Title: Canonized Bones
Author: Mad Server
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, peripheral OCs
Word Count: 1600
Summary: Sam and Dean track a ghost in Roswell, right after "Home." Dean's having a crummy time. Wobbly!headachy!bleeding!overmedicated!bruised!Dean, comforty!Sam.
A/N: This is a remix of PADavis' yummy fic "Land of Enchantment." If this fic leaves you scratching your head at all, reading hers might clear things up. Huge thank yous and crazy mad smishes to Enkidu07 and pdragon76 for the smart, gentle, thorough betas, and to Janissa11 just because. Also please check out Soncnica's fic "There Is No Mathematics," Enkidu07's "Ninety-nine in the shade," and PADavis' "In Good Company," all Needy Dean remixes and all going up today.
Disclaimer: They're really really not mine.
Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell
Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death,
Have burst their cerements...
-Hamlet to his father's ghost
"Mount Rushmore."
"Nope."
"Grand Canyon."
"Better."
"Marineland..." Sam chokes on the word. He grasps his bruised windpipe, coughing. The discarded compress makes a sloshing sound from beside him in the sheets.
Dean checks the ice bucket. Nothing's left but a puddle. He takes it and gets up from the table. "Roswell, Sam. Home of the aliens." With his free hand he settles the laptop across Sam's thighs and taps the Weekly World News article on the Roswell Processing Factory.
Sam's grimace deepens. He squints through teary-looking eyes.
"Or do you want to stay in Lawrence forever?" Pail in tow, Dean pushes out into the early April sun.
---
While he's waiting for Sam to say his goodbyes Dean finally spots the cement border between the replacement bricks, from after the fire, and the originals from when the Winchesters lived there. The colors are almost identical. He thumbs his Adam's apple.
Sam falls into a medicated doze as soon as they merge onto the highway. His throat's starting to show red marks. Later they'll be green.
Twenty miles down the interstate Dean gets his first deep breath in three days.
---
They roll into Wichita with the sun low in the sky. It's not far enough, but Dean's just had a near-miss with the Toyota in his blind spot and Dean doesn't do things like that.
Sam blinks at him across the diner table, face puffy, hair just this side of mad scientist. There's yogurt in front of him and a plain hot dog in front of Dean.
"We did something good back there." Sam's voice is rough.
"That family's safe." Stomach burning, Dean eyes his food. He imagines two more scenarios that might explain Dad's absence."Course, Mom's gone."
"We don't know that."
"Well, she sure isn't here."
A man with a book glances their way. Dean stares him down.
"Whatever she did, it was her choice." Sam's eyes are glazed but earnest, determined. "It wasn't our fault."
Dean wants to punch something. Instead he blows his nose.
---
It's not even midnight but the yellow line down the centre of the highway is rippling like a snake and Dean's got an uncanny feeling it's about to say something to him that he doesn't want to hear. He pulls over and gives Sam's shoulder a shake.
Sam groans, snuffles and touches his eyelid. "Summanuh?"
"You good to drive?"
Sam raises his head from the seat back and squints at Dean. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces them wide, rubs them experimentally.
"How many fingers?" Dean's waving three in front of him.
"Nope. Gimme a couple hours."
"You've been asleep for eight."
"Don't be a dick." Sam's eyes are already sliding closed.
Dean climbs into the backseat and pulls his jacket tight. His face is hot and his legs are jittering from the caffeine pills. He watches dirt specks on the floor dance impossibly around each other in the stale air.
---
After an hour Dean feels more clear-headed. He takes the wheel. Sam's still dead to the world. Side One of Ride the Lightning is just finishing when a bar looms up in the high beams.
Dean checks the clock. There's plenty of time before last call.
Sam staggers into the tavern as Dean's finishing his third beer. His face is white in the cafeteria lighting. Dean raises a hand and watches Sam spot him.
"Hey. Where are we?"
"Texas. Give or take."
Sam nods, absorbing this. Dean motions to the guy across the table.
"Ben here used to work at a factory in Roswell." Dean pops an antacid and raises his eyebrows significantly at Sam.
"Huh." Sam drops into the chair beside Dean's and takes a sip of his pint. "Small world."
"Ben was just gonna tell me about all the weird stuff that used to happen there."
"Like I was sayin', I had this buddy. One day he got his shirt stuck in the conveyor belt. Thing is, this fella was always dressed real neat." The man does a shot and plunks his glass on the sticky table between them. "Knew another guy who got a meat hook in the eye. Thing just started swingin' around all by itself. It was the damndest thing."
"Really." Dean and Sam trade looks.
"Aw, don't listen to this old drunk." A smaller man comes up beside the first, slings a loose arm around his shoulders. "All that happened there was the usual accidents. Factories are dangerous. Period."
The bigger man stiffens, goes red in the face.
"But people did get hurt," Sam coaxes.
"Sure," the newcomer grins. "Lotta people lost a finger... sometimes even a hand or an arm. There was nothing weird about it, though. This one thinks it's got somethin' to do with ghosts."
The big man clambers up and shakes off the other's embrace. "Bill McConnell, you're no friend of mine." He slaps down a bill. They watch him barrel out.
"He lost a pal in there," the worker confides. "Few years ago now. He still takes it hard."
"And you think he should take it easy?" Dean watches him squirm.
"I love that guy like a brother."
Dean gets to his feet. "You've got a funny way of showing it."
"Hey, hey, time to go." Sam's manhandling him toward the door. The stranger's small enough that Dean lets him.
---
"Do you believe in aliens?"
The waitress smiles indulgently. "I sure don't see why not."
"Ever seen one?"
She shrugs. "Not yet, but you never know."
Dean eyes the bulbous alien head on her apron. "Do you have to say that 'cause you work here?"
Her smile falters. The pad and pen come up. "Did y'all want coffee?"
---
Dean stands beside the Impala, gazing up at the inflatable grey flying saucer.
"It's great, Dean." Sam's husky voice drifts out the window. "Can we go now? I have to pee."
"Come on. Where's your sense of culture?"
"Mornin'," somebody calls. Dean turns and sees a man in a suit striding across the lot toward him, jacket flapping in the breeze.
"Hi."
"She's a beaut, huh?"
Dean follows his gaze back up to the UFO. "She is that."
"So, let me guess." The man brings a divining hand to his own forehead, raises the other in a circular motion. He opens his eyes, winks. "You're looking for a trade-in?"
Dean stares. "Don't listen, baby."
---
After the Roswell Processing Factory tries to kill Dean, he lets Sam pick a motel and check them in. While Sam's in the office Dean shivers in the car and tries to will the world into silence.
There are pills and bandages and a big warm bed. Dean curls up and watches Sam cut up a pillowcase for hex bags. The white of the material hurts his eyes.
"Not like that," he murmurs after a minute. He hobbles to stand beside Sam's chair. "Crossroads dirt first."
Sam doesn't watch his demonstration, just frowns up at him. "You look sick."
"You can't get rid of me that easily."
---
The Roswell Public Library smells like freshly vacuumed carpet. It tells them all about Victor the butcher and his cheating wife. They look at pictures of the wife's lover and read how Victor died in the slaughterhouse by her hand.
Just before closing at nine o'clock, it reveals where Victor's buried.
---
"Goddamn ghost."
Dean's hunched forward in the passenger seat, palm pressed to his forehead. His calves are wet and chilly. He's losing more blood from the slashes on his legs where Victor tried to take off his feet at the factory that afternoon.
"Hey. Dean."
"I'm good."
Sam huffs. "Yeah, I bet."
Motion stops. The dome light comes on.
"Gimme the shovel." Dean fumbles open his door, teeters up into the dark. He missteps and steadies himself against the car.
"You're not digging."
"I'm here. Might as well make myself useful."
A hand's on his shoulder. Sam's close in front of him, brows furrowed in the moonlight, breath fogging.
"You don't have to be useful. I'm serious. You look like crap."
Dean dredges up a leer. "Crap never looked so good."
---
Victor goes up in flames.
From the stories about the factory though, they're thinking Victor might not have been the only source of weirdness in there. Maybe there's also a poltergeist. So now they're back at the factory and Sam's sprinting around with hex bags. It's all Dean can do to stay upright.
Sure enough, the place comes to life as they work. Machines clank and whirr. Wind picks up out of nowhere. Dean leans against a wall and watches Sam's flashlight beam.
There's a tug on Dean's leg and he goes down hard. He yells. Something's dragging him. Cold chain snakes up his leg and winds around his torso. He shouts again but it's choking him. Then it lifts him and he's dangling upside down, cocooned in metal.
Dean can't breathe. He's going to die.
Then Sam's slapping him.
Mom and Dad are somewhere else. Sam's here. It's just the way it is.
---
The ice packs on his throat are cold. Sam's warm.
Deeply medicated, Dean sniffles into Sam's shirt.
"Roswell, man. Friggin' Roswell." Dean's forehead is numb. He rubs it against Sam's ribs. "They were supposed to understand about believing stuff even when nobody does and big guys who lie and go away and the truth, Sammy." He twitches. "Watching each other's backs. Sticking together. If Roswell doesn't get it... if Roswell doesn't get it...."
"You're OK." Sam's palm trails a streak of heat in slow circles. Dean can't keep his eyes open. He hears himself sigh. "I'm not going anywhere."
---
end