Black-Throated Wind 2/3

[topaz119]

It's a good night. Which is to say, Sam sleeps for two solid hours before the whimpering starts.

Dean moves to sit on the edge of the bed. "'sokay, Sammy," he whispers. "Just a dream. You're okay." Sometimes that works. It does this time, at least for a while. But less than half an hour later, Sam's moving again, turning his head from side to side, breathing like something's chasing him. "Sam," Dean says, a little louder, but it's not until Dean puts a hand on him, firm on his shoulder, that Sam jerks awake, a yell not quite spilling from his mouth.

"Shh," Dean says, but Sam's expression tells him he won't be going back to sleep soon. Dean sighs. "Bad?"

Sam shrugs, swallows, and Dean stretches, reaches the water bottle on the table by the laptop and hands it over. He glances at the other bed. JD hasn't moved; is still curled on his side, breathing regular. His skin is pale and smooth, soft-looking. "Fire?" Dean asks, turning back to Sam.

"Yeah."

Dean grits his teeth. God knows there's nothing he can do to fix that. He pats Sam's shoulder awkwardly, then puts his hand on his own thigh, running his thumbnail along the weave of the denim. "So, any new ideas about him?" He nods toward the other bed.

Sam turns and looks, as if watching the guy sleep is going to tell him something new. "Not really," he says. "He's smart, obviously--even if he's telling the truth about not remembering who he is. He knows how to research; that could be a library background, or law, or, hell, anyone who knows his way around computers."

"Not our job to figure that stuff out for him," Dean says. "All I'm worried about is whether we need to be watching our backs."

Sam shrugs. "Probably not any more than we usually do." Which isn't exactly a ringing endorsement, but is pretty much what Dean's been thinking. "I mean, we can't just cut him loose, not 'til we know more about what's going on, so we're pretty much stuck with him. But it's strange... the way he just, y'know, accepts all of this. What we do. Like it's perfectly normal."

"Well, he was--as far as we know--in hell. That probably kind of ups your tolerance for weird shit."

"Yeah," Sam says. "But it's more than that, I think. I just can't figure out what."

"You think he was... a hunter, like us?" Dean frowns. He knows they're not the only ones who do what they do, but still, the idea doesn't feel right.

Sam shakes his head. "Maybe. He doesn't have the same--I don't know, he doesn't seem like a hunter. But then, he says he doesn't even remember his name; maybe he'll get more of his, whatever, personality back when he remembers more."

Dean frowns, thinking about the little show JD put on as he went to bed. It was intentional, he's certain of that; he knows a challenge when he sees one. "I think he's got the personality thing covered."

Sam yawns and stretches, and Dean stands up. "You think you can get a little more sleep?" It's still pitch-black out; won't be dawn for a few hours yet. "You should try..."

"Yeah, thanks, Dean; I'm not three anymore."

Dean smiles tightly, turning away. "Then don't act like it. We've got a lot of diggin' to do tomorrow; you need to be awake for it. Unless you think JD can do a better job."

Sam sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. "Same applies to you. I slept enough. You can take a shift."

Dean shakes his head. "Fine. You want to stay up all night, be my guest." It kills him, sometimes, how Sam cannot just shut up and be reasonable. He lies down on the bed, not even bothering to take his boots off, and closes his eyes.

"It was easier before," he hears Sam whisper. "When I didn't really remember what she looked like."

Oh. Dean doesn't say anything; there's nothing he can say. Sam doesn't need to know that he dreams, too. He definitely doesn't need to know that in Dean's dreams, when he yells, "Mom, no!" the body on the ceiling changes, and then it's Sam up there staring down at him, screaming soundlessly. Every time.

***

"Hey, Dean?"

Sam's voice jolts you awake--he waves an apologetic hand in your direction while he fumbles for the remote, but you don't have much to complain about, even if the anonymous mouth in your dream had been just about to make all the teasing worthwhile. You'll take minor disappointments over screaming hell, every time.

"Dean!" Sam calls again, simultaneously turning up the volume on the TV, shifting the laptop to the side, and reaching for the journal they never let out of their sight. You'd pay attention to whatever's got Sam's interest, but then the bathroom door opens and Dean's standing there in unbuttoned jeans and not much else, hair still wet from the shower.

"Yo, morning glory," he says, around the toothbrush he's got hanging out of his mouth. "Dial it down a couple of notches, okay?" He's talking to Sam, but if you'd doubted his interest from the night before--not that you had, not really--the quick, flickering glance thrown toward you, the casually deliberate lean against the door, the way he licks toothpaste off the corner of his mouth tell you the game is on.

Sam rolls his eyes and points to the takeout coffee on the dresser. "Listen," he says. The morning news team is using their serious voices as the camera pans past a brick townhouse, in a part of the city that's very much not where you are or have been, a part where there are trees dripping Spanish moss and historical preservation markers on the walls.

"The victims, all siblings, were found in their beds, with no signs of robbery or forced entry at any of their homes. The Savannah Police Department has issued a statement that the investigation is just beginning, but there is no indication that the household staffs are under suspicion. Sources close to the family say no suicide notes or evidence of drugs or alcohol were found near the bodies. A memorial service is being planned later this week to celebrate the lives of Walter Barrow, Aldridge Barrow, and Susannah Barrow DeWitt."

"Yeah?" Dean asks. "So?"

"So, no real reason for the deaths--their hearts just stopped. Just like the kids."

"But these aren't kids, Sam." The words are short, but not insulting, more like he's looking for holes than trying to be obnoxious. Sam's flipping through the journal, nodding absently.

"Yeah, I know, that doesn't fit, but... the kids, the ones we took out of that warehouse, they were brother and sister, and the ones Miss Evelyn told us about, they were cousins, and the way they died... and Aldridge Barrow, that name, I know I know it." Sam looks up from the journal. "Aldridge Barrow, c'mon, how do I know that name?"

"President of Wilkinson Group," you say, as the name clicks in your brain, and you'd really like to know how you can remember something you saw once on a computer screen and not have a fucking clue who you are. "Three, four layers down on that warehouse." Sam's fingers are already flying on the keyboard. Dean's lost the toothbrush and he's moved so he can lean over Sam's shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam says, pointing to the screen. He starts to say more, but the drone of platitudes coming from the TV about the many charitable endeavors the deceased were a part of is replaced by a sharper tone.

"Last night's tragedy is compounded by the rumored disappearance of family patriarch Morton Barrow and his sons, Gregory and Thomas. Executives at Bargreen Corp, the real estate and holding company owned by generations of Barrows, had no comment, but sources close to the family have confirmed that none of the men have been seen for several days."

"How many people were in that warehouse with you?" Sam twists around to look at Dean.

"Three, to start." Dean shrugs. "Too many pieces to count by the end."

"And we've got three missing guys here, and three others dead in the same family last night."

"My three guys, we sure as hell can count on foul play being the cause of death," Dean says.

"Too coincidental," you say, and from the way both of them blink at you, you're pretty sure they'd forgotten you were in the room.

Dean shrugs. "Three guys missing, three guys in the warehouse... weird, but it's a big city. Weird shit happens."

You shrug back. "Not a nice neat trail, no, but... you got people dying and little brother over there has a bad feeling. Worth playing his hunch, at least. But you're never going to get anywhere with the family, not today. Too much happening there, too many layers of security to get through."

"Wouldn't be the first funeral we've crashed," Dean says.

"I'm just saying, you need a plan," you answer, not backing off the challenge.

"Dean," Sam's saying, either oblivious to the staring match going on over his head, or just ignoring it. "That's half the equation; the kids are the other half, and Dad's journal probably isn't complete." Dean groans and Sam looks up from his laptop. "Sorry, man, but yeah, we need a library."

"Beats the hell out of dealing with the grieving family," you say.

Dean snorts, but says, "Fine. Let's go find a librarian to sweet-talk."

***

Dean votes for the closest library, but Sam insists that they drive across the city to a particular branch, because, as he says to the woman behind the reference desk, this one has a collection of local historical documents that meets their unique research needs. Dean nods and tries to look excited when she shows him where the copies of county death records are stored on microfiche.

He hits pay dirt when he checks for the 21-year thing and fills in all the cycles Dad's journal had been missing, and more. With what he gets, they have deaths or disappearances on or around May 18 every twenty-one years, going back before the Civil War. Even better--or worse, depending how you look at it--a couple of the ones he's been able to fill in, it's easy to tell they're related.

Sam looks at the list, at first nodding absently as he skims it but then reaching for the legal pad he's been making notes on since Dad sent them off. "Here." He points to a name on Dean's list. "In the 60s, the kid who died would have been the missing guy's brother."

"Cursed family?" JD asks, from across the table.

"This one's listed as natural causes, but..." Dean shrugs.

"There goes that cynicism again." JD leans back in the chair, stretching, rolling the kinks out of his shoulders, not quite smirking at Dean, and really, no one should look that good in an outfit from Wal-Mart.

"The family's tied up in it some way," Sam says, and Dean drags his attention back to his brother. "I know there's a connection I'm just not seeing."

"I got faith in you, Sammy," Dean says, slapping him on the back. "I'm just gonna go--"

"Don't move, Dean," Sam says, not bothering to look up from his notes. JD snickers, but when Dean eyes him, he's writing busily.

"C'mon, man," Dean says. "One coffee isn't gonna hurt anything."

"Not unless it turns into, 'Aw, Sam, c'mon, you should've seen the legs on the cashier,' which it always somehow does," Sam says.

Dean grins. "She did have great legs, Sammy, almost as long as yours, and, dude, flexible..."

Sam shakes his head. "Look, I'm drowning in names and dates here; can you sort them out, see how they go together?"

Dean grumbles and groans, but compared to squinting at the microfiche, deciphering Sam's scrawl is a cakewalk, so he takes the chair next to JD and settles in for the long haul.

***

Given how the two of them rag on each other, you're shocked at how well they coordinate at the library. Not that Dean's exactly calm, but he works his way through the endless pages of notes Sam generates with far less bitching than you'd have expected, and when Sam catches the next break, a series of newspaper articles from the mid-70s, it's Dean who sees how they fit in and sends Sam off to sweet-talk the reference librarian into access to some of the older newspapers.

You skim the articles, coverage of a suit filed on behalf of several elderly members of St. Ann's AME church who wanted to be buried in a family plot at Bonaventure cemetery, and you don't even have to look to know the name. The reporter was too chickenshit--or scared--to spell things out, but it doesn't take much reading between the lines to fill in the gaps.

"Family plot, but only for family members of the right color," you mutter, and Dean snorts.

"I kinda like the 'It's only for legitimate descendants' argument myself."

You find yourself thinking that counsel for the family was damn pathetic--and while it's nice to know things like that, a name would be even more exciting--but they managed to prevail. Between that and how every reporter and editor tap-danced their way around saying things straight up, you get that there was a whole lot of money involved, old money, and the power that goes with it. You wonder if Dean's figured that out yet, but before you can ask, Sam comes back with a fistful of photocopies and the look that you've learned means he's on to something.

"Look at this," he says to Dean, and then, surprisingly, waves you over as he spreads the papers out on the table.

"Okay, what am I looking at?" Dean asks, and you're glad, because the print is old and not very clear and Sam doesn't have whole articles, just the pertinent pages. Nothing makes sense, which Sam must have figured out, because he doesn't bitch, just launches right into it.

"It's stuff from the Morning News, going back to 1868, and it's all about how Josiah Barrow built his empire and how he always looked out for his family, and how his sons and grandsons still feel his presence guiding them in their business decisions." He points to another, less blurry, photocopy. "They all talk about him, even now. He's this big presence; they just named a street after him."

"So? The dude casts a long shadow," Dean says, shrugging.

"Look at his birthday," Sam answers flatly. "May 18. And Miss Evie, she said, 'he' comes for his babies." Sam screws his face up. "They're his, all right, they're all his descendants, and he comes for them every generation."

Dean nods slowly, looks at the paper spread out over the table and says what you're thinking. "He doesn't just come for them, Sam. They call him. Those stupid fuckers bring the kids and call him." Dean wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, as though there's something nasty lingering there, and you have to stop yourself from doing the same, because it's only been two days, and you can still taste the sulphur and blood and bile.

"But not this time," Sam says, with a savage satisfaction.

"Not this time," Dean answers, and the look that passes between them is somewhere between grim and smug. "The guys trying to run the show at the warehouse were pretty much useless, though. They didn't have any idea what they were doing..."

"Didn't follow directions," you say. "Got sloppy. Careless. Shit like this, you gotta make sure every T is crossed, but people are stupid..."

Sam gives you a look, but Dean just says, "So, we got a name... we got a cemetery?"

Sam smiles back, slow and nasty. "Absolutely."

"Winchester Brothers Salt and Burn, the reunion tour."

"Absolutely," Sam repeats, and starts gathering his papers up into a tidy stack.

Dean's practically vibrating with energy in the car, like a racehorse waiting for the starting gun. The cemetery's easy enough to find, which is good, except that the reason it's so easy is that it's a featured stop on the historic city tours that are an industry in and of themselves.

"Ghost tours?" Dean says. "They're serious?"

"Keep it in mind for retirement," you say, and smile at the nasty look Dean throws at you. The library truce quickly evaporates into round after round of bickering, though there are a few moments of relative peace and quiet when they stop at a gas station and Sam goes in to buy drinks and snacks. It starts right up again as soon as he gets back to the car, though. Apparently the wrong flavor Twizzlers is enough to amp Dean up, and Sam spilling a few drops of Coke in the car sends him over the edge. You sit quietly until Dean's worked up a good head of steam, and then say, "You guys ever consider charging a cover for this floor show you've got going? Might be able to afford better accommodations," and that gets you another glare but also shuts him up the rest of the way back to the motel.

Safely in the room, Sam takes a quick shower, emerging from the bathroom and frowning when he sees Dean sitting at the table, laptop open in front of him. "I was gonna--" he starts, but Dean shakes his head.

"You, sleep," he says, pointing to the bed. "We can't do any more until tonight. I'll keep chasing down whatever else I can find about these guys."

"I'm not tired," Sam tries, but Dean cuts him off again.

"Bullshit. I know sleeping's no fun for you right now, but we're screwed if you're keeling over when something's coming at us." It's hardly the most gracious statement in the world, but it's offered with a blunt honesty, and after a moment Sam shrugs and gives in.

"If you get stuck, say something," he says. "I probably won't be asleep anyway."

"Yeah," Dean agrees, but when you finish up your own shower--talk about simple pleasures--a little while later, the laptop's sitting on the table, screensaver flickering in the dim light while Sam snores steadily and Dean... Dean's methodically cleaning weapons.

You watch his hands for a few minutes before clearing your throat. "Done with the research?" you ask quietly, voice pitched to barely carry over the soft shush of knife on whetstone.

He glances up a fraction of a second before turning his attention back to the blade. His shrug is almost imperceptible. "This needs to be done, too," he murmurs.

You drop the bathroom stuff Sam got for you on the bed and glance at the top few pages of notes. Dean's reined in the adrenaline, at least enough that you don't expect him to start bouncing off the walls, but he's still restless and you're catching it, too.

"You can turn the TV on," he says. "It's like white noise; Sam'll sleep through it."

"Nah," you answer. "I'm good; I'm just..."

"Ready to roll?"

"Yeah, I guess." You shrug. "You mind if I take a look at the research?"

"Probably couldn't hurt," he says. "But seriously, whatever Sam says about me and my car? He's ten times worse about that laptop."

"So what you're telling me is that the prima donna bullshit is genetic?" you ask, settling yourself at the table. You get that look, the one that says he'd be just as happy if you'd never arrived on the scene, but after a second he goes back to his work.

You rest your fingers on the keys, looking at what's on the screen and written on the note pad beside it, but when you start typing, instead of tracking the details of the lawsuit, you find yourself paying more attention to the lawyers' names, and the judges. The case was appealed all the way up to the Georgia Supreme Court, and you make your way from there to Martindale-Hubbell, looking at the firms the judges were affiliated with, before or after their time on the bench. You scribble down notes about Bouhan, Searcy, Simpson & Mahoney, and then you find yourself staring at the page for Lee, Black & Hart. There's a new face in your mind, a man, distinguished and urbane, smiling and unctuous. He's talking to you, eyes gleaming with a false paternity, but you can't hear his words.

It's not much but it's something and you keep your mind as blank as possible, because every time you try to force it, the door slams shut and you have to start all over. You're holding yourself still, barely breathing, when the unmistakable noise of a bullet being chambered sends you flying. You're crouching behind the chair before you even realize you've moved.

Shit, shit. Your heart's trying to jump out of your chest and Dean's looking at you with a raised eyebrow. You'd be embarrassed, ashamed of being seen cowering like this, but you can still see it--still feel it. A familiar face, inhuman but trusted... right up until the bullets drilled into your chest, pain and anger and humiliation followed by more, and more, and more.

"Whoa," Dean says. "Didn't mean to startle you."

You manage to get yourself up again, back to staring at the computer, though you don't even try to put your fingers on the keys. Luckily, you went quiet in your panic, so Sam's still sleeping, and Dean waits a few minutes before deliberately putting the gun down and reaching into the cheap styrofoam cooler for a couple of beers.

"Here," he says, casually, handing you one. "Take the edge off before we start playing with fire." Part of you--a big part--wants to rip him a new one for treating you like you're some pathetic nut case, but you still feel a little sick from the reaction, so you nod and take the beer and keep your mouth shut.

***

Setting evil shit on fire and watching it burn is one of Dean's favorite things about this gig. But between having to wait all day to even start scoping the place out and the low-level tension of having a stranger around, he's jittering like a junkie before they even get a match lit.

The tomb is open, the salt poured, when they hear voices outside. Sam peers out quickly, then turns back to whisper, "I think it's a groundskeeper. Stay here and keep quiet; I'll get rid of him."

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but Sam's already slipped outside, and Dean knows without having to look that he's moving away from the building, drawing attention elsewhere before turning on his flashlight and calling an appropriately sheepish hello to the hopefully gullible worker.

"I thought he said he'd checked on the security setup," JD mutters, low enough that Dean can't righteously tell him to shut up, but loud enough that he meant to be heard and Dean for damn sure hadn't missed the attitude during the two hours it had taken JD to shake off whatever the hell had spooked him that afternoon.

"Nothing's ever foolproof," Dean growls back. Griping about Sam's screw-ups is his job, no one else's, and it's seriously pissing him off that he can't see or hear what Sam's doing out there. How Sam's doing.

"There's foolproof, and then there's amateur hour."

There's next to no light, but the voice is right next to him, easy enough to place the guy by body heat alone, and Dean wheels on him, fisting handfuls of his shirt. "Given where you were a few days ago, I'd think a death wish wouldn't really be the top of your list right now," he hisses, and then there's a thigh between his and a hot mouth biting at his lips and fuck, fuck, his body's responding, grinding forward, battling for control of the kiss before his brain can even begin to wonder where this all came from.

He can't be doing this; he needs to stop it, now, Sam's outside and Dean needs to be paying attention in case he needs backup, but he can't pull away, can't make his fingers stop twisting hard in JD's hair. He listens with one ear for Sam even as he's swallowing JD's groan, pulling their bodies tight together and rubbing and grabbing and licking and tasting, sucking hard and desperate on any patch of skin he can get his mouth on. Zero to sixty in no time at all; JD's strong and solid and clearly just as hungry as Dean is, and there's an ache behind Dean's balls that raises the hair on his neck, makes his mouth water. "Fuck, fuck," JD's breathing, and Dean thinks they're probably throwing enough sparks to light the bones without any need for a match. It's been so long, too damn long, and he can taste copper in his mouth and he doesn't know if it's his blood or JD's, and really, who the fuck cares. The scrape of a boot-sole on the stone floor; a muffled grunt as Dean backs JD against the wall, thrusting against him, teeth on stubbled skin, salt and man in his mouth; there's no time for this and everything's quiet outside and it feels so fucking good--

He's thisclose to hitting his knees, when he hears quick footsteps. "Dean! Dean, are you okay?" Sam's voice, still low, but urgent. "What's going on in there?"

Dean shoves JD away, stumbling back a little himself, and wipes his hand over his mouth, trying to calm his breathing. "Just making sure everything's ready, Sammy," he says. "You take care of the guard?" and he can see JD's eyes glint before he turns away as Sam slips back into the enclosed space with them, the tension in the air shuddering and breaking like a soap bubble in the face of Sam's flashlight.

"It was just some kids," Sam answers, pouring gasoline over the bones. "Pretty easy to get rid of."

It takes Dean three tries to get the rags lit, but he doesn't think Sam notices.

***

Same shit, different day, except this time you have a face and brown eyes to go along with the mouth in your dream, and Dean's wearing a 'beater while he leans against the wall and frowns at the TV. Today's talking heads are different--Sam must have picked a different channel--but they wear the same professionally concerned/personally avid expressions as they describe the latest unexplained deaths among Savannah's social elite. "This tragedy takes place while the Barrow family is still reeling from the sudden deaths of three of its members only a day earlier." Captioned head shots, each face unremarkably self-satisfied, flash on the screen. "Detective Williams of the SPD says no link has been found between the deaths, but they are pursuing all avenues of investigation."

Sam shuts the TV off. "Not all of them," he mutters.

You snort. "Well, you boys took care of that real good, didn't you?" It's a nasty crack and you know it, even before Dean pins you with a glare. "Sorry," you offer, but hell, you could tell last night went too easy, and these guys should have known it too. On the other hand, wasn't like you'd had any better suggestions at the time.

You haven't got a lot now, either, but between the three of you, you're sure you've pretty much covered everything that's available online, which leaves the stuff that never makes it online. "I think it's time for us to see if we can sweet-talk that security team into letting us have tea and cookies with Miss Evelyn again."

You didn't expect an argument from Sam; he hadn't wanted to leave the first time. Dean looks sour, mostly because it was your suggestion, but he keeps his mouth shut until he's actually parking the Impala on the street by the modest house Sam had directed them to.

"Not good," Dean mutters, waving at the cars lining the street. "It's a weekday morning; people should be at work or school."

Sam leads the way up the walk anyhow, but you're not surprised, none of you are, when the minister answers the door and keeps him on the outside of it. "I don't know what you wanted with Miss Evie," he says soberly, looking past Sam to include you and Dean, "but she's gone now, and I suggest you leave her family and friends in peace."

Sam, with his earnest face, gets a few more sentences out of him before you nod and head back to the car. "Passed in her sleep," the man says. "Peaceful, from the look of her, and gone to her reward, but that doesn't mean she won't be missed."

"In her sleep," Sam's saying bitterly as he sags into his seat. "Dammit."

"This wasn't your fault," Dean tells him, sounding like he's said the words more times than he'd like. "She was old, Sam. This might not have anything to do with any of the rest of it."

"She was old. She wasn't sick," Sam says. "No, this... it's the same thing, I know it is. She was related--the little girls from St. Ann's, they were family. And really, Dean, even if this isn't the same thing, three more people died last night and that is."

"Burning the bones should have worked, if it was just a ghost," you say. "Which means, this is more than a ghost." You're putting it together as you say the words, little things fitting together, and you think you should have seen it sooner. "What they called. Maybe it started out that way, but they've been feeding it for generations."

Sam's right behind you--or maybe in front. "Every time they gave it another kid, it got stronger. And not just any kid, but flesh of its flesh..."

Dean nods. "The whole ceremony they were going through at the warehouse, it was a binding spell, or it was supposed to be."

"So they kept it bound," Sam says. "Whatever it is, every time before, they called it, it got its sacrifice and that was that. But this time..."

"This time, they sent in the second string without enough practice time," Dean says, finishing the thought. "They were the first course and now whatever Josiah's turned into is out on the town."

"Raising hell," you say. The three of you stare at each other, and then Dean starts the car.

"Okay, so we stop it. Now, before it goes after any more kids or old ladies or ladies who lunch," he says.

Sam rubs his eyes and says, "Exorcism?"

"On what?" you ask. "Whatever Josiah's become, he could be anywhere, and this might not be LA," you hesitate a split second, "but it's still a damn big city."

"So we make him an offer he can't refuse," Dean says, shrugging. "Summon him ourselves, then slap a binding spell on him and toss his ass back to where it came from."

You doubt it's going to be that simple, but there's not much else you can think of, so you shrug back and listen as Sam starts throwing out possibilities.

***

Part 3