In My Hands, part 2
Sam wonders why it's small, rural places that hold the most work. He can count on one hand the number of times they've had a hunt in a populated city, and half of those cases were depressingly simple. He thinks, maybe, that cities never slow down; the people living there are always rushing, and don't have the time to notice unusual activity, unless it's the rip-your-guts out kind. The backwater places have time in spades; they have people who notice and see and know something's not right.
Afton is like that. It's a town that's barely a mile wide, and it's one boast is its convenience mart. Mostly, it consists of a handful of houses and a volunteer firesation stretched along the highway. So, yeah, this place is small, wouldn't ping anyone's radar, but Sam's had experience with that; he's not unused to scouting out unknown places, but this is different. Afton is dry, dusty. Isolated. Stray dogs, their ribs painfully visible, jog alongside the road, turning dead eyes to the cars that pass them. The people here have a weather-beaten look, even the young ones, and Sam can't stop thinking of funerals and death and the bitter taste of grief. He tries to imagine what happened here, but he can only think, it's dying, and he glances toward his brother, sees the tight hands curled around the steering wheel, the locked jaw, the uneasy look, and knows Dean feels it, too.
"I don't know, Sam," Dean says, turning left onto the dirt road that leads to Lynn Zach's house. Sam can see Dean wince every time they hit a rut, but Dean doesn't complain. "Maybe you're on to something, here." Sam glances out the window, view confined to wilted trees and brown grass. He hears Dean mutter, "Whole town probably needs an exorcism."
"Hey," Sam can see a huddled shape on the steps of the porch; head bent, resting on knees. Sam knows this is the oldest boy, and he can't be much older than twelve, starting to morph into gangly arms and legs, outsized and clumsy. Sam fingers the pocket of his slacks, feels the weight of the badge and i.d. of Mike Simmons, detective, before he climbs out of the Impala, shuts the door and hears the echo from the other side. "Excuse me, is this the Zach residence?"
The boy finally looks up, and the pinched face could be an older version of the boy floating around on the Internet (please, help us). "Who are you?" His voice is high and cautious, hands braced on either side of him, tense, ready to push him up, get him away.
"I'm Detective Simmons," Sam slows when he's a few feet from the boy, hears Dean do the same. Nodding his head toward his brother, he says, "This is my partner, Detective Plant," he wants to grimace at Dean's idea of a joke, but keeps his face smooth, open. "We're with the Raleigh branch of Missing Persons; we wanted to speak with your mother about Jacob's disappearance."
The boy's eyes dart between the two of them, unsure. But he says, "Uh," then, a beat later, "I'm Peter. Just wait here. I'll see--" and turns, worn sneakers scuffing the steps, before heading into the house. The screen door the kid bangs through is old, a rusted memory of metal and wire that hangs half-open, even when the main door swings closed.
Their home isn't any different from the other ones in the area. Closed off from the road by a stand of trees, the cleared space is full of weeds and thirsty grass. Over to the side Sam sees someone's effort at landscaping: three bordered triangles sloping downhill. He's sure at one time they were filled with flowers; now, all that's left is furred vines spilling over, tangling gently. He wonders if the neglect started with her son's disappearance, or before; if it just wasn't worth fighting. He knows it doesn't matter, and returns from his wandering to the cracked path leading to the front of the house. Waits.
There's noise coming from inside; Sam can hear thuds, and the sound of voices inching closer, one high and young, the other husky and feminine. He almost feels his brother's muscles bunch and lock as if they were his own. It's always amused him how uncomfortable Dean is around the ones they have to interview, considering how quick he is to chat a woman up if she shows any kind of interest. It's the lies, he guesses, and the subterfuge when someone's hurting or mourning. It gets to his brother in ways Sam doesn't understand, can't understand. Especially when, each time a case presents itself, there's a little part of him who's pleased, happy, someone else gets to suffer, gets to lose. It's not them, each time there's a death reported all Sam can think is it's not us. Not Dean. Not Dad. It makes Sam feel protected for another hour, another minute. Long enough to pack and head where ever they need to; long enough that he doesn't panic when Dean's in danger, only reminds himself blood's already spilled. And it works for that moment, that hunt, because he can delude himself that the spiritdemonmonster has already been satiated, isn't greedy for more.
So, yeah, Sam's made himself comfortable with lies. Figures if he lies to himself, he sure as hell has no trouble lying to people who don't really matter. But for all Dean's bluster, fake smiles and smarm, he hates it. Always prefers to tell the truth, and Sam knows it by rote, now. All the years of living in his big brother's pocket, in his shadow, have taught it to him. We're all gonna die and it's a dangerous gig, Sammy and whispered to the waitresses and bartenders in various states I'm gonna be gone by tomorrow. And to him? That first night after going back to California, seeing Becky again, I think we're gonna regret this someday, Sam, but.
The fact, he thinks now, that the hands he'd always had steadying him, grasping the back of his neck, his elbow and shoulder, in comfort--those hands had trailed fire across his skin, and he had thought, then and there with blood across his mouth and bruises throbbing under his skin from the thing that took his brother's shape, I won't. Had meant it, though he never said it out loud, had wanted to give Dean the option of backing out if what they did ever got to be too much, or too hard, or too dirty. Had wanted the option of swallowing the hurt, smiling, and saying me, too, when Dean decided he had enough guilt and remorse and just wanted to be Sam's big brother again.
"Dude," Dean whispers, and Sam feels his brother's elbow digging into his arm. He glances up, sees Peter reappear. Wonders briefly how dazed and far away he looked. Hears Dean's voice, "Is your mom available?" Sam suppresses a snort, conjuring all the innuendo that phrase used to hold. Dean still glares, but turns back to the kid. "Or should we come back another time?"
"No." The boy looks distracted, wary. Sam wonders if it's just them, dredging up the fear of three months ago, when his brother was newly gone, or if it's something else. "She just has to--get ready. We've been cleaning all day."
Sam tries to smile reassuringly, nods. Dean just asks, "Is it alright if we wait on your porch then?" At Peter's own nod, they climb the steps, settling down in plastic lawn chairs cushioned with too-thin padding that, from the looks of the faded floral print, are homemade.
It's quiet after that. The boy stands by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he doesn't know if he should go inside or keep an eye on the two strangers. Dean's not offering any conversation, just staring out over the railing, legs stretched and crossed at the ankle, like this isn't awkward at all. Maybe for him it isn't; silence has always sat better on Dean, letting him watch and wait before moving. Sam's been the one to force sound, because he feels the alternative like a living thing, breathing and swirling, around him. Hates it, because it leaves things unsaid, and in his family that's similar to leaving a wound to fester. He knows. He's done it--let things go on until his only recourse was leaving his family miles away in the dust.
This time, though, is different. He can't think of anything to say, to calm Peter's skittishness. He understands it; the fear of reliving the loss and seeing parents slip away. He knows because he's seen it a dozen times. So this time he'll swallow the meaningless words that are lodged in his throat, choking him, and give everyone that level of space. It's fine.
And apparently it's tedious. He runs his fingers along the crooked seam of the cushion, feels the rough pull of thread zigzagging under his hand. He wants to mirror Dean's position, wants to shift down and relax his shoulders. But the tension coiled there feels like a knot, and he stays still, fights the urge to fidget, to move. It's pointless, now, when there's nothing but waiting, and when he knows it's just uneasiness (it's dying) winding pain through the back of his eyes, down his cheekbones. He can wait.
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"I'm sorry," and it's in that same husky tone Sam caught outside. "I just wasn't expecting, uh, visitors. Today." Ms. Zach (please, just call me Lynn) has the vaguely haunted look that everyone in Afton seems to share, but it doesn't have the same familiarity, the lines etched in her face aren't as deep, the bruises under her eyes are fresh, and Sam thinks Jacob.
"That's all right, ma'am," he smiles as she sets coffee mugs in front of them. He can feel Dean's relief, can hear his thank Christ it's not china. "Have you lived here long?"
She settles in the chair across from them, cradling her own cup, and Sam sees the ragged nails, bitten down to the quick. "Since before Peter was born. So, about thirteen years, I guess."
"And you don't have family nearby?" He can feel Dean's eyes on him, can hear the sound of his brother taking a sip of coffee. But he's more interested in Lynn, in steady green eyes that never veer from his.
"I'm originally from Ohio. Most of my family is there, except for a few in South Carolina and Kentucky, and my brother. He lives in Asheville, but we don't talk."
Sam nods his head, sees the stillness in her posture. "Okay. Now. Can you tell us about Jacob's disappearance?" He doesn't miss the tremor that runs through her, as if electric currents were running under her skin. He thinks, briefly, I'm sorry.
She doesn't tell them anything new. Sam supposes that what her sister had included on the website was exactly what they knew. She had put the boy to bed (at nine, always at nine), and the next morning Jacob hadn't come down for breakfast. She had sent Peter upstairs to wake him, and when her oldest found the room empty, they had searched the house, the yard, then spiralled out, following the road. Nothing. The police had been next, and missing persons forms, fliers and local news programs.
"Did Jacob ever mention any monsters? Something he was scared of?" Dean's voice is soft, but Sam hears something underneath. But he hasn't been able to read Dean well lately, and can't decipher if the edge means anything at all.
"Well. You know kids." Lynn tries to smile, glances at Sam before looking in Dean's vicinity. "He did mention something. The closet. He was scared of the closet in his bedroom." She leans forward, puts the cup on the coffee table in front of her. Her hands open and close before she rests them on her thighs. "But I checked it, before bed. Every night. I think Jacob even woke up Peter to have him look."
"Did you ever notice anyone showing interest in him? Or following him around?" She shakes her head, face tight, but Dean only says, "We'd like to take a look at his room. If you don't mind." Nothing about it is a question, and she stands, leads them up the stairs to her son's room, before turning away. "We'll only be a minute."
When she's gone, Sam says, "What's wrong with you? You were being an ass."
Dean ignores him, pulls out the EMF reader and his cell phone. The boy's room is littered with toys and clothes, and Sam knows Lynn and Peter haven't touched this room. Have left it, and dust is starting to coat everything scattered around. "Wait," he says, and reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a tape recorder. "This'll play better than the cell phone."
Dean moves around the room, running over lights and switches, before heading to the closet, and Sam's left to check the window-sills for any traces of sulphur, but he knows that after three months it's a long shot, and isn't surprised to come up empty. "Well, I can't find anything. There's not even a journal. Dean?"
"Yeah, Sam." A minute later, he's in the room again, shaking cobwebs out of his face. "Definitely EMF in there. Some kind of presence, even considering the age of the house and its wiring," he waves the hand holding the machine behind him. "Ran the tape recorder, too; we can play that back at the motel." He slides them back into his jacket, rolls his shoulders. "You ready?"
"Huh," Sam looks down at the baseball card he's holding. He doesn't know the player, never even liked baseball, but he sees the worn edges on it, the smudges of oil. "Yeah, let's go."
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