Disclaimer: Supernatural is Kripke's brainchild – I'm simply a parasite reaping the benefits of his genius.
A/N: Anything I didn't know, I made up – not all of us have the fortune (or rather, misfortune) of spending our lives wandering around the continental United States like the Winchester boys, fighting baddies. Besides, I'm still in school – baddies can wait until I graduate.
Set Season 2; pre-AHBL – very minor spoilers from Season 3 may creep in, like the Winchester's early morning habits.
Rated T for safety's sake, with a few bad words here and there.
Blood On The Pages
I
2nd June
"So, tell me again, why is Bobby sending us all the way to Oklahoma?" Dean asked his brother who slouched as much as he could given his tall frame in the car seat next to him.
Sam sighed. He really wondered at times if he could get away with surreptitiously putting Dean through some memory tests. Vague pop culture references and the lyrics to all the classic rock songs he and his brother had heard, ever, Dean would remember. Simple things like remembering to put the cap back on to the toothpaste? That so many cheeseburgers for breakfast, lunch and dinner were going to kill him faster than a vicious wolfie? Too much trouble.
As for asking Sam the same question over and over again, starting from Mississippi where they'd received the call from their old friend, across Arkansas and now finally Oklahoma, the younger Winchester would have been convinced that it was a ploy used by his older brother to slowly drive him crazy if he didn't already know that Dean didn't do slow. He knew Dean loved him with a passion, but would it have hurt him to not rip the bandage off Sam's knee when they were kids?
"Bobby, you know him, yea short," Sam held up his hand in front of him at about neck level, "beard, baseball cap? Likes calling us idjits? Well, he's noticed a pattern. Deaths. A whole bunch of them. In a specific time period, with a specific MO. And since we have nothing better to hunt and we still want to be welcome in his house, we go where he tells us."
Sam's explanation received a you've-got-to-be-kidding-me look from his brother, along with the customary roll of the eyes.
"Thank you for that oh-so-kind explanation, Sam, my memory is very grateful." Dean's voice was dripping with sarcasm but it just went to show how unique Sam's brother was when his voice immediately changed to a whine: "But does it have to be Oklahoma?"
"What's wrong with Oklahoma?" Sam wanted to know.
"It's…," Dean shrugged his right shoulder while at the same time keeping his hand on the steering wheel, "Oklahoma. It even has a girly musical named after it. Why can't we ever get a hunt in L.A or Vegas or something? Mix some business with pleasure?"
"Because of that, actually. You'll be getting all the pleasure, while I'll be doing all the business if we ever go to Vegas."
"Hey, that's not fair," protested Dean, raising his eyebrows. "That laptop of yours is courtesy of all my hard work hustling. In Vegas, I'd make a killing." Dean winced. "So to speak."
Sam settled for just shaking his head before slouching down a bit further in his seat, trying to use his brother's daydream of Vegas as a sufficient enough distraction to slip his hand towards the car's console and lower the volume just a bit. He was almost there when Dean noticed and slapped his hand away. However, his brother surprised him when instead of notching the volume up higher in revenge, he actually shut off the music, cutting Paul Rodgers off in mid-scream.
"What else did Bobby tell ya?" It was only the tone, rather than the content, which told Sam this was his sibling slipping into hunter-mode. It always happened sooner or later on the way to hunts, and always told Sam that they were getting close to their destination. He sat up a bit when Dean asked. They were closer than he'd thought.
"Not much, actually. Just said they'd been a pattern stretching more than a century it seems with a gap of 36 years exact. Deaths are always in June, and never more or less than 6 people."
"How do they die?" Dean queried further.
"Gunshot wound, or so it seems. It's always a through and through, no bullet remains, no apparent gunman around to account for the shooting and the local law enforcement hasn't had much luck."
"When do they ever?" muttered Dean. "But what's screaming 'come save us, Sam and Dean, you stud muffins you'," Dean mimicked a squeaky teenage girl for the last part, "about this case?"
"Well. Not much at first sight, actually. There are no records before the 1920's available online, and those that are give the barest of details, so I need the local library for research. Bobby just gave me the basics: 36 years, 6 deaths. Besides, it's a small town. The mathematical probability of so many violent deaths occurring during such a short time span makes this jump the boundary of normalcy."
"Yeah, six people. Probably 6 percent of the local population," muttered Dean. "Small towns are no fun."
"I bet. The boyfriends will probably find out pretty quickly that a stranger is making eyes at their girl," teased Sam.
"Hey, they're eyeing me Sammy, it would be rude not to reciprocate," Dean defended with a smirk.
"Ooh, "reciprocate". Should I reward you with a dollar for using a Big Word? Where's my wallet now?"
"Don't you mean your girly, monogrammed money clip, Your Highness?"
"Thank you, slave," Sam reached out and patted his brother on his head which Dean immediately responded to by poking Sam sharply in his side, "your help shall be greatly rewarded. Would Polly want a cracker?"
"Cracker, my ass," muttered Dean, having his revenge by turning the radio back on again and pushing the volume up way higher than it had been before.
Sam smiled as he leaned his head against the passenger-side door window. Dean would get back him in due time but would wait until Sam wasn't expecting it which was strange since that was all Sam expected from Dean at any given point. As his hearing steadily pleaded for mercy from the onslaught of loud music, he turned his focus to the passing scenery and noting the dusk that was slowly making it's presence known on the horizon. He and his brother would probably make it to the tiny town of Accra in time to register at a local motel, or most likely with a local resident who had rooms to rent, at a decent hour with time to grab dinner before crashing for the night.
Lost in his thoughts, it took Sam a while to register the string of curses perforating the air and it was only when he felt the car being steered left on the otherwise straight road that he looked over to his brother to ask what was the problem.
"What's up? Why we stopping?"
"I don't believe this," was all his brother said.
Sam received no proper answer as Dean brought the car to a complete stop and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him.
Perplexed and not just a little worried, Sam did the same and came around to the left side of the car where his brother stood glaring at what seemed to be the road underneath the car.
"Dean?" When his brother offered no reply, Sam followed his line of sight and understood immediately what had caused his brother's sudden foul mood: the rear left tyre of the Impala was flat.
"Ah. Do we even have a spare in the trunk?" That at least got a reaction from Dean, Sam had been getting worried.
"Don't be an idiot, of course we do. You think Dad and I are going to drive a car all over the friggin' continent and not have a spare? I know my baby's great but nails on the road are freaking nails on the road."
"Yeah, I get that but I don't ever remember having to deal with a flat before," Sam added.
"That's because whenever we did, you would either be asleep in the backseat or have your nose buried in some weird book. The world could have ended and you wouldn't have noticed," accused Dean.
"Hey, that's not fair," Sam protested although he knew his brother was right. "So where's the spare and the equipment?"
"Allow me, Samuel, to reveal to you a secret of the big, bad universe of car maintenance." Dean waggled his fingers in front of Sam's face as he passed by his brother to go towards the trunk of the car.
Sam didn't bother following his brother, content to watch from afar as Dean dug out a wrench from in-between the shotguns to the left of the mini-armoury, a jack from somewhere beneath it and a spare tyre hidden underneath the back-seat.
"Why's the wrench in-between the weapons?" he asked.
Dean shrugged. "If we ever run out of stuff, which we won't, we can always chuck it at the monster and run. Easy peazy."
Sam huffed. As his brother crouched down in front of the tyre, he came up with a suggestion:
"Listen, since this is obviously a one-man job why don't I just hoof it to town and meet up with you at the motel? It can't be far now, can it?"
Dean, having stood up, wrench in hand, at hearing his brother's suggestion, looked doubtful. "I don't know man. Knowing you, you'll end up falling in a ditch and breaking your neck just walking down an empty road."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, bro. But look, how far are we?"
"About four to five miles max."
"Great." Sam turned up the pleading quality in his eyes just a notch. "I walk to town, register us in a motel before the whole town goes off to sleep, you change the tire and meet me back there. I'll even grab dinner for both of us before the diner closes. You know how small towns are, everything's closed by the time it turns dark which isn't far off now." Sam pointed to the darkening horizon.
"Exactly. You, road, dusk - bad combination dude," Dean protested. "Look, if you're that against getting bored, I'm sure there are some Playboy magazines just waiting to be read in your duffel bag."
"Dean, we're on a straight road. You'll probably be able to see me walk all the way. Stop worrying, nothing's gonna happen. In fact, you'll probably be even done with the tyre before I get there, knowing you."
Dean still looked hesitant but Sam knew he was inching closer to giving in. His elder brother was never much for denying him anything and this was relatively harmless. Besides, Sam could easily have walked to town but was asking permission out of courtesy and both brothers knew it.
"Fine. But if you're still walking by the time I get done, I'm not stopping to pick you up. Better yet, run the miles, you're getting flabby around the edges Sammy," Dean added with a smirk, waggling his eyebrows.
"Am not!" Sam protested just for the heck of it. "Call me when you hit town, I'll direct you to the motel. Jerk."
"Fat ass."
And with that, Sam was off - remembering to grab his bag from car and to satisfy his brother, tucking his gun in the waistband of his pants - headed towards town with his brother's mutters and curses along with a series of clanks and thunks accompanying him for the first few yards before being overtaken by the sound of a creaky side door opening and music blaring from the Impala speakers.
As soon as it was dark enough that he knew his brother couldn't see him, Sam hurried his pace until it was half-jogging, half-running. He may have been the healthier eater of the two but no way was he letting Dean get away with thinking he was the fitter one of the duo. The run would just make it easier for Sam to kick his brother's ass later on.
3rd June
There was silence in the atmosphere. It was the middle of the night and there was hardly a soul awake for miles around. In a small, relatively clean and cosy room with two beds the Winchester brothers were fast asleep. By the time Dean had walked through the door of the small establishment which was attached to a small, homely diner run by the same woman who ran the motel, Sam had already showered and had a large pizza, the only food that tasted better cold than piping hot, waiting on the small table which was shoved against the wall opposite the beds with two chairs on either side.
After a quick shower, Dean joined his brother for dinner before both of them decided to crash for the night in favour of an early start tomorrow.
Dean wasn't sure what woke up him exactly but it was probably more to do with the soft singing that reached his ears rather than the tingle of apprehension that ran down his spine as his consciousness drifted awake.
Preventing himself from opening his eyes and keeping his breathing as regular as possible so as not to give away the fact that he was awake, Dean first took in his surroundings with his sense of hearing. He was on the bed closest to the door and as far as he could tell Sam, on the next bed to his left, was deeply asleep if his snoring was anything to go by. To his right and near the entrance of the room, Dean could hear the soft sounds of a lullaby. If his ears didn't deceive him, the voice seemed to belong to a little girl who while not talented in the vocals department, was simply singing to entertain herself. Interspersed between the words of a song Dean didn't recognize was the unmistakeable round of a rocking chair moving on its curved legs.
Opening his eyes ever so slightly, he was glad his face was pointed in the correct direction and his left hand was already under the pillow, curved around the handle of a silver knife. He tightened his hand's grip on the weapon and promised himself that from now on, he'd add a friggin salt shaker to his night-time armoury for when the threat proved not to be a corporeal demon or monster or drunk-and-stupid human being but the spirit of a long ago dead person, such as that of a young girl sitting before him.
The spirit didn't immediately notice that the person whose room she was visiting was awake. Rocking back and forth on the chair which was just as non-corporeal as her, she continued singing softly to herself as she scribbled in a small, black notebook which was in her lap – a small black notebook which didn't appear to be an apparition – a small black notebook which Dean faintly recognized as his own leather-bound journal.
Shit. The ghost was writing in his own book. A ghost who looked like she'd walked off of the set of Little House on The Prairie and couldn't have been older than eleven or twelve when she'd died was messing around with his stuff!
Something must have tipped off the girl because she suddenly stopped in her singing and fixed her eyes on Dean. He supposed her not having an I'm-about-to-kill-you look was a good start in the preservation of his and his brother's life tonight. His knife wouldn't have much effect on a ghost but if she began to make a move that was even vaguely threatening, Dean was prepared to launch himself towards the duffel bag near the end of bed and grab whatever he could to get rid of her.
For a few seconds, neither one moved, causing Dean to wonder if maybe the ghost got its kick just watching slumbering men. He couldn't fault her for picking him over Sam as the one to watch, he'd always been the more good-looking of the two. He slowly began to slide back towards the weapon bag, thinking maybe the ghost wouldn't notice but he came to a halt as soon as the ghost opened its lips and began to speak:
"He'll never forgive you."
Dean's eyes furrowed in puzzlement but understanding dawned when the ghost's eyes flicked towards Sam for the barest of seconds before returning to Dean and repeating:
"He'll never forgive you." Glancing down, she scribbled something quickly on a page in the journal before shutting it. "6th June."
"What the-?" began Dean. Why the hell was the ghost telling him a date which, if she meant this year, was four, okay it was after midnight so three, days away?
The ghost interrupted him. "6th June," she insisted with increasing earnestness. Suddenly she smiled softly and said, "Sleep now, hunter."
And just like that, Dean felt his eyelids growing heavy and in spite of all his efforts, he was asleep before he knew it and Sam in the next bed shifted in his sleep, completely unaware of all that had gone on as he slumbered.
TBC