Dean lay in his hospital bed, watching as Sam walked past Dad, leaving the room on a coffee hunt. He waited until Sam was completely out of sight, then asked Dad, "What is it?"
Dean listened, amazed, as Dad apologized and explained some of the mistakes he'd made raising his sons.
He reran his father's words in his head. "I just want you to know that I'm so proud of you." Dad's proud of me?
"Is it really you talking?" Dean asked, hesitantly.
"Yeah. Yeah, it's really me." Dad's eyes suddenly lightened to a bright, unmistakable yellow. "Who else would it be?"
Dean's heart froze, the breath caught in his throat.
"I want you to look out for Sammy," the yellow-eyed demon leaned over Dean and whispered. "You need to save Sammy, that's all that matters. And if you can't save him, you have to kill him. Believe me, Dean, it's the only way."
Then the demon stepped back and grinned. "You'll have three chances to change his fate. But you won't alter destiny, because you'll choose to save Sammy over the world, every time." The yellow eyes stared into Dean's. "I know you, Dean. Almost as well as I know my own son, Sammy."
"No," Dean moaned, tossing in his motel bed, getting tangled up in the blankets. Feeling himself restrained, he jerked awake, arms flailing. He grabbed for the knife under his pillow, and by the time he gripped its comforting handle, he'd settled down enough to recognize his surroundings. Motel bed, not hospital bed. He released his hold on the knife and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Okay, so being in that hospital again was more unsettling than I thought. Guess my subconscious decided to remind me of that, but why drag old Yellow Eyes into the picture?
Three times . . .He'd saved Sam from Gordon's bullet, and he hadn't been goaded into shooting Sam, despite Meg's best efforts. Wonder what's next? Doesn't matter. Dean flipped over to his side, and that put Sam squarely in his line of vision, stretched out and dead to the world on the inside bed. Three times, or three hundred, I'll always save you, Sammy— or die trying.
As he watched, Sam began to toss and turn in his sleep. Dean rose into a sitting position, legs over the side of his bed as he continued to keep an eye on his restless brother. Apparently nightmares were contagious tonight. Sam continued to move restlessly, and then he moaned, "No . . . no . . ."
That's it. Dean reached over and jostled Sam's closest leg.
Sam sprang awake, defensive and alert.
"Easy, Tiger," Dean soothed and flicked on the light between the two beds. "You were having a nightmare."
Sam's eyes scanned the room, then landed on Dean's face. He took a deep breath. "Yeah, I guess I was. Thanks for waking me."
"Wanna talk about it?" Dean offered, knowing he'd be rebuffed.
"No, I'm fine. Just . . . today just stirred up some old memories." Sam took another breath and pummeled his pillow into shape. He settled back into bed, repeating, "I'm fine."
"Okay." Dean clicked the lamp off and then settled back into his own bed. He stayed awake until he heard Sam's breathing even out into sleep, only then letting himself drift off, too.
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"Look sharp, Sam," Dean said from behind the Impala's steering wheel as they took the Pershing Road exit from the main highway. "Won't be long now." They had ditched yesterday's suits and were back in their accustomed jeans, layered shirts and jackets. The temperature hovered around forty degrees, so Dean's leather jacket was buttoned up, and Sam's tan jacket was zipped snug.
"I still think we should've done more research," Sam commented from the passenger seat after they drove about a mile down the road.
"We are doing research, of the hands-on variety." Dean kept an eye on the mileage gauge; they had another three miles before the intersection with Highway 129, according to Mr. Moffet. Pershing Road was not a hotbed of activity, traffic-wise. Sam had run a cursory check of Salisbury on the laptop and had informed Dean that the town's population was less than 1,700 inhabitants. Indeed, its most recent population growth had been negative. "All we know so far is that it wasn't a demon—"
"Wrong," Sam interrupted. "All we know for sure is George Moffet wasn't possessed by a demon when we interviewed him."
Dean turned to glare at Sam. "Well, if you're going to get picky . . ." He left the thought unfinished and returned his attention to driving. They drove by a steady panorama of fenced-in fields, probably corn. The crop was dormant for the winter, the ground stiff and cold in the snowless February sunlight.
They passed a Junction 129 sign, and Dean unobtrusively tightened his grip on the wheel. Not that he was expecting trouble, but Sam did have a point. Who knew what they were dealing with at the moment.
Dean drove at a non-noteworthy 50 mph, only five miles over the speed limit. No other vehicles were on the road in either direction, nor could he see any traffic on the approaching intersecting highway. He noticed the speedometer notch up another five miles to 55, and knew he hadn't increased the pressure on the gas pedal. "What the—?" Dean lifted his foot off the gas, expecting to feel an immediate drop in the car's speed. Instead he was startled to see the speedometer creep up another few miles, and the Impala was now racing toward the intersection. Damn! This is what happened to Moffet.
"Slow down!" Sam ordered.
"I'm trying to!" Dean yelled back as he tapped on the brakes, with no decrease in speed. The Impala sped through the luckily deserted intersection. Suddenly, he felt the steering wheel twisting to the right. The car veered off the road, plowing straight for a barbed wire fence line.
"Sam!" Dean yelled in warning and threw out his right hand in a classic soccer mom save, determined to block his unbelted brother's forward momentum. Frantically, Dean yanked on the steering wheel with his left hand, trying to turn the car away from the fence.
To no avail. They crashed into the fence, the front passenger panel colliding with a fence post, barbed wire screeching against black paint. The force skewed Dean toward Sam's side of the car, his outstretched right arm smashed up against the windshield, but he prevented Sam from also hitting the glass.
Whatever had control of the car released its grip as soon as the Impala connected with the fence and came to a dead stop. Sam dropped back against his seat, Dean half-fell into his lap, landing on his right arm and side.
"Oww!" Dean couldn't stop the hiss of pain, and he struggled to rise and shift back to the driver's side of the bench seat. "Sam, you okay?"
"Just tossed around a bit," Sam quickly reassured Dean. "You?"
"We gotta get outta here." Dean reached his left hand under the steering wheel and turned the ignition. "I didn't drive us into the fence!" He backed away from the post and wires, which made hideous scraping sounds but thankfully stayed in place, then made a wide left turn onto the road, roaring back the way they had come.
He felt Sam's eyes on him and turned to face his brother. "What?"
"You planning on driving all the way back to Columbia like that?" He pointed at Dean's right arm, carefully tucked across Dean's lap instead of gripping the steering wheel.
"It's only an hour."
"Dean." Sam's expression tightened and Dean braced himself for another diatribe on his big brotherly over-protectiveness, too-stoic attitude, and refusal to admit to being hurt. But to his surprise, Sam went with the practical instead. "Pull into the next convenience store and I'll get some ice—it'll help. We'll wrap it when we get back to the motel."
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Dean sat in front of an ancient microfiche reader at the Columbia Public Library, perusing a recent newspaper article. Careful not to jostle his arm, (Sam had uselessly spouted RICE—Rest Immobilize Cold Elevate—at him in regards to treating his mashed arm, but he'd made do with an ace bandage) he sifted through old newsprint, searching for an explanation for the supernatural activity on Pershing Road. After hours of unproductive research, he gave in to curiosity. Finally finding the right date, he positioned the card under the fiche reader and read about the Impala's accident, months ago. He barely remembered Sam depositing him in the backseat and had no memory of the actual crash. He read, absorbing the details of the horrific crash, and felt the air shift suddenly as someone stood behind him, leaning over to read the screen. Sam.
Dean pushed his chair back, purposely bumping into Sam, who took an automatic step backwards. Dean turned in his chair to face his brother, braced himself for whatever Sam was about to say. He wondered if pointing out that they were in a public place—a library, no less— would do any good and keep Sam quiet.
Actually, surprisingly, Sam hadn't said a word yet. His job had been to do the more free-ranging research, tracking down old maps and texts and checking them for any useful information about cemeteries, tribal lands, natural disasters or other unusual occurrences in the Salisbury area—but he didn't seem to be working on any of that.
Dean glanced sharply at Sam's face. Physically, Sam was here, but his eyes were unfocused, staring off into space. Oh, hell. Vision? Dean was out of his chair before he noticed the lack of pain in Sam's stance or expression. Sam's visions always included excruciating pain, so his brother wasn't having a vision. Still, something wasn't right. He reached for Sam with his right wrapped hand, ignoring the stab of discomfort as he squeezed Sam's upper arm. "Sam?"
Sam blinked a couple of times, and then his eyes darted around the room, stopping to linger on the illuminated microfiche page.
The newspaper article about the crash. Since Dean didn't remember the accident, he could almost read about it in the abstract, as if it had happened to someone else. Sam doesn't have that luxury. He remembers the crash in Technicolor detail . . . and we never talked about it. It had been just another topic to avoid—what the demon said at the cabin, Dad's death, Dad's last words . . . In hindsight, Dean wished he had been willing to talk, been stronger for Sammy back then.
"Attention, please." An impersonal female voice spoke over the public address system. "The library will be closing in five minutes. Please make your final selections and check out your materials now. Thank you."
Sam jerked his gaze from the displayed page. "You ready to go?"
"Sure." Dean retrieved the fiche card from the reader and slipped it into the proper pocket. He flipped the reader off and gathered up all the microfiche pockets he had requested. "Let me return these, and then we can blow this pop stand. You find anything useful?"
"I've got a theory," Sam said slowly. "It's kind of farfetched, but it fits the facts. I'll tell you about it over dinner, back at the room."
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Dinner ended up being a large pizza. In deference to Dean's injured arm, they ordered Dean's favorite—sausage, pepperoni, ham, mushrooms and extra cheese.
They consumed their first slices of pizza before Dean broached the hunt again. "All right, so what's this crazy-ass theory of yours?"
"I think it's a poltergeist—like in Lawrence."
"What?" Dean's half-raised pizza slice dropped down on his paper plate.
"You remember what Missouri said, back at the house? Real evil walked here." Sam took a breath. "Well, the same thing happened at Salisbury. Dad was possessed by the demon for several hours, and it left its imprint on you when it—" Sam gestured toward Dean's chest. "You were both in the Impala for awhile, before the ambulances arrived. Add to that, the demon that crashed the semi into us, and you've got a pretty good case for the presence of real evil on that roadway.
"Missouri said that kind of evil leaves wounds and sets up a paranormal magnet. I think it attracted an open-air poltergeist. Poltergeists that are attached to a location, not a building, are uncommon, but they're not unheard of."
"It would explain Moffet's crash and what happened to us this morning," Dean said.
"Yes. Poltergeists love taking control of and tossing around inanimate objects."
"Wait a minute!" Dean objected. "Are you calling my baby an inanimate object? She's—"
"That's how the poltergeist sees the Impala, not me," Sam backpedalled. "In this case, the inanimate objects are motor vehicles, but yeah, in principle, it's the same thing as throwing books and furniture around in a house." Sam paused to take a sip of his Coke. "So, how do we stop it?"
"Missouri's wards." Dean picked his slice back up and chewed on it.
"What?" Sam asked him around a bite of his second slice. "You think that wards are powerful enough for this?"
"Sam, you were out of it, but after I put that last ward in the wall, it unleashed a blinding white light that blew through the house. I covered my eyes and I could still see it—and feel it. That light had plenty of mojo, enough to send a poltergeist packing."
"Still, it wasn't enough for the poltergeist in our old house," Sam reminded Dean, helping himself to another slice of pizza.
"Hell, Sam, that was our house, in Lawrence. Of course it would attract a stronger, nastier-than-ordinary poltergeist." Dean reached for his third piece. Having to use his left hand was slowing down his eating and Sam was a slice ahead. "I think the wards will work here. Anyway, it's a good place to start. If it doesn't work, we'll figure out a banishment ritual, or something."
"Wards, huh? Where do we put them?"
"In the north, south, east, and west corners," Dean recited Missouri's instructions, and then sipped his Coke.
"Corners of what?"
"Pershing Road runs straight north and south. So, if we bury the wards in the dirt shoulders along both sides of the road, we'll form a rectangle and cover all the cardinal directions."
"Bury the wards?" Sam questioned. "We just stuck 'em in the walls, before."
"Wards need to be stationary to be effective; they need to be grounded. Since there's no walls on the open road, we'll ground the wards by burying them. Three inches ought to be deep enough."
"We're gonna need a big rectangle for that," Sam said thoughtfully, and Dean could practically hear the wheels turning in his brother's head. "We'll have to make sure the wards encompass the whole crash site, and then we need to backtrack to where the poltergeist first took over control of the vehicles. I'm guessing it was the same spot for both times, and definitely before the intersection with the highway.
"Y'know, I could use GoogleEarth to hone in on Pershing Road and map the spots where we need to plant the wards. It should be accurate enough for our purposes."
"Fine, go to it," Dean encouraged, then frowned. "Do we have all the ingredients for making wards? Hey, do we even know all the ingredients? Missouri only mentioned angelica root, vanvan oil, and crossroad dirt by name when I asked her what was in those wards."
"I asked her about it later, and she emailed me the complete list." Sam left the table to retrieve his laptop. He returned and powered it up. While waiting for the connection to be established, he handed one of the two remaining slices of pizza to Dean and took the last one for himself. He munched as he searched through his emails. "Here it is."
"I need to talk to Bobby." Dean extracted his cell phone and started dialing. "We have everything on that list?"
Sam read the list, and then pushed the laptop over to Dean, so he could see the monitor. "We're missing the last ingredient, maybe we can get it from Bobby?"
Dean had already speed-dialed Bobby and was waiting for the older hunter to pick up the phone. "Hi, Bobby. It's Dean . . . I need a favor. You got another anti-possession charm? . . . No, we didn't lose one, it's for the Impala . . . You heard me . . . Thanks. Could you overnight it to Al Jardine, care of the Dew Drop Inn, Columbia, Missouri? You'll have to look up the zip, sorry." He glanced at the monitor again, and grimaced. Of all the embarrassing things to ask for. At least it wasn't horn of toad. "Oh, and one more thing . . . you have any spare eye of newt? . . . You do? . . . Yeah, just send it with the charm. Thanks again. Bye, Bobby."
Dean disconnected his cell phone and pocketed it. "We should have the stuff by noon tomorrow. Then we can start making the wards."
"Great. Then all we have to do is place them in the right locations along the shoulder of the road, but . . ."
"But?"
"That's not as easy as it sounds, Dean. The wards need to be buried and fully covered, so we have to dig holes at least three inches deep."
"So?"
"So the poltergeist is going to figure out what we're doing, and things're gonna get ugly, especially for the last set of holes. Remember the house?"
"Okay, so we need a way to dig the holes ahead of time. That way when we're ready, all we need to do is drop the wards into the ground and bury them. Hmmm." Dean picked up his last piece of pizza and chewed thoughtfully.
"I've got it," Dean said after polishing off the pizza. "Highway litter patrol."
"Huh?"
"C'mon, Sam, you've seen those do-gooders and minor offenders stuck with community service cleaning up litter along the side of the road. It's perfect. People see what they expect to see. Couple of orange vests and litter-retrieving poles and we're in business." Dean pictured Sam in one of those obnoxious orange vests, which would be a few inches too short on his brother's lanky frame, and hid a grin. Sam didn't fit in the one size fits all world of normal people, in more ways than one.
Sam caught on fast. "So we'll drive down to Salisbury and each take a side of Pershing Road. We'll clean up all the litter, making sure we leave holes for the wards at the beginning and ending of our litter-free zone. So if anyone sees us—"
"They'll assume we're just picking up litter. I like it."
"What about the poltergeist?"
"I'm not sure it'll be out and about during the daytime, but we'll take the EMF meter just in case."
"It was out and about this morning," Sam brooded, nodding toward Dean's wrapped arm.
"That was different." Dean picked up his Coke can, but it was empty. Damn, he was still thirsty.
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