Chapter 1: The E Mail
Author: Maimat the Rat
Title: End of Cares
Rating: T
Warnings: language
Spoilers: First Season
Characters: Dean, Sam. Gen
Chapter one
Dean felt drained. He couldn't tell Sam this, because Sam would get all worried and think it had to do with the heart attack and almost dying incident, which was so totally done and over. Or worse yet, Sam might think it had to do with any number of other things that it wasn't about, and start asking a bunch of idiotic questions that would undoubtedly piss Dean off.
Life with Dad was never this complicated. They were a team; Dad knew more about hunting, and Dean was happy to follow. Hunting with Dad was uncomplicated; they found a job, they did the job, they moved on. There was no buying of costumes, no endless hours of research. Dad never got on his back for using fake credit cards. Dad never made him eat at restaurants where you have to sit down and wait for someone to come serve you. Dad never made Dean talk about things he didn't want to talk about. Dean missed his Dad, and wow did he ever feel like a whiney little pussy right now.
Truthfully, most of the time Dean was ecstatic to be working with Sam again, though he'd never tell him that. But, the waiting… oh my god, the waiting; the not doing anything, the boredom, it drove him nuts. There was never, ever anything to do while his little brother did research on the net, on Dean's laptop. Dean knew the whole you're in my space and using my stuff thing was for teenagers but he couldn't shake it, and it made him feel like shit because Sam didn't have anything that wasn't Dean's because all of Sam's stuff got destroyed in the fire.
All this emo-woe-is-me-crap was stupid, and Dean didn't want to be thinking it, but while on that lovely train of thought, saying goodbye to Cassie was making his mood absolutely miserable. For the record, yes, he did notice that she said good-bye rather than see you later.
The waitress walked past their table again, and Miss Can't-remember-how-to-do-my-freaking-job kept forgetting to bring him his damn cup of coffee! She greeted other customers in her weird-ass-yuppy-too-happy-to-be-human way while Dean glared at her and he bit angrily into his sandwich, satisfied that at least she'd gotten that right.
Something wet and slimy oozed from the bread onto the bottom of his chin. Not thinking anything of it, Dean reached up to swipe it off, casually glancing at it. Just as he was about to flick it away, Dean did a double take and froze.
It didn't look like any vegetable he'd ever seen (not that Dean was all that familiar with vegetables as a food group). It was stringy, pale, somewhat bloated, and had a bulbous green head at one end. The unswallowed bit rolled around in his mouth; Dean's stomach suddenly lurched, his cheeks puffed, and grabbing a napkin he spat out the partially chewed food and grimaced.
Catastrophe averted, Dean drew back to glare at his sandwich. "What the…?" More of the wet, bloated, slimy wormlike weeds hung precariously over the sides of the bread.
Curiously, he lifted the top slice of bread and frowned; the inner workings of what should have been a BLT looked foreign and … ohmygowhatisthatthing? The lettuce and tomato were familiar, but the weedy, wormy stringy things… "Oh, you have got to be kidding me…"
The prospect of what he'd nearly digested made his stomach roll again, and muttering a colourful epithet, he buried his face in his hands. Just when he didn't think this day could be worse. First, no coffee. And now, the food; it sucked out loud! The 'B' in a BLT was supposed to stand for bacon, how was Dean supposed to know here it meant bean sprouts?
Dean glowered at the offending weeds, and noticed that none of his justified theatrics elicited a single comment or retort from Sam. Dammit, this was Sam's choice of restaurant, and so it was only fair that he share Dean's pain.
Sam continued staring obliviously at the laptop and tapping on the keys, paying no attention whatsoever to his brother's plight. Look at me Sam! Dean's internal mantra shouted, I'm pissed and it's All. Your. Fault!
When that didn't work, Dean shoved his plate aside, reached across the table and grabbed the laptop. "Give me that damn thing." And now it was Dean's turn to be the ignore-er. He locked his eyes on the screen; pointedly not looking at Sam and not wanting to see the baffled bitch face his brother was undoubtedly sending his way.
The browser window was open to a site called hellhoundslair, which made Dean snort before closing it and checking his e-mail.
Spam...Spam...
Some chick he met in Oregon who he barely remembered sending him a link to her myspace profile, whatever that was; probably some MLM thing.
Spam... or wait. The address he didn't recognize, but the subject heading read, "37.92", and wasn't that damn interesting. More than a little curious he opened the document, half expecting it to be nothing more than a coincidence. Half expecting to find another advertisement for male organ enhancement (maybe he could forward it to Sammy), or a plea to set up a money transfer for a rich king in Transylvania. The other half didn't know what to expect.
No, the contents of the mystery email contained an address and four names.
792 Hamilton Avenue
Muriel Thompson
Christopher Thompson
Doug Jackson
Spencer Layton
No state or city or anything more specific. Dean copied the first name, googled, and waited. He scrolled through the anniversary announcement, the awards recipient, and stopped on the Arkansas Free Press news bulletin. It read…
Missing, August 4th 2002. Muriel Thompson and her son Christopher, disappeared under suspicious circumstances from their residence at 792 Hamilton Avenue, Little Rock Arkansas.
Dean skimmed the rest of the article and found a similar result after searching the third name on the list. This one reading…
Doug Jackson, Employee of Dirk's Plumbing, Missing since October 15th 2005, last seen at 792 Hamilton Avenue, Little Rock Arkansas.
And so too went the last name on the list…
Spencer Layton, missing since March 20th from the house of his nephew in Little Rock Arkansas.
"Huh" Dean said thoughtfully. Mulling over what he'd read, his tongue played idly with one of the stringy, somewhat forgotten sprouts that had snagged between his molars. With a little more digging Dean was sure he'd discover Spencer's nephew lived at 792 Hamilton Avenue, Little Rock Arkansas.
"Hey Sam, I think I found us a new job." Dean waited, but Sam didn't ask. Dean shrugged, and continued reading.
He drank the remainder of Sam's cup and the fact that it didn't taste like dirty water flavoured with hazelnut syrup, only pissed him off all the more that his own cup never arrived. Sam oddly enough, said nothing. Just as he said nothing when Dean had nearly spewed his lunch, and just as he said nothing when Dean had taken the laptop. Not a word. Dean got up and walked out to the car, leaving Sam with the bill.
A few minutes later, a still brooding Sam quietly slipped into the passenger seat of the Impala, folding up the receipt and stuffing it in his wallet. Sam didn't even look in Dean's direction.
Dean shoved one finger into his mouth, digging for yet another bean sprout hanging on tenaciously between his teeth.
"Dean, what are you… Gross man, get a toothpick or something."
"We've got to find a restaurant with decent food. Dude, did you know they put friggin' weeds on my sandwich? WEEDS!"
"It's not my fault you ordered from the vegetarian menu."
"It's your fault we ate at the kind of place even offers a vegetarian menu. There should be warning labels or something."
"Whatever."
"Whatever." Dean echoed around the still inserted finger. "Ah hah!" he roared in triumph and removed the digit. "Gotcha. See? A weed!"
"Ugh." Sam turned his head away from Dean's proffered hand, eyes slammed shut. "Dude, it's a bean sprout, not a weed."
"Unnatural is what it is. 'Bout made me hurl."
"Shut up."
"You shut up."
"You started it, you shut up."
"Dude, you're acting like a two year old." Dean suddenly grinned. "Just go ahead and ask me about the job I found. I know you wanna."
Sam cleared his throat, stared out the windshield a full two minutes, blatantly ignoring Dean's stare. He broke down eventually, just like Dean knew he would. "What did you find?" It sounded more like a forced statement than a question, but they both knew Dean won this round, and to Dean that was what mattered.
"I found us a job. Little Rock, Arkansas. Four people missing over the past four years, all from one house." The Impala roared to life as Dean turned the key but he watched for Sam's reaction, saw none and continued. "Want to ask how I found it?"
"How did you find it?" Sam ground out robotically.
"Wow." Dean responded with wide-eyed sarcasm. "Don't trip on your enthusiasm or anything. An email. An anonymous email."
"From who?" Sam asked before he could stop himself.
"Whom."
Sam's face got all scrunchy looking and Dean smirked; some days pushing Sam's buttons were just too easy, but that didn't stop it from being fun. Sam continued. "What makes you think we should trust an anonymous email? What was the address? Why would someone be sending us information on a job by email anyway? Who has your email? What did it say?"
"Right. So, anyway, I didn't recognise the address, don't know who it is. But, the subject heading was coordinates, and you and I both know what that means. There were three names and an address, and if the information checks out, which it does by the way."
"How do you know we can trust it?"
"Well honestly that thought didn't occur to me." Dean said sarcastically, rolled his eyes and sighed. "It could be from Dad, Sam."
"Does Dad even know how to use e-mail?"
"Even if it isn't him, what does it matter? We're the ones doing the research. There is a house in Arkansas eating people. Eating. People."
"And we're going." Sam already knew the answer.
Smiling his smuggest smile, Dean nodded as he turned out of the parking lot, "We're going."
-0-0-0-0-0-
From Cape Girardeau, Missouri to Little Rock, Arkansas, a two hundred and ninety mile trip that took the boys about four hours. After a stop along the way to grab some real food, they arrived at their destination around six pm, which left plenty of time to eat supper and for Dean to find a bar and hustle some much needed cash.
And then ...
Dean pulled the covers over his head to hide from a very awake and perky Sam.
"You know, Dean, if you didn't stay out all night at the bar, it wouldn't be so hard getting up in the morning."
"If it were actually morning and not the freaking crack of dawn, it wouldn't be so hard to wake up."
"Shut up, and listen." Sam opened the laptop and connected to the net through an unsecured wireless connection. "The anonymous email you got, I looked up the profile. Apparently your tip came from a two hundred eighty-seven year old zombie monk who lives in the Himalayas, and likes to eat cheetos."
"I don't know anyone in the Himalayas." Dean deadpanned. "And what are you doing reading my emails?"
"Dean, this is important. It could be anyone."
"It could be Dad, or it could be the Easter Bunny. I don't care. The people who are missing are real, and we might be the only ones capable of finding them." Was that coffee Dean smelt? He peeked out from under the covers and saw two cups of gas station coffee sitting invitingly on the table next to the laptop. Dean rolled over and stuck an arm out, waving his fingers in a not so subtle pass it here kind of way. The plea was ignored, forcing Dean to roll out of bed to pick it up on his own.
"Okay, you're right, but there's still some stuff we need to figure out and the library doesn't open till one." He turned to look at his brother and frowned. "Wow. Nice shiner, you okay?"
"Peachy." Dean groaned and probed the swollen area around his eye. His knuckles weren't in much better condition. "We're up three hundred dollars."
"You're sure you're okay?"
Dean ignored that and stared dumbfounded at the clock on the nightstand. "Sam." Did that sound like a whine? Dean cleared his throat and tried again. "Sam. If we don't have to be anywhere by one, why are you waking me up at seven?"
"Church starts at nine. The Layton's are a pastoral couple; this is their week to lead worship." Sam briefly turned the laptop for Dean to see some kind of evidence of this, which he didn't see because Sam turned it away just as Dean's eyes focused on the screen. "The house will be empty for at least three hours."
"What did you find last night?" And it had better be good, because Dean did not do early unless there was a damn good reason.
"Muriel and her son Christopher disappeared in 2002. There was a lengthy investigation but no charges were laid. They're still missing, but the police are treating it as a homicide. Apparently there was evidence of a struggle, and enough blood to launch a murder investigation. Uhm, the other two are just gone, vanished into thin air. The first guy was a plumber, and he left his truck and tools behind. The second guy, the uncle, was apparently visiting and having a beer. He went to the bathroom and never came back. Not your typical abduction scenario."
"So you agree with me now? This is something for us to check out."
"I didn't disagree. It's just the source that's bugging me, you know?"
"No I don't." Dean finished the coffee and got up. "How about the house? Any history on that?"
"It was built in 1986, nothing happened there until 2001. I don't think it's the house Dean. They never found what took the Thompsons."
"Then whatever it is, I'm just looking forward to killing it. Give me ten minutes and we'll go get breakfast."
Less than an hour later, the Impala rumbled through the community, and pulled up to 792 Hamilton Avenue and rolled to a stop.
The house was nothing unusual; two stories, nicely maintained, and painted a cheerful yellow colour, complete with a wrap around porch and kids toys in the yard. Dean sat in the Impala for a moment, simply looking at it.
"Doesn't look like the typical people-eating-evil-house, does it?"
"At the risk of sounding like a broken record; I don't think it's the house."
Dean smirked. "No, but it might be fun if it was..."