot Dean can do but watch the body parts fly.
He hopes like hell that splitting up, Sam grabbing the kids while Dean went for the altar--and God, he really hates the ones who plan it out enough to have all the bells and whistles--was the right thing to do, that Sam won't do anything stupid, like try to bust back in here without anything to protect him. Sam knows Dean's been warding since before he could write the alphabet, but for all that Sam keeps trying to ditch this gig, he doesn't seem the least bit convinced that Dean would survive half an hour without his protection.
Dean's phone is vibrating against his hip, and if he had a spare hand he'd grab it, but things are coming a little too close to his protected corner and it's time to throw a couple barrels of rock salt into the mix, hopefully discourage whatever these things are from coming any closer. The shotgun's loud enough that Sam should be able to hear it from outside and hang up and stop bothering him. He doesn't, of course--when has Sam ever let go of anything--but eventually the fighting and screaming dies down and the choking smoke clears enough for Dean to see the bits and pieces of bodies on the floor. There were three humans when he got there, but he's not really inclined to go count heads. Or anything else.
Dean wishes he could believe that whatever'd done this was satisfied, time to go home, but that would be way too easy. For the moment, he'll settle for "not here anymore." He counts to a hundred once, then does it again, before he steps out of the circle and goes to unlock the door.
"Answer your damn phone," Sam says, and Dean would love to give him shit about the worry in his eyes, but breathing air that isn't fouled by whatever the idiots called up is way more important.
"I was busy," he manages. "Show's over now, though." Sam waits while he coughs his lungs at least a little clearer and then follows him back inside.
"All dead?" Sam asks, and Dean's about to say "Everything that's still here," when he hears a low, muffled whimper. Sam hears it, too; smoothly pumps the shotgun he's carrying. "Rock salt," he murmurs.
Dean pulls the .45 out from where it's been snugged, tight and comforting, at the small of his back, and nods. "Good old-fashioned consecrated lead," he answers, motioning with his head. Sam drops back and away, so they can flank whatever it is, and lets Dean take the lead.
***
When you come to, there's something softer under you, and the noise you hear resolves into music--something you recognize on some level--and the rumble of a car motor. You don't move for a long minute, then slit your eyes open to try to figure out just what the fuck is going on.
You notice that your arms hurt more than the rest of your body--your body--and after a while you realize that's because your hands are cuffed behind you, and you're lying on them.
"You stink, you know that, right?"
"I don't know, Sammy; I think I smell pretty damn fine for standing in where you say I did."
Two voices, and a low growl to the engine. V8, slides into your head. Rebuilt.
"Besides," the second voice continues. "It's not just me; John Doe back there ain't exactly springtime fresh."
Every nerve locks down at that, and you curse the car and the music and the blood pounding in your ears because John Doe, that's you, and even if you don't know a better name, you know you need to know everything about them and you, and the sooner the better.
"You're sure about him?" the first voice asks, his voice dropping lower, and you strain to hear.
"C'mon, dude, you saw it, too." The car turns sharply. "Inside the burn marks, wrong side of the altar; only thing in there except me that didn't end up as biohazard wallpaper."
"Yeah, yeah," and the words come out on a sigh. "I saw; I just--" The car stops and the doors open, the squeak of metal on metal driving straight into your skull, so that you curl into yourself. You manage to bite back the moans until there are hands on your arms, pulling you out of the car, standing you up, holding you up, because your legs don't work and your balance is shot.
"What's the matter, Sam," the second voice asks, close to your ear, and it's his shoulder that's hard under your arm. "You're not up for a visitor from hell?"
***
As truck stops go, this place is pretty primitive, but Dean hasn't caught a blast of sulphur this bad in years, maybe ever. Add that to the blood and the stupid goddamn incense -- patchouli, for Christ's sake, fucking hippies -- and he's not in a picky mood. Any place that lets him get a start on washing the stink out of his skin is fine.
They've got the place to themselves, too early for the overnighters to be stopping, too late for anyone else. Sam sets up by the door, just in case, even though there's no sign anything is after them. Watching the deceptively lazy slouch Sam's perfected, Dean thinks Dad should be proud. He's not, of course, at least not to where he'd say anything about it, but looking at Sam, all anyone sees is worn-out jeans and shaggy hair, nothing but a punk-ass college boy slumming it. Nobody ever looks close enough to see the hard-won muscle under the baggy shirts, and Sam's worked hard to camouflage how fast that slouch can turn into a roundhouse kick, or an elbow to the face. They've definitely come a long way from the days when he was all arms and legs and tripping over his own feet. Dean could still take him down any time he wanted, of course, but he doesn't have any qualms about Sam covering his back.
Dean props their guest against the shower wall and turns the spray on him, hoping the water will bring him around a bit more, but by the time he gets his own clothes off, the guy's curled on the floor again. The fact that a stumbling guy wrapped in nothing but a ratty blanket getting helped to the showers by another guy didn't even raise the cashier's eyebrows leaves Dean wishing he didn't have to touch anything in the entire building, but he figures he shouldn't complain. Heck, he probably didn't even need to take the cuffs off the guy, but he doesn't seem to be much of a threat in any case.
He scrubs himself fast, then gets his hands under the guy's armpits, hauling him back up. Everything is slippery, and this is really a lot closer than he usually gets to naked guys, at least when Sam's in the room. Still, brimstone isn't going to wash off without soap, and their mystery visitor doesn't seem to be any more with it than he was an hour ago. "Little help here, Sammy?" he calls.
Sam's got the curtain pulled aside, knife poised, before Dean even finishes his name.
"Whoa, tiger," Dean says. "Nothing more dangerous here than whatever's growing on the grout. But I could use a hand with our new friend."
Sam grumbles, but he sheathes the knife and pushes his sleeves up, then fastens his hands around the guy's ribs so Dean can wash him clean.
The guy manages to stand on his own--or close to it--around the time they get him out and start toweling him dry. His hair's long, longer than Sam's, and wet, twisted strands flop in his face, covering his eyes. He doesn't try to push them away, but Dean can see him peering out from behind, suspicious, wary.
"Hey," Dean says. "Anyone home?" No answer. "You speak English?" Which, really, Dean's always thought is the stupidest question ever. Is someone gonna answer no?
With the way the guy's been needing to be held up, Dean doesn't catch on that the reaching hand isn't for support until it touches his amulet.
"Meket," the guy says, voice rusty and almost painful to hear, but his eyes are sharp and clear and blue when they flicker up at Dean. "Meket," he says again.
"Whatever, buddy," Dean answers, stepping back and letting Sam pull the guy away. "Time to get dressed."
***
The building--restaurant, you think; diner--is bright and smells of grease and coffee. It feels loud, even though it's mostly empty, and you duck your head as you enter, trying instinctively not to be noticed. Your legs are working better now, but the guys are still on either side of you; you can feel them ready to grab you at any second. Part of you wants to tell them to back off. You keep quiet and slide into the booth they choose; move over so you can lean against the wall.
The one with the meket takes the seat next to you, penning you in, and again you keep your mouth shut. There are two of them, and they're big, and you can barely stand up on your own; you've got nothing to gain by trying to take them on. They haven't done anything bad to you, you remind yourself. Realistically, you're probably a lot safer with them than you would be without them... whoever they are.
The waitress comes over and they order, the taller one glancing at you and saying, "Just scrambled eggs and toast for him. And tea."
"A little too much bachelor party?" she asks knowingly, and you turn your face further away. You're in no shape to fight, but that doesn't mean you like being laughed at.
"Something like that," one of them says.
The waitress is back almost instantly with coffee for them and a mug and metal teapot for you. You remember coffee and think you might be willing to kill something for some, but you take the tea when the taller one pours it for you; hold the mug between your palms, feeling the heat, breathing the steam.
"I hope it doesn't take long for the hospital to find the kids' parents," the taller one says.
"I hope the parents weren't the ones who signed them up for satanic altar duty," Meket replies.
"You don't really think that, do you, Dean?" Dean. "I mean, there's never been anything weird about the victims' families, right? Did Dad say something?"
"Nah," Dean says. "You know. Just... getting cynical, I guess."
"Well, let's worry about the shit we know we have to deal with," the other says. "Like, what the hell was it that got away, and..." he nods in your direction, "what do we do with him?"
"Whatever it was that got out, it wasn't corporeal," Dean says, lowering his voice as the waitress comes back with plates heaped with eggs and hash browns and grits and bacon. A smaller plate is set in front of you, and your mouth waters at the smell of the bacon, but you pick up a fork and take a bite of your plain eggs. They're bland and undercooked, and better than anything you've tasted in as long as you can remember, so you eat quietly and hungrily, sipping your tea, and listen to the two of them talk.
"What would make one thing come back as a spirit and another in a body?" Dean asks, and the other one shakes his head.
"I dunno. When we get to the motel, I'll poke around online, see if I can find anything. Maybe... one had more power than the other?" He looks at you, speculative, and you keep your face blank, passive.
"If he's got more power than whatever it is those jokers were calling, he's doing a hell of a job hiding it," Dean says. "But you're the psychic-boy, Sammy, you tell me."
Sammy--that's right, you remember that from earlier--sighs. "One of these days, I'm gonna figure out how to, I don't know, Dean. Make you spill your beer on every girl you try to pick up, or something."
You don't have to look; you can feel Dean tense up. "That's not funny, Sam."
"Well, quit with the psychic-boy shit, all right? I... I don't know. He doesn't seem like anything to me, anything weird. I mean, aside from the whole naked-by-the-black-altar thing."
"That's weird enough," Dean says. "He wasn't in the room when I drew the circle; he came from somewhere. So he must be related to this whole thing somehow."
"Frankly, I'm more worried about where the spirit went," Sam says. "That felt... nasty. It didn't come all that near me, but... I don't think it's just going to go away."
"I don't, either," Dean says. "I'll take another look at Dad's journal. Maybe there's something in there I missed."
They've been talking about you like you're not even there, and you've been doing your best to pretend that's true--not that here isn't about a trillion times better than where you were, but you don't really feel ready to talk, let alone try to explain anything, so quiet seems like the best choice. A minute later, though, quiet suddenly stops being an option.
They both look at you, startled, when you shove at Dean's side, desperately trying to get out of the booth. "What--" Sam says, and Dean is solid and hard to get past, but your gut is twisting and if you don't get out of here fast--
You make it--barely--to the blacktop outside before you fall to your knees, retching up eggs and tea and then, when that's gone, gout after gout of acidic bile until you start to think maybe this whole thing is just another version of hell, a hot shower and the smell of coffee to bring the suffering back into sharper focus. You can taste brimstone in the back of your throat when the spasms finally subside, and the shirt and pants you're wearing are clammy with sweat.
There's a hand near your face, offering a bottle of water. You rinse and spit, again and again, and let them pull you back to your feet, back to the car, where you curl up and close your eyes, pressing the cool bottle to your face, while the engine growls to life and the car lurches out of the lot.
***
Sam has that pissy look. Dean knows without looking, he can tell from the way Sam's leg is practically vibrating with energy.
"What?" he asks, without taking his eyes off the road.
"He's gonna need some clothes," Sam says.
"Oh, no," Dean says. "No shopping. He's fine."
"Yeah," Sam says. "Cause explaining that he's the hung-over groom when he's wearing sweats you've had since Clinton was in office isn't going to get old fast. But sure, fine. It's not my stuff he's freeballing in."
"Hell," Dean mutters, but there's a Wal-Mart just ahead. Sam doesn't even pretend not to smirk.
"Fine," Dean says, pulling into a parking space. "Knock yourself out, Sammy. Me and JD'll chill here."
"JD?"
"John Doe? Jack Daniels? I can't keep calling him 'hey you' in my head, and John's a little on the weird side, don't you think?" Sam snorts at that. "Just, c'mon, I'm beat. Go get him some stuff, and some food for later while you're at it, and let's find a place to crash."
Sam shakes his head and gets out of the car, but leans back in to say, "Call me if you need anything." He cuts his eyes to the back seat and really, he needs to stop with the overprotective shit, especially when what he's worried about is currently a scenic greenish-gray lump curled into a corner of the seat. Dean's not even sure if he's conscious.
"Dude, the only thing I'm gonna need is a six of something that isn't any of your micro-brew crap, and food to go with it. For when I wake up, which in case you haven't noticed, I haven't gone to sleep yet, because somebody is standing in the parking lot of a fucking Wal-Mart telling me stuff I knew when he was in diapers. Weird shit happens, I will call. Go."
"Ass," Sam mutters, but he slams the door and sets off across the parking lot with the freakishly long stride that drives Dean nuts.
***
You come awake easier this time, no jolt, no slam of fear, but it still takes a while to figure out where you are, where you're not. There's a bed under you, and you vaguely remember being helped inside. It's dark and cool, the only light coming from the computer in front of Sam. The other one--Dean--is asleep; you hear his breath, deep and even, but he's not in your line of sight and you're not ready to move yet, not ready to let them know you're there.
You'd stay like that forever, you think, but your throat is dry and your mouth is foul from throwing up and it's a pitiably small irritation, nothing in the big picture, but you can't get it out of your mind.
As soon as you move, Sam's on his feet and crossing the room. He keeps his distance, though, holding out a bottle of water, letting you reach out and take it from him.
"Slow," he says, low and quiet. "Easy." You want to gulp, to drain it in a single breath, but your stomach cramps a little just at the thought, and you force yourself to sip.
He watches you quietly while you drink, and you wish he'd stop but wishing's never done you much good. You're not sure how you know that when you still have no clue what your name ever was, but there it is.
"I've been doing some research," he says when you put the bottle down, his voice still quiet. He looks at you, a silent You with me?, and you think about playing dumb, but that doesn't seem like a good long-term bet. You nod, and he continues, "Trying to trace who owns the warehouse where this all went down last night." He taps a leather-bound book with one finger, muttering, "Because writing down anything other than an address is too much effort for some people..."
He stops there, and after a moment you clear your throat. "Find anything?"
He blinks, like he's surprised at your question, which, given the sum total of your interaction so far, isn't that much of an insult. "Nothing useful--one dummy corporation piled on the next. I guess the one thing I'm pretty sure of is that whoever does own it doesn't want to be found."
"That's an answer right there," you say, forcing your throat and mouth to work, taking pleasure in being heard and understood. "If their lawyers know their stuff, you won't be able to trace it. Especially if they had... help."
He looks more closely at you. "What do you mean, help?"
You think a moment. You're probably as startled as he is--if not more so--at what you said, but there's a woman's voice in your head, acid-sweet as she tells someone, Regardless of the evidence, the jury won't convict you. "Who are you?" you ask.
Even in the dim light, you can see his eyebrows go up. "I could ask you the same thing."
You chuckle, low and unamused. "You can ask all you want."
"You don't know?"
He sounds skeptical, and you don't blame him. "You can believe me or not, your choice," you say. Your voice still feels rusty, but it's coming back fast. You hope other stuff will, too. "Not much I can do about it." You pause. "Just like, you can tell me whatever kind of story you want about who you are... but, y'know, pick something you can stick to, I guess. Unless... I mean, I'm presuming if I just walked out that door right now, you'd have a problem with that."
Sam tilts his head. "To be honest, I'm not sure you could walk out the door. You want to try it?"
He has a point. You're not exactly in fighting shape. And while these guys may not be your best buddies, right now they seem a lot better than the alternative. "Not really," you say, and he cracks half a smile.
"My brother's calling you JD," he says. "That okay until you come up with something better?"
"Works for me," you say. Brother, you think, and file that one away for later. "Guy could do worse than be named after Jack Daniel's."
Sam does laugh at that, still soft and quiet, eyes flickering to the other bed, where Dean's stretched out on his belly, dead to the world, but when he turns back to you, he's focused again. "What you said before, in the shower. Meket. When I got sick of going around in circles on the land title, I did a little other looking around. In ancient Egyptian... that's what you meant, right? What Dean wears. Protection."
You nod.
"How'd you know that? I mean, yeah, that's what it is, but nobody I know's ever called it by that name. You're not... you sure don't look Egyptian."
You bark at that, only once before Sam's frown--boy could be a librarian, maybe--quiets you down. "No, I'm pretty sure not," you say. "I..." Trying to think, trying to remember. Trying to decide what to say regardless of what you know or don't know. "I must have studied, sometime."
"Studied Egyptian protective amulets?"
You shrug. "You don't have a problem with me being here--" visitor from hell, you hear Dean say, "but you're surprised I took an art history class in college?" You don't think that's where you pulled it from, and from Sam's expression he doesn't either, but he doesn't argue.
"You might as well get some more rest," he says. "Dean's probably not gonna be up for a while yet, and I haven't quite given up on beating my head against those damn records."
More rest sounds like a great idea--just lying on a bed, with nothing assaulting you, body or mind, is honestly more than you can grasp yet. "You don't sleep?" you ask, as you settle back down on your side, facing him and the other bed. You don't really think he's suddenly going to come after you, but you don't turn your back on people; you just don't.
"Not a lot," he says softly, waking up the laptop, and you watch him for a few minutes before your eyes slide shut again.
***
"Tell me again why I'm trying to parallel park on streets that were definitely not built for this car," Dean says, angling hard to the right, cutting the steering wheel back with inches to spare and easing off the gas.
The neighborhood, at least the street they're on, is right on the edge of big money coming in. For every house that's been restored, there are still three or four that are working on falling down around their owners, but even if the funds for repairs are lacking, the houses have the air of being cared for.
"Because we got nothing on the warehouse, except we're five layers down and whoever actually owns it really doesn't want to be found." Sam pauses and then says quietly, "And because twenty-one years ago, two little girls, cousins, were playing outside Saint Ann's, that church we passed a couple of blocks back, and when their grandmother came out to take them home, they were gone."
His voice is flat and unemotional, which means he's trying to pretend this one isn't doing a number on him. Dean's willing to play along for now, but that doesn't mean he won't get up in Sam's face about it if he needs to.
Dean cuts the engine, and Sam opens his door and gets out. Dean looks over his shoulder at where JD's staring out the window. He could be taking in the scenery or, hell, plotting world domination with as little as that poker face lets on. "C'mon, man, let's roll." No answer. Dean knows he heard the guy talking to Sam in the hotel room--he's never going to sleep deep when there's a stranger around--but apparently, Dean only rates a silent nod and a long steady look from behind the hair. Whatever.
Sam's a block away by the time they get out of the car, and oh, yeah, he's on a mission, already in the churchyard before they can catch up, in front of a moss-covered statue, talking to someone small and white-haired. Dean recognizes the set to Sam's shoulders. Nobody can resist that earnest, intent look, mostly because even when Dean knows Sam's working a scam, that look's always the real deal.
Dean holds up on the sidewalk until Sam glances over with the cue to push open the low iron gate and walk into the small courtyard.
"Miss Evelyn, this is my brother, Dean, and our friend, JD." Sam has to lean down and his voice is pitched louder than usual, but the eyes that peer up at Dean are crackling with life and the smile aimed his way is sharp and knowing. Dean looks as trustworthy and above-board as he can, which is pretty much wasted on the old girl, because she's got his number, he can just tell.
"We'd like to know more about Corinna and Isabel," Sam says, and her eyes go distant, seeing into her memories as she turns back to touch the statue, two small angels with their arms wrapped around each other.
"Oh, it was a bad, bad day, that day. We sat right here, Louisa and I, and everbody walked up and they couldn't even say it. They all just looked at me and shook their heads. The preacher we had then, he was a good man, but he wasn't from here, he didn't know. He kept organizin' folk, sending them out to knock on people's doors, calling the police, wanting them to drag the river, wanting them to do something, but Louisa knew, I could feel it how she held my hand."
Sam guides her to a bench and she fumbles in her purse before pulling out a small handkerchief, faded and yellowed with age.
"We stayed until the sun came up and then Louisa went home and laid herself down on her bed and that's where she stayed until they brought her back here for good."
Sam takes her hand, and Dean wants to shake his head. Sam can't keep on like this; he can't keep taking everything personally. These kids, Sam was in diapers when they were taken, he can't feel guilty about not being able to bring them back.
"You said you knew?" Sam says, gently, and Dean breathes a little easier. Sam might care too much, but he almost always remembers why he's there, what's really important. "What did you know?"
"Oh, those babies weren't never coming back. Sometimes," she says, and the shift in her voice is an awful thing to hear, "sometimes, their people might find the bodies, poor things, but we never did, not with Louisa's grandbabies."
She smiles at Sam and pats his hand. "After Louisa was gone, we had a fish fry and raised the money for the statue, and I come sit here every day and talk to her. She was my daddy's favorite cousin, you know."
"No, ma'am," Sam answers. "I didn't know that."
"Miss Evie, you okay?" And they're done for the day, Dean knows, no matter how many questions are still in Sam's eyes, because while the older of the two guys who just walked out of the church might be wearing a jacket and white collar, both of them are pinging Dean's linebacker radar. As in big, fast, and no sense pissing them off. Yet.
"I'm fine, just fine. You boys worry more than your mamas ever did," she answers, sharp and crisp, but her smile is fond. Sam thanks her for her time and she pats his hand again, her voice sliding back through the years when she says, very softly, "Nothing you can do when he comes for his babies."
She takes the younger guy's arm and lets him lead her back inside the church, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder.
"We're not going to be seeing you anymore, are we?" the minister says, and it's not so much a question as an order. "The last thing Miss Evie needs is outsiders coming and stirring things up just because they're curious. She's a good woman, but she's going on near ninety and she's lonely for someone to listen to her. She loves to spin stories, always has. That's all this is."
Sam opens his mouth--of course he does, he never knows when to quit--but Dean cuts him off. "We're good," Dean says, and gets Sam out the gate.
***
"C'mon, Dean," Sam hisses, just loud enough for you to hear him through the noise and music of the dive bar Dean picked for dinner. "You don't really believe what he was trying to tell us--"
"No, Sam," Dean says, the exaggerated patience in his voice obviously jacking Sam up yet another notch. "Like I said, I know a pretty cover story just as well as you do, but dude, you gotta let it go every now and then." Sam smacks his beer onto the gouged and pitted wooden table. "Or not."
Dean shrugs and flags down the waitress, and this time, when she turns to you, you say quickly, "Burger and fries. And a beer." It's nearly dark outside, and your stomach's been making noises that are a lot more "lemme at it" than "no fucking way."
Dean looks at you for a long moment, but only says, "Do us all a favor and don't puke in my car," before turning back to Sam.
They seem to be mostly taking you for granted now, talking to each other about what they learned today--which was not a whole lot, as far as you can tell--without any obvious attempt at keeping you out of it, though Sam does shoot you an occasional sharp glance the few times you offer an idea. For the most part you're just as happy to keep quiet, working your way slowly through your food and now and then allowing yourself a small sip off a Budweiser that tastes awfully close to heaven.
They argue their way through their own meals and beers, Dean sliding back and forth between theories about various malevolent entities and ogling everyone in the place under thirty. Male or female, as far as you can tell, and that's interesting, but not half as interesting as the way Sam's mouth tenses up and he strong-arms the conversation back to business every time Dean elevator-eyes a guy standing at the bar or making his way toward the pool table in the side room. At first you think Sam just doesn't like having a fag for a big brother, but after a little while the cues start pointing another way. Not homophobic--protective. Or... possessive.
You're pretty sure Sam's got nothing to worry about; as far as you can tell, Dean doesn't have the kind of death wish that would go along with seriously trying to pick up a guy in an unfamiliar bar in the South. Not that you'd bet against him pulling it off if he really wanted to; his smile is compelling enough that you find yourself wondering if he's entirely human. It doesn't feel like a glamour--though a cynical voice in the back of your head reminds you that you wouldn't be able to feel a good one anyway, and fuck, where is this shit coming from? You know Sam--and Dean, maybe to a slightly lesser extent--is still wondering who and what you are. What you hope they don't entirely realize is that you're wondering the same damn thing.
The burger sits better than you were afraid it might, though you regretfully decide against killing the remaining half of your beer when they get up to go. Back at the motel, Dean and Sam have some kind of silent pissing match over who's going to go to sleep. You'd go with "both of them," but you don't get a vote. In the end, Dean plants himself at the small table, laptop in front of him, and simply ignores Sam until Sam gives up and stretches out on one of the beds.
If you can't have the privacy of them both being asleep, you wouldn't mind some more rest yourself, but you get up from where you're sitting, move to stand behind Dean and look over his shoulder at the screen. He gives you a narrow-eyed glance, but then goes back to his searches. Legends, ghost stories, reports of unexplained deaths. Your fingers itch to take over the computer, put different keywords in and see what comes up, but you keep quiet, watching, and then when he seems to have forgotten you're there, you stretch, yawning, and head leisurely to the small bathroom.
You never would have thought pissing would make the list of life's great pleasures, much less brushing your teeth, but maybe it really is the little things. You splash some water on your face, and blink at the sudden vague sense-memory of not being able to do this--not being able to do it right, anyway, and that's just weird, but there's nothing more connected to it, so you shrug and head back into the bedroom, face still wet, drying your hands on the cheap new jeans that were waiting for you this morning.
Sure enough, you can feel Dean's eyes on you as you cross close to him, heading for the empty bed. You shuck the jeans and T-shirt off; slide into bed in briefs and a 'beater. "Shout if you need anything," you drawl, and grin to yourself when there's a long pause before you hear the keyboard clicking again. You still have no clue who you are--or why you're here--or how long this reprieve is going to last, but you might as well have some fun while you're hanging around.
***
Part 2