Author's Note: In my Sophomore year of high school, my Creative Writing teacher tasked each of us to create a character. Since that day, my character has been riding around like a little ball in the back of my head, oh so patiently waiting for her story to be told. Neither of us expected for it to happen this way. Nevertheless, I hope it is satisfactory for her. She's waited long enough.
This one's for you, Mr. Vines. Thank you for being an inspiration, even all these many years later. Would that I could have you read this and grade it.
.oOo.
Two pairs of footsteps crunched along the gravel of a partially overgrown path. The walk from the road to the quarry wasn't far, but it was narrow and twisted, not accessible by vehicle. As the owners of the feet met with others already on the scene, two hands reached into the inner pockets of their suit jackets and produced folds of black leather which they flipped open to reveal a flash of metal and bold, blue letters. FBI. They introduced themselves as they both tucked the badges away.
The pair moved as if twins, and though they shared some features, they stood in contrast of each other. For starters, one towered a good three inches taller than the other. The taller one also had longer hair, broader shoulders. The other, however, was harder and carried himself with a steeliness that hinted at burdens he never wanted to carry but would never put down.
As they spoke with local law enforcement, they cast their eyes up to the half-rusted metal scaffolding that had been permanently drilled into the bedrock, here at the top of the quarry. Half of a human male dangled precariously from a railing up top. A t-shirt covered most of what was left, slapping wetly in a mocking breeze that didn't touch anyone down on the ground. It was almost black with blood, making the original color indiscernible. His face, neck, and arms were a shredded ruin, and everything below his ribs was in glopping pieces down along the scaffolding and splayed across the edge of the water that filled the depleted quarry.
The newcomers finished their conversation and turned to leave. As they walked, the harder one warily eyed their surroundings, looking for -expecting- threats. The crunch of gravel under their feet faded as they moved away toward the road. The watcher waited until the pair had gone then drew further back into denser shadows of the underbrush that grew along the path and disappeared within them.
.oOo.
Dean shucked his suit jacket from his shoulders and loosened his tie before opening the driver side door of his beloved Impala. He stuffed the jacket into the back seat with a huff. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he squinted against the blazing sun sitting directly overhead to look across the roof of the black car at his brother.
"Are you sure the map didn't say 'Satan's Butthole'?" he griped. "It is freaking miserable here." He swiped a sleeve across his forehead, only serving to make room for the next wave of perspiration to pop out. Keys jingled in his hand as he threw himself into the seat irritably. Sam joined him, slipping smoothly into his side of the car. Dean grabbed the steering wheel, ready to jam the key in the ignition, and pulled his hand back with a hiss.
"Dammit, we weren't out there for twenty minutes, and it's a damn oven in here."
"Turn on the air conditioner," Sam directed. "We'll talk as it cools off, then we can get back to the hotel to do some research."
Dean was careful not to touch the wheel again as he turned the key, and the Impala's engine roared to life. He flicked the temperature to low and the fan on high. He was rewarded with a blast of hot air to their faces. He caught Sam's eye roll as they both hurried to stand outside the car as they waited, but he decided not to challenge it.
"So talk to me, Sam. What the hell did that back there?" Dean crossed one forearm over the other and leaned them on the edge of the roof, looking across again at the taller man.
The humidity was clamped around Sam as well. Sweat matted strands of hair to his forehead and down the sides of his face. Now standing back out in the heat, Sam followed Dean's lead of removing his suit jacket. The action shook loose several beads of sweat. They rolled down his face, some joining in with the wetness already sticking to his hair, others actually dropping from his chin. Dean watched those with a grimace, knowing his own face looked much the same.
"That's why I want to start researching. I have no idea what could have done that. The closest I've seen is when Dick Roman was using Biggerson's to feed people those turducken burgers. But even that wasn't anything close to what's out at that quarry." Sam lifted a hand to gesture vaguely behind him to the crime scene shielded by trees. His brow was furrowed, but that could have been in thought or from the sun shining in his eyes. "The grey-goo-crazed human monsters ate their victims. From what I could see out at the quarry, all the pieces were still there. Looking like it had been run through a wood chipper, but there. It was like whatever did it just tore that guy up for fun."
Dean let his eyes slide away from Sam's, losing focus on the outside world as he pondered Sam's words. He found himself wishing he could call Bobby. With a slight shake, he brought himself back. "Okay." He gave the roof of the car a pat. "She should be cooled off enough to not bake us alive. Let's go do some research."
.oOo.
"Nothing. I got nothing." Sam hunched in his seat and scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms, working away the strain of having stared at the screen of his laptop for over three hours straight. His head hurt. Dropping his hands, he looked to his brother, stretched comfortably out on one of the hotel beds, propped on one side, cradling his temple against his fist as the other hand flipped through Dad's journal. Sam sighed heavily as he lifted from his seat at the table and took the few steps to the mini fridge. He retrieved two water bottles, tossing one in Dean's direction. It landed on the bed and bounced into his hip, drawing Dean's eyes away from the journal. He picked up the bottle and proffered it back to Sam.
"Why isn't this a beer?"
"Because it's too hot for beer," Sam answered, opening his own bottle. "We're not used to it, and we need to hydrate if we want to stay upright." To suit his own words, Sam tipped his water bottle back, downing half of the contents in three long swallows. A hint of salt from his lip mingled with the freshness of the water. The air conditioner under the hotel window was on full blast. Both brothers had dried sweat crusted to their skin under their white cotton t-shirts; they had peeled out of their button down shirts and ties and hit the research as soon as they walked through the door, neglecting showers. He wiped the back of his hand across his dampened upper lip and looked back at his brother who grumbled under his breath and unscrewed the lid of his bottle. His eyes dipped back to the pages before him as he sipped. "Dean. You know there's nothing in there about this. You've read it front to back countless times now."
"Yeah." Dean answered gruffly, eyes still flicking across the words in the journal.
"Then why?" Sam's question caused Dean to snap the journal shut and push away from it, lifting himself to sitting on the edge of the bed. He drew deeply of the water before answering.
"At first, it was just something to do while I cooled off. I planned on just taking long enough to stop all the damn sweating, then I was gonna head out to find out what I could about the vic." Dean paused, looking down at the bottle he was rolling between his palms. "But there's something about those pages, Sammy. Something that draws me in. It's like... I want to be reminded of what's out there, even if it's not what we're hunting at the time." He looked up at his brother, something raw exposed in his eyes. "I know it's a distraction, that I should be focused on what we're facing..." He dropped his gaze to the water again and silenced whatever else he had been ready to say with another drink.
Sam lifted his bottle too, uncertain how to respond. He couldn't argue; he was guilty of the same. There was something about Dad's journal that pulled at him as well, that demanded he continue to read through it again and again despite having memorized almost all of it from years of studying the well worn pages. And maybe Dean was right. Maybe it was the desire to remind himself that focusing on one monster at a time could cost them dearly. He opened his mouth to share his thoughts when Dean's cell phone rang.
"Agent Stoker." Sam strained to hear the voice on the other end, but it was a muted buzz. "Yeah... ... ...Okay, we'll be right in." Dean ended the call. "Another body."
"Where?"
"That's the good news." Dean got to his feet and worked on donning his fed suit. Sam did the same as he listened. "This one wasn't turned into hamburger meat. They already have it at the morgue, which means no standing around outside."
"Dean, how is that good news? A second body in about twelve hours that was killed in a different way? What if it's not the same monster?" Sam watched as his brother studiously avoided looking down at the journal abandoned on the bed as he buttoned his shirt.
"Then we just remind ourselves there's more than one monster to look out for."
They finished readying themselves in silence. Clothed and armed, Dean started for the door. Sam stopped him, "Dean." He turned to see Sam pointing at the water bottle laying on the bed next to the journal. "Finish that." He barely hid a smile at Dean's huff, eye roll, and an expression that practically shouted, Yes, Mother. But his older brother still grabbed the bottle and drained it.
"Happy?" Dean crushed the plastic between his hands and dropped it in the can beside the door. "Let's go."