Title: Curse
Author: fairytalemanipulator
Summary: A guilt-driven Dean tries to solve a murder- however, complications abound as one by one, the family is killed. The lone survivor? A ten year old girl.
Spoilers: Stuff up to "Provenance"—wasn't that a great episode?
Disclaimer: Ah, don't we all wish the Winchesters belonged to us…what fun we would have together. Sorry, but I don't own them. Aw, man.
A/N: Sorry for the crappy summary. Stick with me on this one, I have a feeling about this.
And if you don't review, you don't get hugs from me. –sticks out tongue-
Sam flopped face-first onto the bed, letting out a cry of pain as his forehead collided with the headboard.
"Ow!" Sam rolled over, gingerly making sure his skull was still intact. He ignored his brother's loud guffaws at the youngest Winchester' misfortune. Dean hefted his bag through the door, shutting it with his foot as he entered the room.
"Graceful, bro. No wonder you look like a ballerina,"
Sam didn't give Dean the satisfaction of a response, preferring instead to close his eyes and wish away the dirt and grime covering his body.
They had spent an entire day in a cemetery digging up unmarked grave after unmarked grave, trying to find the correct bones to burn. Twelve straight hours. Every muscle was sore. Dean's EMF wouldn't work right—"Sammy, I told you not to touch it!"—Sam accidentally set grass on fire—"Dude, if I had known you were a pyro, I wouldn't have told you to burn the shit!—altogether, the entire thing was a fiasco. Sam was grateful to be lying down, although he knew the soot from his body was dirtying the (semi) clean sheets.
"I'll be out in a minute," Dean called as he breezed through the bathroom door into the miniscule, broken-tiled room. Nice, Sam thought to himself. He drifted off to his so-called "happy place" as the sound of the shower filtered through the walls.
…………………………..
Sam awoke to the clicking sound of keys on Dean's laptop. The light from the computer made his brother's face a sickly hue of white, and Sam rolled over to stare at the clock.
"You've been out for a couple hours," Dean commented without lifting his eyes from the screen. He squinted at something he was looking at before clicking the mouse and shaking his head. "Dumbasses think they know everything about hunting ghosts from Ghostbusters reruns…"
Sam grunted in assent before swinging his tired legs around and stumbling to his feet. Disoriented, Sam headed towards the bathroom to wash his face. Blearily, he chanced a look in the mirror and swore that he could have passed as a demon. He tried the best he could to clean himself up before going back into the main room.
"Aren't you gonna take a shower, Stinky?" Dean wrinkled his nose to convey his point, still typing away.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking for our next job, what do you think? I'm looking for porn?"
Sam ignored the last highly plausible statement coming from Dean's dirty mouth. "Dean, we just finished a gig. Like, five hours ago. Can't we take a break or something?"
Dean's mouth tightened imperceptibly. He had seen this coming. "Evil doesn't take a break, Sammy,"
"It's Sam. And you sound like one of those witches," Sam groused. Dean lifted his eyes, puzzled.
"What witches?" He took a quick glance around the room to make sure said witches weren't flying out of the peeling and very crappy wallpaper.
"You know, on that show? Three witches?"
"You mean like that Shakespeare play?"
"What? No. Never mind,"
They lapsed into a sour silence, punctuated by pissed-off sounding keystrokes.
"Any nightmares?" Dean asked gruffly, not knowing if he wanted an answer.
Sam ran his hands through his hair, standing abruptly.
"I don't think so,"
"Good," Dean unconsciously lapsed into protective-big-brother mode, a stance he was quite experienced with. A less tense silence enveloped the brothers as Sam changed his clothes, exchanging the grimy jeans and shirt for a clean outfit.
Dean shut the laptop with a snap, causing Sam to jump. "I'm gonna go get food, stay here," he said brusquely, grabbing the keys from their position next to the computer. Dean switched on a bedside lamp, illuminating his brother's face in its dim yellow glow. Sam smarted at the order. "You don't have to boss me around, dude,"
"It's my job. I'm the big brother. That automatically gives me that right," Dean stared Sam down.
"Whatever," Sam sat down on the bed, grabbing the tv remote.
Dean looked at him for a moment before exiting, quietly shutting the door behind him. He wrapped his jacket tighter around himself as the cold wind stroked its icy fingers down his body. Shivering at the shock, Dean slid quickly into the driver's seat, fumbling the keys into his ignition. Sure, he would go get food, but first he needed a moment to himself.
Since they left Sara behind, Sam had been alternatively broody and gloomy. His moods were all over the place, and Dean never knew what to expect. He didn't dare tease Sam about PMS, because his brother was liable to pop him in the nose. And I need this beautiful face to keep the ladies comin'.
Dean hated the fact that their job required constant travel, but he had resigned himself to that years ago. Sam, on the other hand, had always liked to rebel.
Sam was right about one thing. We need a break. Too bad we won't get one anytime soon. The brothers Winchester had something in common. The thing that kept them both going was guilt. For Sam, it was Jess, and Mary, and God knows what else he blames himself for. And Dean—well, Dean's guilt mostly fixated over Sam and Dad, in alternating patterns. But this time, his guilt had a life of its own.
He had seen an article online about a recent murder in Salt Lake City. A man died in his home a few days ago; according to the article, there was no evidence of foul play, but there were also no explanations. Basically a dead end. According to the coroner, the only reason the guy was dead was because he lost pints of blood.
Other than that, healthy as a horse.
There weren't even exit points for the blood to come out of; he was just a bloody mess.
Dean chuckled at his crude humor. It really wasn't funny, though. His smile dimmed as he thought of the reason he justknew this was supernaturally related. Because this happened before. Same city. Dean was shaken, because he knew this had happened before. That time, however, it had been a young woman living alone, a woman by the name of CeeCee Durham. And now this man.
Dean had never even gotten around to researchingthe lady'sdeath, because other events had come up.
And of course, he blamed himself for not solving that case, and running off on a more important hunt. He had believed that there was a chance that thedeath of CeeCee Durham was notsomethingrelated to his line of work.
Therefore, in an indirect way, he was responsible for this man's death.
He grimaced, hands tightening on the steering wheel, at the memory of the rest of the article. Jim Buchanan leaves behind a wife and daughter. The man was a father.
Dean also remembered the last phrase of the news article. The sole witness to the death was the ten year old daughter. No other information was given; Dean assumed it was to protect her privacy.
Poor kid's gonna be messed up for life. But Dean had sensed an opportunity; the girl could help them figure out what killed her father. And put an end to all this. So hopefully, it wouldn't happen again.
Satisfied with his plan of action, Dean started the engine. He planned to head down to the seediest bar to catch the local gossip about the most recent murder. After all, this town's what—seventy miles from Salt Lake City? Bars are always the best place for gossip.
"Looks like Sammy's not getting his break after all," Dean muttered to himself as he sped down the road. He tried to ignore the chill that slowly crept up his spine; a chill that made him shiver violently. It was one of those chills, as Sam called it. One of those chills that said this job would be anything but ordinary.
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