Threefold
Chapter 2
It had been depressingly easy to spin a reasonably convincing tale to Dean, Bobby reflected with remarkably little guilt. He watched Dean from behind the morning newspaper, as he took an occasional sip of coffee, dark and bitter. Dean looked good, healthy and happy, his face tanned from afternoons spent rooting around the junk yard, helping Bobby collect and catalogue salvagable spare parts.
It was three months and few days since Bobby had shown Dean up to the second floor bedroom and told him to clean up and get some sleep. Bobby had spent a sleepless morning fretting over loose ends, bank accounts and fake ID's but the transition from Winchester to Singer had been smooth and apparently seamless. Dean had accepted Bobby's tale and got on with life. Bobby's most pressing concern was that he enjoyed the kid's company and had even been prompted to clean up the place a little, slapping a coat or two of fresh paint here and there. Dean was surprisingly efficient with a paint brush. Who knew? And if every night as the sun sank behind the overgrown fence and disappeared amid the scattered carcasses of rust and metal, Bobby's thoughts always turned to a troubled young man who had pleaded for his help and complicity he certainly didn't mention it to Dean.
S s S s S
Bobby pushed open the door to the spare bedroom and ushered Dean inside. The early light of dawn filtered through the partially drawn drapes half illuminating the room with a hard silver hue. It made Bobby momentarily uncomfortable and he quickly flipped the light switch.
"Bathroom's on the left, clean up and get some sleep. You never know, it might all come back to you after a hot shower and some shut-eye." Bobby shoved Dean toward the dresser under the window. "There's a few of your things in there. You left 'em, when you were here a couple of months ago." Bobby didn't have to lie about that. Dean nodded, shimmied his shoulders, letting his stained jacket fall to the floor.
"I'm a regular visitor?" Dean was looking slowly around the room, taking in the smallest detail. Bobby saw no sign of recognition in his eyes.
"Most of your life. Though these days I figure you come here when you're in trouble. Not that you tell me, of course. I don't ask, seems to work." Bobby gestured at the door. "I'll just get some towels for you, when you're ready come down. I've got a bottle of single malt that needs opening; I'm thinking you could do with a drink."
Dean was still studying the room, forehead pinched in concentration. "Sounds good."
The bottle was already open and the contents sampled by the time Dean came downstairs to the kitchen, damp from the shower and wearing clean clothes. He took the proffered glass without a word and knocked it straight back, shuddering at the punch of alcohol to his stomach. Bobby refilled the glass. Dean took a sip this time.
"Is it that bad, my sordid past?" he asked pulling out a chair and collapsing into it, glass clattering at the table top. Bobby met his gaze as calmly as he could.
"Don't you want to sleep on it?
"Well, I guess you'd know better than me, but I don't think I'm the patient type. Look, Uncle Bobby," Dean swallowed, as if tasting the words on his tongue, seeking out that familiar flavor. "I don't remember squat, nothing." He slapped his thigh. "These jeans are mine, like you said. They fit perfectly, I like them, you know, but I don't remember them, you, this house or me." Dean took a gulp of whiskey and reached into his back pocket, he clunked down his glass and threw something onto the table. Two small pieces of plastic clattered lightly together.
Bobby nodded, unperturbed. Dean raised an eyebrow in his direction as he retrieved his whiskey.
Bobby grunted. "I told you, you didn't tell me how you lived your life, I didn't ask." He picked up the two driving licenses, both bearing an identical picture. "Dean Martin and James Paige. Nice." He threw them back onto the table.
Dean studied him openly, pensively drawing in his top lip with his teeth, a gesture so eerily reminiscent of his brother that Bobby had to suddenly battle the surge of grief and confusion that swelled in his chest. Dean didn't seem to notice anything amiss.
"Well?"
"Well." Bobby echoed, splashing another finger of whiskey into his own glass. "Okay"
He sighed into his drink.
"You're the only surviving son of David and Audrey Singer. My late brother and his wife. You grew up in Sioux Falls in a normal happy family. My brother," Bobby paused and took a fortifying taste, belatedly realizing his misplaced emphasis on the relationship. "Your father was a teacher and so was your mom. You'd come here every now and again, I don't think Davey really approved of this place, but you seemed to have fun. Anyway, 'bout ten – eleven years ago now. Well, your dad was a keen private pilot, pretty experienced but that doesn't always count for much, went up on an afternoon jaunt, ran into some bad weather and," Bobby glanced away "they found the plane two weeks later. You've been on your own ever since," he stopped, sending out a silent prayer that wherever he might be, David would understand. "You okay, Dean?"
Dean shook his head. "No. So tell me, what did you mean by only surviving son?"
The kid didn't miss a trick, Bobby had been in two minds about including his nephew in Dean's history, but his own choice of words had betrayed him.
"You had a brother." The truth twisted about into a lie that wasn't. Bobby could only hope that he would not live to regret this. "Sean. He was in the plane. He was fourteen." He had been a bright, funny kid. Unruly blond hair and big blue eyes like his mother's, body small and wiry like his father. Bobby had mourned their passing but had already learnt that there were worse ways to end your days in this world. He had a sudden idea and without wasting time on debating its merits, he jumped up and went to retrieve a small tote he kept in the hallway cupboard.
"Here." Dean reached out and took the photograph from Bobby's hand. It showed two boys perched on the hood of an old rusted sedan. The older taller boy had short hair and looked about twelve while the other, leaning into his shoulder had a mop of wild dark hair and was younger by several years.
"Me and Sean?" Dean brushed his fingers lightly over the surface on the print, eyes fixed on the young faces before him.
"Yes." Bobby said, and perhaps he said it a little too forcefully, but he could give this to Dean, give him a little bit of Sam to hold onto, even if the kid never understood what is was he had.
"I'm sorry Dean; you've not had the easiest time of it, since then. In and out of jobs and women." Dean stared at him and smirked, Bobby felt a faint flush of embarrassment. "You know what I mean," he growled. "You showed up here a last month, said your last girlfriend had kicked you out of the house, so you slung in your job and hitched your way here. You're good, as a mechanic, that's what you do when you're not getting into trouble and sometimes you turn up and help me out. I can't complain and you seem to like it." Bobby shrugged, hell he could still spin 'em out with the best of them.
Dean shook his head, letting the photograph drop from his fingers. It landed on top of the fake licenses.
"So there goes the fantasy of fabulous wealth then, dammit." He stared bleakly at the three flimsy reminders of his life. "I've got to admit this is kind of a downer."
You don't know the half of it, Bobby thought grimly. "Go get some sleep, Dean. We can sort out the rest tomorrow."
"It is tomorrow." Dean rose from his seat and started for the stairs before swinging around and scooping up the photograph. "Good night, Bobby."
Bobby waited until he could hear the low buzz of snoring coming from the spare room, with any luck; he had enough time to get to town and back.
Things had taken a little longer than planned and by the time he staggered back into his kitchen, weighted down by groceries and fresh coffee, it was dusk. The lights were on in the living room, scratchy music from one of his many refurbished radios blared across the room. Dean stuck his head through the doorway.
"You're back then," he remarked blandly.
"Uh-huh." Bobby dumped his purchases on the table, suspicion prickling down his spine. "How's it going?"
"Nowhere." Dean moved from the doorway, in his hands piled against his chest were several books, old and worn and irreplaceable. "Interesting reading matter you keep around here. Everything you ever wanted to know about the supernatural, from amulets to zombies, but were afraid to ask. I'm assuming I knew about your little hobby?" Dean placed the stack of books next to the bagged groceries and plucked one of the coffees from its cardboard tray. "I'm assuming I knew enough to get zapped by some long legged beastie that goes bump in the night." He tapped the topmost book.
Bobby knew the book by sight, Isaac Beaverbrook's Compendium of Ancient Spells and Curses. Useful for turning your neighbor's milk sour and inducing sneezing fits that lasted for hours, but not so much for counteracting demon deals.
Bobby kept his face impassive and shrugged carelessly.
"You have helped me out on occasion, although you've never had much patience for, and I quote, my superstitious mumbo jumbo and cut rate ghost busting." He picked up the remaining coffee and sat down. "Dean, I don't know what to say. The other night, it was a possession, a nasty one. A vicious little demon that pulled every trick in the book, but we got it out in the end and the family will be fine. The memory wipe was meant for me, if I couldn't remember anything I couldn't do anything, you got caught in the crossfire so to speak. I don't know how to undo it, yet. Give it some time, kid. I'll ask around, some other hun.." Why the word suddenly stuck in his throat, Bobby didn't know but the thought of letting Dean privy to the world of hunters seemed wrong, he coughed. "Other ghost busters might have come across this before."
Dean nodded absently, running his fingers over the worn book covers. "Whatever."
Bobby frowned, Dean was far too accepting of the whole situation. Was it part of Sam's deal with Lilith, not only stealing Dean's memories but removing Dean's drive and curiosity, undermining any effort to seek out his past?
Dean pulled the books under his arm. "I'll put them back," he looked back over his shoulder and headed for the stairs, not the living room, "after I've read them all." He gave Bobby a wicked grin and raised his coffee cup in salute.
Bobby allowed himself a small smile. Dean Singer would be okay.
S s S s S
Sam sat on the back pew of the small church. Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception stood in the shade of two large and rundown apartment blocks in the less fashionable part of town. The cool interior providing a respite from the dry relentless heat. He would come in every afternoon if he wasn't on the road and just sit, he'd given up on prayer months ago, no one was listening, he was sure of that, sometimes though, he'd light a candle, an act of remembrance for those he had lost and he sit up front and watch the flickering flame until the wax, like his life, had melted away. It was, for the most part, an emotionless exercise, Sam didn't have the energy to expend on feelings anymore but sitting in the quiet of the old church had become a habit and in the deep recesses of what was left of his soul it gave him comfort.
Today he sat hunched over, cradling his bruised and cracked ribs, the result of being thrown down the stairs of an abandoned house by a particularly fractious and very restless spirit. He hadn't been paying attention, thinking the job too easy and too routine, he gotten a little sloppy of late and the cuts and scrapes all over his body were a stinging reminder.
A door creaked open just to the right of the altar and Father Joseph came in to prepare for the early evening mass, it was only twice a week and Sam liked to sit and watch the old man putter about the church.
"Samuel." The old priest inclined his head in Sam's direction.
"Father," Sam rasped. He hadn't spoken to anyone for about three days.
"How goes the fight, my child." Father Joseph peered over the top of his glasses, an offhand if genuine enquiry.
Sam was silent. He had told the priest his name and nothing more, whatever Father Joseph thought of Sam's presence in his church week in week out he never said, he was, as ever, courteous and patient and if Sam had cared enough he probably would have admitted to liking the old guy.
"It never stops." The words fell from his lips, low and sharp, welling up unbidden.
Father Joseph looked mildly surprised and walking up the aisle came to stand at the end of the pew.
"Have you considered, young man that it is a fight that you do not need to take up?"
Sam stared straight ahead, a large ornate crucifix hung above the altar, Spanish in style; it was made of ebony, trimmed with gold and bearing a brutally realistic figure suspended against the cool cream wall of the church.
"Isn't it our duty, Father, to take up our burdens and suffer for our sins?" Sam stiffened slightly as Father Joseph took a seat next to him, the priest let out a quiet sigh.
"There are some who will tell you that and while it is important to realize our responsibilities, if we surrender ourselves to the Lord, he will lift our sorrows. There is peace in his care and forgiveness."
"I have surrendered, Father, to my true self and there will be no mercy in heaven or hell for me." Sam's gaze lingered on the contorted agony presented on the cross.
"There is nothing that the Lord will not forgive, Samuel. Nothing that can't be undone if you truly repent."
"I can repent all I want, but nothing's going to change who I am or what I am." Sam knew no other truth.
"And what do you think you are?" Father Joseph asked with gentle curiosity. Sam dropped his head and clasped his hands together in his lap; the old man probably thought he was just a lonely drop out, an addict wasting his life on chemical highs and petty theft. He turned to Father Joseph, but the words he had chosen were not the ones that came tumbling from his lips in a rushed freefall of anger and desperation.
"I'm someone who can't be saved, I'm someone who can take hell and twist it around their little finger and even the devil herself can't stop me, and the more I do it, the easier it gets and the more I like it." Sam reached out a shaking hand, long fingers clamping down around the priest's bony wrist, his voice deepening in its intensity. "I want it to stop but there's no one left anymore who can do that."
Father Joseph paled, blinking rapidly for a few seconds in well contained surprise. He brought his free hand to rest over Sam's, still clenched around his arm. The priests hand was warm and the heat radiated across his flesh, it was the first human touch Sam had experienced in months. The light touch made his chest ache and filled him with an unbearable longing for the one person he had sworn to himself to never see again. He jerked his hand away, he felt exposed, coming to the church had been a mistake.
Father Joseph's eyes never left him. "Whatever you think you are Sam, you are still human, still a child of the Divine. You are what you are seeking. Have faith in your path, it's the only way."
Sam managed a small twisted smile. "You honestly believe that, that there's salvation within everyone, regardless of the evil they do."
"I have to." Father Joseph replied, his tone flat, and Sam could smell the fear hiding behind the black robes, contaminating the faith proclaimed by the rosary at his waist.
"That doesn't make you right, Father. It just makes you a responsible employee." Sam stood abruptly, feeling jittery, his hands fluttering restlessly in agitation. "I have to go." He shuffled along, knees bumping against the wooden bench, exiting at the opposite end to Father Joseph, who watched him silently as he left.
Outside the bright afternoon sunshine dazzled his tired eyes, keeping his eyes down he headed across the street to an ugly and dirty apartment building.
A small one room and bathroom, his chosen accommodation of three months, it was cheap, anonymous and nobody cared who he was or what he did, the rent paid in advance. It was somewhere to sleep, it was not a home. The Impala was parked in a spot a few yards from his front door.
There was no air conditioning in the small room, Sam flicked a switch and a dusty ceiling fan wobbled dangerously to life, barely disturbing the air. Sam sank down onto the lumpy bed. The throb of his bruises making it impossible to completely relax and combined with the stifling heat the room felt airless, a vacuum, an empty space that existed separate from the rest of the world. Sam closed his eyes, it wasn't only the loneliness or the isolation, he was beginning to believe that he was gradually fading from existence, waning into a twilight world where only he and the monsters lived.
He opened his eyes and as he took in the worn fixtures of the room and his meager possessions he was filled with a treacherous impulse and before he could stop himself the thought was fully formed and reaching out.
Come. Now. There was a short burst of pain that arced behind his eyes.
And she did. Seeping under the door, Sam never bothered with wards or charms, he didn't need them, she filled the room with her dark presence before taking form and perching on the end of the bed. She was obviously irritated.
"What is it this time?" Lilith snapped, "I was in the middle of something." She flicked her long hair back from her face and pouted at Sam.
Sam put his hands behind his head and peered down his nose at her. This he could cope with, here he was in control and that power filled the void and he could forget for a while. He yawned and lifted a hand to wave in her direction.
"Just making sure you're keeping your end of the deal."
Lilith rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes. I am. I'm being a good little demon." She smiled slyly at him. "Under the circumstances."
Sam frowned. "You know what I mean, you'd better be keeping away from him and you had better be making sure the others are too. If I hear that anyone or anything's been within a hundred miles of him, there's going to be trouble and you won't like it."
Lilith leaned forward, lying across the bed and propping her chin up on Sam's knee.
"Stop fussing, I've spread the word, hands off Dean Winchester. Now is there anything else, I'm busy."
"No. You can go."
Lilith sat up, a calculating gleam in her eyes. Sam ignored her.
"Is that really the reason you dragged me here?"
Sam closed his eyes again. "Get out".
The bed shifted again and the weight of a hand landed on his chest. His eyes flew open. Lilith's face was inches from his own.
"You're not checking up on me, you're bringing me here because you've no one else. Aw. Poor Sammy, what a lonely little boy."
Sam didn't move. "Get out," he repeated quietly, a tiny spark of something angry and hot condensing in his chest.
She fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly. "You only had to ask," she purred and mouthed his chest, the press of icy cold filtering through his clothes. She ran her hand down his chest and settled it firmly over his button fly, sliding her fingers between the gaps.
"It's okay," she cooed, "I know you've got a thing for cute blondes. It'll be fun, I can be anyone. Let me." She lowered her voice. "Jessica," she whispered drawing out the name, where it lingered, caught in the stale air between them.
Sam flinched at the recoil as his thin internal restraints snapped, the dark weight of anger igniting deep within him and flashing outward, breaking through his skin with a rush of static that swept across the room. Lilith was flung back from the bed and slammed into the opposite wall, feet dangling above the floor.
Sam rolled off the bed onto the floor, pulling himself to his knees, his skin felt like it was being ripped from his bones and the bitter taste of bile rose in his throat.
"My, how you've grown." Lilith pulled her head from the dent in had made in the wall. "Break this body all you want, it makes no difference to me," she sneered. "Amateur."
It boiled to the surface again, a bubble of rage and burning hatred bursting across his flesh. His adrenaline surged, the room shook and this time Lilith screamed, her eyes rolled to black, bulging in their sockets, thick black tears seeped from behind her eyelashes. She flung her head back, jaw stretched, a demon trying to escape its human cage.
"Stop." She was begging now.
Sam clutched at the tattered bedspread next to him and threw up, vomit splattering into his face. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and screwed his eyes shut; he could feel the blood trickling from his nose. Lilith screamed again and choked, the dark viscous liquid now flowing from her mouth and muffling her cries until it blocked the noise entirely. She stopped struggling, Sam rested his throbbing head against the bed dragging in a deep shuddering breath and Lilith dropped to the floor, limbs twitching. Sam crawled over to her and grabbed her face, digging his fingers in, wrenching her head toward him. Black eyes blinked out to bloodshot white and dilated pupils.
"Here endeth the lesson for today, bitch," Sam spat. He got unsteadily to his feet and staggered for the door, slamming it behind him.
S s S s S
It was about one in the morning when Dean got home. The light was on in the kitchen, Bobby was something of a night owl, usually pottering around until midnight, this was late for him. Dean found him sitting at the kitchen table staring resentfully at his telephone.
"Great invention, the 'phone." Dean remarked casually, opening the 'fridge and pulling out the milk, the late shift at the bar always left him with a taste for diary products.
"I don't want to tell you again, get a glass." Bobby muttered and then harrumphed at the cell phone.
Dean poured his milk. "Want some? Okay, no need to get pissy. So what's wrong?"
Bobby glared at him, Dean had seen that particular expression on at least two previous occasions in the last month or so, each time letting the matter drop, by mutual if silent agreement.
"Somebody called you with a job, yeah?" Dean finished his milk, trying to contain the fluttering excitement growing in him. Bobby was going to give in eventually, he was counting on it.
Bobby mouth straightened into a hard determined line and he crossed his arms.
Dean grinned, "Wow, must have been an interesting story. Come on, Bobby. You've haven't been busting for weeks, not since..."
"Please don't call it that," Bobby grimaced. "Yes, since your unfortunate accident I haven't taken anything up. Dean, the last job with you was a complete screw up and could've ended really badly. Maybe it's time I quit. There are others out there, faster, meaner and whole lot more invested in it than I am."
Dean made a short rude noise, poking his tongue out. "Oh yeah, I forgot, you're decrepit, time to cash in those chips and buy yourself that mobile home in Florida. For God's sake Bobby, if you meant that why do always looked so god damned pissed about turning down a chance to put down creepy old Casper. I've got eyes and a brain and although it likes to spend of lot of its time on the various attributes of girls and cars, I know its part of your life, a big part," Dean leaned forward across the table, rapping it with his knuckles. "Go on," he cajoled, "tell me about this job. We could do it. I want to."
Bobby heaved out an enormous sigh, grinding his palms into his eyes. "You're right and wrong; I promised myself that I'd keep you out of it from now on, but I need to do this one. You, however, can stay here."
"No way." Dean was startled by his own vehemence, it was more than excitement, it was a persistent and nagging need; one's whose origin was lost to him.
Bobby picked up the cell phone and shook his head in resignation. "Willa called; she's having trouble with a property she just bought."
"Aunt Willa?" Bobby nodded. "Nutty Aunt Willa, the one with the six cats, three ex-husbands and a sideline in patchouli and tarot cards? Hey, she's family. We got to help her out," Dean finished gleefully.
"Okay, but you do exactly what I say." Bobby surrendered and Dean could not contain a small fist pump of triumph.
S s S s S
Aunt Willa was waiting at the end of the path that led to her newly acquired renovation project. Dean slid from the driver's seat and stared at the old building. It was an old clapboard chapel surrounded by an overgrown churchyard, there were no sign of headstones or grave markers and it was hard to tell what lay beneath the tangled brush and swaying grasses. A faded sign above the chapel door read St Hubert's.
"Dean," Willa gave a robust cry and dragged him into a heartfelt hug, his ribs creaking in complaint. "It's been too long, sweetie. Bobby told me what happened; still you're more handsome than ever." She gave him a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek.
"Willa, put him down before you break him." Bobby came around the truck; Dean was released as Willa descended upon her younger brother. Dean watched with amusement as Willa soundly kissed her brother. Bobby gave her a quick squeeze and Dean heard him quietly say 'thank you.'
"So, you bought an old church. Nicely done, Willa. Have you gone completely insane, I mean over and above your usual level of lunacy? What the hell do you want it for anyway?" Bobby walked up to the gate that rested on one rusting hinge attached to the end post of a rickety and now long unpainted picket fence and peered down the path.
Willa placed her hands on her ample hips and snorted, her eyes, so much like Bobby's, crinkling up with displeasure. Her long red hair, liberally streaked with grey, was tied back in single braid and she was wearing a flowing batik print dress of muted greens and purples, Dean leaned back against the truck and grinned, family could be so entertaining.
"I'm going to turn it into an art studio and gallery. It was a very good deal."
"Oh, there's a surprise. I wonder why." Bobby kicked at the gate, which snapped off its only anchor and clattered onto the paving stones, sending a shower of dust and splinters into the air.
"Do you mind?" Willa elbowed Bobby aside and pulled the gate up, propping it against the fence. "As a matter of fact the realtor did mention that it was reported to be haunted. Nothing I thought a bit of sage and chanting wouldn't clear, unfortunately whatever it is, refuses to go. My contractor won't go near the place. That's why you're here, Robert dear. Time to bring out the big guns." Willa turned and winked at Dean.
Bobby glared at them both and jabbed a finger at his sister. "You, keep out of the way, and you," he aimed at Dean, "you do what you're told." He went to the back of the truck and began unloading his gear.
Willa smiled fondly after him. "He was just the same when he was little. Always had control issues, I think it comes from being a middle child."
Bobby marched past them, shoving a tote bag at Dean. "Let's get this over with."
S s S s S
Dean rounded the corner, shotgun high against his chest and let loose a wild shot, luckily his aim found the blurry figure barely visible in the shadow of the chapel wall. The flying salt cut through the apparition and it disappeared. Dean took a breath, his heart pumping wilding, adrenaline singing jubilantly through his veins, he lowered the shotgun and held out a hand.
"You okay there, Bobby?"
Bobby took his offered hand and got slowly to his feet, dusting himself off. "Yeah. Thanks, good shot kid. I think I've found it. He's getting more aggressive so I'm pretty sure we're in the right spot."
Behind Bobby, under the chapel window was a pile of old grave markers. According to Willa's realtor the bodies had been moved to a larger cemetery some years before, apart, Bobby had concluded, from one grave, hidden in the untidy jungle of the small churchyard. Using some hocus pocus from a source he refused to identify Bobby had tracked it down, digging out an old iron marker that had been missed, before being interrupted by the lost grave's inhabitant, or at least, his ghost. A former and rather curmudgeonly old soldier if the wavering image of his spirit was anything to go by, apparently somewhat upset at being left behind or as Bobby quipped, Willa's appalling taste in art.
"What now?" Dean had little success in containing his enthusiasm. Bobby gave him a funny look.
"Dig him up and salt and burn the remains. That should leave Willa free to terrorize the local art community and leave me in peace." Bobby pointed a shovel he had retrieved toward a patch of thick grass and tangled vines. "Just there. I'll take that." He relieved Dean of the gun and thrust the shovel at him. "You dig, I'll salt."
"And I'll burn?" Dean asked eagerly. Bobby rolled his eyes.
"Yes."
They left the little chapel sitting peacefully in the late afternoon sun and headed for Willa's house, a neat little rancher on the other side of town.
S s S s S
The inside of the house was very modern, a complete contrast to Bobby's randomly eclectic style of decorating.
Willa herded Dean into the living room and was banging pots and pans about in the kitchen while interrogating Bobby. Dean sank into a well stuffed leather sofa on the end of which sat the biggest cat he had ever seen. It black and sleek, one ear ragged and torn, a scarred testament to many a back alley scuffle. It regarded him through orange slitted eyes.
"Hello kitty," Dean was always polite to strange cats.
The cat yawned showing a mouth full of long sharp teeth, it opened its eyes wider and gazed insolently at him. It pushed out its front paws, baring curved claws, six on each foot and raised its rump, stretching forward, tail high in the air before padding across the cushions and climbing into Dean's lap. It stared up at him, and sitting upright placed a paw on his chest, the tips of its claws piercing his shirt and pricking his flesh. Dean stared back and the cat gave a quiet hiss, jumped lightly from his lap and sauntered from the room.
"I see you've met Sinbad." Willa appeared at the door way. "Touch of the devil in that one. The others are around somewhere, so watch your step. Supper's ready, I hope you like lasagna."
Willa was a much better cook than her brother, and even Bobby seemed more relaxed than Dean had seen him in the last couple of months. After two helpings of homemade pasta, garlic bread and red wine Dean was feeling comfortably mellow. Willa cleared away the plates and retrieving a large dish from the stove placed it before Bobby, who stiffened in his seat.
"It's peach cobbler, Bobby. Ma's old recipe. Your favorite." Willa told him with artificial sweetness.
"I know what it is, Willa dearest, and I also know you only make it for me when you want something," Bobby eyed the dessert as if it might crawl from the dish and launch an attack.
"I've got ice cream too." Willa sat down.
"Oh God, just how bad is it?" Bobby groaned and pulled the cobbler toward him, helping himself to a generous dollop before pushing it across to Dean. Dean spooned some into his own bowl, keeping his eyes on Willa. It was another job, he just knew it. Something big.
"You're too cynical for your own good, Bobby." Willa said primly, topping up everybody's wine glass. "Do you remember Merle Baxter?"
Bobby, who had a mouth full of cobbler, shook his head.
"Oh yes you do, Dennis' cousin," Willa smiled at Dean, "Dennis, ex. number two. Well, it's her neighbor, a dear old fellow, getting on in years; he lives by himself in a small cottage on a couple acres. Merle pops by every few days, you know, checks up on him, helps with the groceries and the like, she's being doing that for a couple of years, he can't walk too far. So anyway, about two weeks ago she went by to drop off some baking she'd done and there he was, striding about the place, looking as fit as a fiddle, of course she was amazed. But..." Willa paused looking between the two men; Bobby was staring at her, the blood draining from his face. Dean's pulse quickened. "But when she went up to him, she said it was like he was someone else, he said awful things to her, personal things, wicked things. Merle may be a God fearing woman but she knows that there are things out there. She called me. Bobby, please."
Bobby was out of his chair, back to them, Dean could see the fine tremors running across his shoulders. "I thought I made it clear, Willa, I don't do that anymore."
Dean was surprised, Bobby was angry. Willa was starting to look a little less confident and a lot more worried.
"You did, and I wouldn't have asked if it hadn't been a call from a friend, a good friend. Merle's helped me out, more than once. I understand if you can't do it, perhaps you could contact someone who can help."
"Bobby," Dean started and then flinched as Bobby swung around, and thumped his fist on the table.
"Don't even go there Dean. It's not going to happen, get it?"
Dean gritted his teeth in frustration, his own anger slowly building. "Maybe, maybe not. In case you hadn't noticed I am an adult and frankly, I can do whatever the hell I want. I've done some reading and I think I could sort this out."
Bobby laughed bitterly, "This isn't some trip to Disneyland and a ride on the ghost train, kid. Things like this have a way of turning bad and staying that way. You're way out of your league."
"Don't fucking patronize me," Dean pushed back from the table, fists clenched, fighting the sudden and almost overwhelming need to punch someone or something.
"Boys!" Willa's voice was sharp and commanding. "That's enough from both of you. I'm sorry, this is my fault. Let's drop it. I'll deal with it."
Dean forced himself to unclench his hands, rolling his shoulders he sat back down.
Bobby seemed to deflate, slouching into his chair and burying his face in his hands. "Fuck it. This was never going to work," he mumbled. "It's okay Willa, we'll do it."
Dean grinned and lifted his wine glass. "Cheers."
S s S s S
A/N: There will be more, though I don't know whether the boys dilemma will ever be resolved…