A/N: Hey there! I see you've found your way to my fanfiction, thank you for that, by the way. This was supposed to be a one-shot, I swear it was, but it got out of hand and decided it wanted to be a two-shot. The majority of fluffiness is in the 2nd part, but still, I'm pretty fond of the first. But before we go on,
WARNING: Mild language but nothing you haven't seen from the show.
DISCLAIMER: As much as I'd like to, I don't own the boys, or Supernatural, that honor would go to Eric Kripke.
Set post 1x17 "Hell House" because why not take a trip back to Season one, eh?
Read on, Reader.
Oregon, Route 121
Present Day
A 1967 Chevrolet Impala rumbled steadily down a desolate Oregon highway, the engine giving off a steady purr . The interior of the gleaming black muscle-car was filled with the whining beat of AC/DC "Highway to Hell". The classic rock song played noticeably fainter than it typically would have in respect for the slumbering 22 year old riding shotgun.
Dean smiled at the sight, momentarily taking his hand off the Impala's steering wheel to brush Sam's overlong bangs from his eyes. His little brother was slumped against the window, the collar of his jacket pulled upwards to pillow his head against the cool glass.
They'd found a case in Boring, Oregon and if the barren land on either side of route 121 was anything to go by, the town was certainly going to live up to it's name. From the looks of it, they were dealing with a malevolent spirit, poor sucker died in a sawmill accident back in the early 1900s. Bled out after his arm got cut off by one of the heavy steel blades. His spirit had taken to killing people the same way once a year on the day of his death every year since.
Given that the spirit only lashed out once per every 12 months, that gave them 2 days to torch the late Cavan Debroff's remains before his killing-spree calendar reset itself.
Dean smirked and revved the Impala's engine as they passed a wooden sign sporting golden letters that read 'Welcome to Boring, Oregon!' Sam stirred slightly at the sudden snarl of the engine and blinked bleary hazels at the darkening September sky.
"Nice of you to join us, Princess," Dean quipped.
"Shut up, jerk," Sam grinned, "Where are we?"
"Boring, Oregon, bitch." Sure enough, the place was a spitting image of it's name. Fields surrounded the road much like those on the highway, with a walls of trees at the far side of either meadow, a smattering of rickety buildings being the only sign of civilization within the wooded space.
Dean cut the car's engine and stepped out, his brother close on his heels. Sam rounded the front of the car and caught Dean's gaze.
"You have to be kidding me," He muttered. His brother had his eyes set on a blue-eyed brunette leaning against the wall of a shabby diner with look that was borderline lustful.
Dean shoved an elbow towards an equally dingy motel at the end of the road, "Go get us a room and do some research. I'll see what I can find out about the locals." the second half of the comment was punctuated with a suggestive smile and a telltale eyebrow raise.
Sam snagged the Impala's keys from his older brother and smirked "You sure you and what's-her-name don't want your own room?"
The motel room was a wash of brown. The tables, chairs floor, lamps, just about everything was made from assorted dark woods ,with the walls painted a light two twin beds at either side of the room boasted matching chocolate colored sheets, and between them a mounted moose head hung above the wooden nightstand. The only spots of color in the room were the camo green duffles at the foot of the two beds. The bathroom was stark in contrast, with surprisingly clean white tile and appliances.
Sam pulled his laptop from its leather case, powered it on, and continued to scroll through county burial and cemetery records that he'd found the previous night before he and Dean had left for Oregon. So far, nothing had turned up. A few Debroffs came up in local birth records, along with Cavan himself, and a handful of local newspapers had covered Cavan's gruesome demise, but no place of death or grave seemed to exist at all.
The motel's wifi signal was patchy at best, and it gave out again as Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. A dull ache at the base of his skull was beginning to make itself known, and the light from the laptop screen wasn't providing much help.
He grabbed his cell from the nightstand as it gave off an monotonous blip and held it to his ear.
"You got her number didn't you?"
He could hear the smirk in Dean's voice as he replied, "Her shift ends at 9, I'm so gettin' lucky tonight. You find anything on the bitchy lumberjack?"
"Not really," Sam glanced through the online death records again, "he's in the county birth records and his death's in local papers, but I can't find his grave or exact place of death other than the sawmill. The articles I read are pretty vague."
"Weird," Came the muffled response as a breeze blew through Dean's end of the line, "we have to gank this sucker by tomorrow night, think you can find something by then, geekboy?"
"Yeah, probably. He might of been buried with his family under another name.."
Sam heard a door squeak and the familiar growl of the Impala through the phone, "Well, I'm going to this Shaden girl's house, tell me what you find in the morning."
"Yeah, I will."
The smile in his voice was evident as the call ended and he placed his phone back on the bedside table.
He did another search of the death records for "Debroff" and, after a quick check of birth records, came up with who had to be Cavan's wife, daughter, and two sons. The ache in his skull had morphed into a mild headache, and had become annoyingly close to shifting into the zone of more severe pain. Sam grabbed a bottle of extra-strength Advil and dry-swallowed 2 chalk-colored caplets. He scrubbed a hand over his face as exhaustion won him over, and he slid into his bed with a grateful sigh. Sam figured that he could sleep the headache off if the meds didn't kick in. Clicking the lights off, he closed his laptop and slid it to the end of his bed, unwilling to leave the warmth of the sheets for any longer than he had to. Sam let his mind drift and grinned as he imagined whatever raunchy escapade his brother was on before he slipped into the realm of much needed sleep.
Dean stepped out of the Impala carrying two cut-rate cups of coffee that he'd gotten free of charge after the night he'd had with Shaden, one of the waitresses at the local diner . He turned the extra room key that Sam had stashed in the Impala's glove compartment for him in the lock with a yell of, "Sam! I brought food!" Dean was surprised when silence greeted his ears rather than his little brother's annoyed retort.
"Sammy?" He scanned the room again and shoved the coffees onto the oak table by the door, swallowing ebbing panic when his jade eyes found a Sam sized lump in the bed farthest from the door .
"C'mon Sunshine," Dean smiled as he was rewarded with a muffled groan from under the heavy comforter . Sam pushed out of the covers enough to shoot a well practiced bitch face at his brother before leaning against the headboard and glancing at the clock.
"10:47? Damn, you let me sleep in?"
"Not really, you let yourself sleep in, Tiger . I just got here."
"It's not my fault my internal alarm clock decided to take a holiday," Sam muttered as he closed the bathroom door behind him. He sucked in a breath, rubbing a palm over his eyes, finding that the ache from the night before hadn't subsided, but gotten worse. He grimaced knowing that if a migraine were to set in no amount of painkillers would make a difference.
Sam took the coffee Dean offered him after he'd changed out of his sweats and grabbed his laptop from the foot of his bed where he'd left it the night before. Sam plugged the computer in at the desk by the far wall of the room after the 'low battery' signal mocked him, reminding him that he'd left the device half-open all evening.
"Still haven't found the pissy logger's grave?" Dean asked as he pulled a chair around the other side of the desk.
"No, but.." Sam trailed off a bit as another bolt of pain went through his skull.
"But what?" There was something up with his brother, that Dean couldn't deny. Every movement and sound was off, just barely. The signs of discomfort were subtle enough that no normal person would notice, but Dean knew. He'd catalogued every sound and movement that his little brother made, and his current state screamed nothing but: migraine.
"I dunno, I thought maybe if an accident like that happened the mill would try and cover it up, you know? If anyone other than the locals found out they'd probably shut 'em down."
"So you're saying the mill owners hid Debroff's body?" Dean quirked an eyebrow in false interest. Sooner they could finish the job, sooner Dean could resort to all out prying mother-hen.
"Yeah, maybe," Sam fought the urge to massage his temples as the pain in behind his eyes ratcheted up a notch.
"So that means Casper has more than one thing to be pissy about." Dean reasoned, throwing the emptied styrofoam coffee cup in the trash, "I say we go check it out."
"What are we going to do? Dig a trench around the whole mill looking for a grave?" Sam lowered his pounding head into his hands, hoping Dean wouldn't notice considering that his back was momentarily turned.
"We scan the thing for EMF, if the guy's bones are there, we'll know."
Dean shoved his EMF meter and assorted provisions into his pack and shrugged it over his shoulder.
"Come on, we don't find anything then we gotta keep digging, and we only got 'til tonight to torch this guy."
"Yeah," Sam closed his laptop and stood slowly. His head spun slightly in protest to the movement, "just gimmie a second, I gotta use the bathroom." Dean bit back the instinctive urge to check on his brother and pulled the motel door closed behind him. Sam reached into his duffel and pulled out the extra-strength Advil again, dry swallowing the highest suggested dosage as the pounding in his head worsened. He regretted forgetting to refill his prescription migraine pills they'd picked up at a clinic after his visions had started.
The rumbling lull of the Impala's engine wasn't nearly as therapeutic as it should have been considering the jarring rattle the car gave each time it struck a rut in the lonely Oregon road. The mill stood 15 minutes from the motel, and the road gave way into muddy paths of sludge a mere 5 minutes into the drive. Up that 15 to 20, why don't you?
Thanks for reading! Reviews/favorites/follows are very welcome! Creative criticism encouraged.
Thanks again,
~Salted