This is a missing scene from Ghostfacers. It came to me over the weekend. Thanks to geminigrl11 as always.
Reviews welcomed.
SNSNSNSN
Our Grand Canyon
February 28th, 4:00 PM
"Sam?"
"Sammy?"
Sam kept on reading. This was interesting. Seems a man made a deal with a demon in the 14th Century and--
"SAM!" His name was punctuated by a book slamming down onto the table next to the laptop.
"What?!" Sam yelled, almost jumping out of his skin. He raised his eyes to find Dean glaring down at him. The glare turned to a wheedling smile as Dean dropped into the chair beside him.
"I want to go out tonight."
Sam blinked for a moment, not comprehending. Dean didn't need his permission to go out drinking and womanizing. To be honest, Sam would be glad to have his brother out of his hair for a few hours, since he still had four more demonology books to read through--
He halted that line of thinking, appalled with himself. Did he seriously just think that he wanted Dean gone? His brother's deal was coming due in two months. Two short months. Sam should be cherishing every last second he could have--
No, I'm getting him out of this. I swore--
"Yo, Sammy! I said I want to go out tonight," Dean repeated, pulling Sam from the thoughts that were chasing there way around his brain like wild dogs.
"Um…okay. I guess," Sam stammered. Great. Real eloquent.
Dean matched his frown, quirking an impatient eyebrow. "No, genius. I want us to go out tonight. Hunting."
That took Sam by surprise. Of course, he wasn't really keeping pace with this conversation, his brain still caught up in what he'd been reading. "Hunting?"
His brother's frown deepened, and he waved a hand in front of Sam's face. "Hunt-ing. Yes, hunting! Are you okay, Sammy?"
"Hunting what? Where?"
Dean's grin returned, and he held up computer print-outs. "About an hour from here. The Morton House."
Sam stared at the pages blankly for a long moment, before his brain finally stopped trying to process the details of a medieval demon deal and finally caught up with what Dean was saying.
"The Morton House? Why?"
Dean rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Dude! It's the Morton House. It's like, the most haunted house in America! We've got to go there!"
"And," Sam began slowly, the correct facts clicking into place at last, "We have to go tonight…because it's a leap year and this is the only time the ghosts are supposed to appear."
"Exactly!" Dean seemed pleased. "Now you're getting it."
A leap year. February 29th. All realizing the date did for Sam was drive home three words. Two months left. Eight short weeks, and Sam was no closer to breaking Dean's deal than he'd been ten months ago.
He tried to put his distracted thoughts together, needing to talk Dean out of this. They didn't have the time to spare. "Dean, that place is-- I mean, the Morton House? On February 29th? That place is incredibly dangerous, man. We could get ourselves killed."
Any other time--any fucking other time--Sam would have realized that he was saying that to exactly the wrong person. He caught himself too late, the words already tumbling out, and he got the response he should have anticipated. Dean's eyes and grin got even brighter.
"I know! It'll be awesome! A leap-year haunting that's killed a bunch of people? The Winchester boys going in there and hunting that thing down? What a legacy to leave behind, Sammy!"
Leave behind. Sam's eyes flicked back briefly to the demonology books. He tried very hard not to think of what else Dean was leaving behind.
Dean, for his part, seemed to realize he'd taken a wrong turn, and his excitement visibly faltered for a moment before the mask slipped back in place. He covered it up quickly by moving to his duffel and pulling out papers. "I've already got the info printed out. I've been working on this all week!"
All week? Suddenly, all the strange choices Dean had been making the past two days--the choice of direction as they left Bobby's, where no demons or deaths were evident, the very peculiar detour yesterday that led them to this motel, so close to the Morton House--made sense.
"I—I don't know, Dean…."
His brother's face fell a little, and he moved from the bed and dropped so that he was sitting on his haunches in front of Sam, fist nudging Sam's knee lightly. It was as close to begging as Dean ever got. His voice softened, imploring. "Sammy, please, man. Dad never wanted to go, no matter how many times I asked. We need to do it, bro. This is our Grand Canyon."
Sam's thoughts drifted back to River Grove, and that conversation beside Crater Lake. That's when Sam got it. For the first time, Dean's expression really registered: it was the same one that Dean had worn when asking to celebrate Christmas two months before. This was something on Dean's list. His list of Things to Do Before I Die.
The Morton House haunting only occurred every leap year. This would be their only chance for the next four years.
And Dean may not have four years….
How could he say no?
Slowly, fighting off every logical and responsible instinct, Sam reached forward, saved the page he'd been reading, and closed the laptop. When he looked back at Dean, the other man's eyes lit up with elation.
"You won't regret this, Sam!"
Sam frowned as he went to pack his bag. I already do.
SNSNSNSN
Two Days Earlier….
"Sam?"
Nothing.
"Sam?"
The boy was picking through a stack of old books, examining the title pages, shuffling through. He was ignoring Bobby completely.
"Sam!"
Startled, the youngest Winchester spun around, confusion--and for a moment, shock--coloring his features. "Bobby?"
Bobby Singer frowned. One of these days, he was going to pin Sam Winchester down and demand to know why every time they ran into each other lately the boy looked as if he was seeing a ghost. He set it aside the moment though; he had more pressing matters that morning.
"Sam, didn't you hear me calling you? Breakfast is ready."
Sam's face pinched, as if he'd forgotten that any such concept as breakfast even existed. He turned back to the stack of books and started rummaging again. "Okay."
Irritation flared as he stepped across the room and stood over Sam's hunched back. Bobby hadn't slept but an hour the night before and Dean had made matters worse by rising early for once, and proceeding to play with Rumsfeld all morning. The mutt's constant barking had been driving Bobby crazy. "Hey! What do you think this is a diner? You boys talked me into cooking!"
"Be right there," Sam muttered off-handedly, flipping through a tome about the history of demons and demon-hunting. The kid had been scouring every source he could lay his hands on in an effort to save his older brother, and as the year wound down, the search was becoming more and more of an obsession.
Bobby, of course, had been searching too, every source he could find or lead he could follow. He felt obligated. These were John's boys. But Sam was killing himself. Even now, it looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks.
"Sam, you gotta eat. You're running yourself ragged."
"He's got two months left, Bobby. I can't stop now."
This was something else which was getting worse. Sam was going to get sick at this rate, although Bobby certainly understood the boy's behavior. "You can't help him if you run yourself into the ground, kid. The books will still be here after you eat something. You've eaten maybe twice in two days."
Nothing. Sam--maddeningly--moved on to the next stack, reading the titles aloud softly. Forgetting himself for a moment, Bobby reached out and touched Sam's shoulder.
He immediately yanked his hand back when Sam spun on him, the kid's six-foot-four bulk looming dangerously. For the briefest moment, Bobby saw no friendship in those dark eyes. In fact, he saw no emotion at all, except anger. He wasn't easily frightened, but Sam's blank expression sent chills down his back.
Sam had been different ever since the boys had checked out that mystery spot in Florida. Something bad had happened to him, and it was eating him up inside, almost as much as the due date for Dean's deal. Anyone with eyes could see it, and Bobby knew Dean had noticed too. All he'd gotten from Dean was that they'd run into the Trickster--which it seemed they had not killed--and it had apparently put Sam through hell, but the younger man wasn't talking about it. Getting that much from Dean had been hard, since Sam stuck to his brother's side like he was glued there for the first few weeks after they returned, a situation that had only recently changed.
The storm passed as quickly as it appeared, though, and Sam seemed to shrink before Bobby's eyes, blinking away the cold stare and gesturing to the books.
"I'm sorry. I saw something about crossroad deals in one of these books, Bobby, I just need to double check it," Sam said sheepishly, eyes cast downward in what looked like shame.
"Sam," Bobby started carefully. "What's going on with you? You've been acting weird ever since Florida. Talk to me, kid. I might be able to help."
For a second, Bobby thought he'd made some progress. Sam actually looked like he was going to spill whatever was gnawing at him. Until the door opened, that is.
As soon as Dean entered the room, one of the dog's rubber chew toys in hand, Sam clammed up. Bobby glanced back, and noted that Dean's happy expression immediately shifted when he caught sight of them two of them, and instantly registered something wrong with Sam.
"Hey, guys," Dean began, clearly sizing up the situation as he spoke. "What's goin' on?"
Bobby looked back at Sam, who was looking anywhere but at either of them, and was disappointed to see the kid's neutral mask slip back into place. Of all the things he could have learned from his father and brother, he had to learn that. Bobby had noticed that in the months since his death, Sam's similarity to the late John Winchester had grown by leaps and bounds. The pig-headedness was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
Sam motioned to the kitchen and beat a path out of the room, talking quickly over his shoulder.
"Nothing. Breakfast is ready."
SNSNSNSN
February 28th, 9:45 PM
"Sam?"
Nothing.
"Sammy?"
Dean glanced over. Sam was slumped in the passenger seat, flashlight in hand, halfway through some oversized demonology book. He didn't give any outward sign that he had heard anything Dean had been saying during the last thirty minutes.
"Yo, Sam!" Dean said, tapping Sam's arm hard enough for him to almost lose hold of the book. "Earth to Sammy! You listening?"
Sam cast him a bewildered expression. "Huh? What?"
"I guess not."
Sam's frown deepened. Dean rolled his eyes. "I said we're about twenty minutes out from the Morton House."
"Oh," Sam blinked a couple of times before looking back at the book. "Okay."
Dean glanced at him again, raising his eyebrows. "Don't you think you should look over the research I dug up? We're gonna need it."
"I did."
"Yeah? Seems to me all you've done all day is pour over those books you took from Bobby's."
"I looked over everything, Dean," Sam's voice was oddly flat, as it had been prone to being ever since Florida. Dean still hadn't been able to pry much about what the Trickster did from Sam the Clam. It was frustrating to know that something was eating at your brother, but he wouldn't talk about it. Who woulda guessed? Mr. We-Have-to-Talk-About-This refusing to talk!
Sam had been even quieter since Dean had walked in on him and Bobby the other morning. Finding his brother face to face with Bobby and looking to be on the verge of a breakdown had alarmed him, but Sam had fled before he could ask what had happened, and had studiously avoided Dean until it was time to leave. The kid had been so engrossed in his research since then that there'd been no chance to press the issue.
"Yeah, I'll bet," Dean retorted grumpily.
Sam sighed wearily, closing the book. "The missing persons reports go back to 1965. John Graham stayed overnight in the house on a dare and was never heard from again. Julie Wilkerson--"
"All right! All right! You've made your point," Dean groused. Shoulda known better than to challenge that encyclopedic brain of his…. He slowed and pulled off the road, so he could look at his brother closer. "You know, you could show a little more enthusiasm for this."
That got Sam to look his way again. "Dean-- Dean, do you know how dangerous this place is? If we get stuck in there like these others--"
Dean waved him off. "I'm not worried. You've got my back, I know that."
A flash of pain crossed Sam's face, and he looked away to hide it. That was another thing that was common since the incident with that damned Trickster. Dean wasn't sure why, but every time Sam's watching his back came up, Sam flinched and withdrew. He was pretty sure that it something to do with Sam living all those Tuesdays over and over, but Sam never wanted to talk about it except in the broadest possible terms.
Whatever had happened, it had shaken Sam's confidence to the core. And Dean thought Sam was a pessimistic worrier before….
"Hey," Dean tapped Sam's shoulder lightly. "Don't worry about this. It's just a little haunted house. We've been up against a lot worse and made it back every time."
Sam didn't say anything at first, then slowly turned back until he was staring at a point somewhere between the steering wheel and the road. "It's just-- We've got two months left, Dean, and I don't want us getting killed doing something stupid."
Dean considered that for a minute. He'd be lying if he said he didn't feel the clock ticking, too. But Sam had sworn to save him, and he trusted Sam. Sam didn't break his promises, and he could save his brother whether Sam still believed that or not.
"Sammy, I want to do this. This is one of those things, you know?"
One of those things that they'd always talked about, that Dad had never allowed them to do. It was something Dean didn't want to regret not trying.
Sam nodded once, lifting the book and placing it in the back seat. "Okay. We can do this."
Dean didn't miss what the concession cost Sam. "I'll make a deal with you. We'll stay 'til midnight. That's when all the freaky stuff is supposed to start. If nothing happens, or it looks too big for us to handle, we'll back off."
That looked like it made Sam feel a bit better. Dean watched him put his game face on and reach back for the printouts Dean had made. "Okay. Let's see, history of the house…."
Grinning, Dean slapped Sam's shoulder again. "That's my boy!"
Sam laughed shakily, a faint smile forming. Faint, but a smile nonetheless. Dean took it as a victory. He turned the Impala back onto the dark road, put in his Grand Funk Railroad tape and cranked up the radio while Sam rattled off facts about the house. He needed to hear the strains of "We're an American Band" filter through the speakers tonight.
This was what Dean wanted. Whatever was coming in eight weeks, he intended to live it up with his little brother and his baby in the meantime. If the deal went through, and Dean had to spend eternity in Hell, then this was the kind of memory he wanted to cling to: an adventure with Sam, doing all the things they'd talked about as teenagers, and doing them together.
It was what life was all about.