A/N: Thanks again for the awesome response to the first chapter. I'll admit that, while I have a good portion of this done, it's rambling and out of order. Reviews like that really help motivate. :) It's also good to know that this makes somebody, other than myself, smile. Constructive criticism is SO welcome. Thanks.
Men of Faith, Chapter 1
"Alright." Dean takes a deep breath. "Okay. Nothing's changed. We still have to get rid of the body. The spirit will follow the body out of my car and we can call it a night." He claps his hands and grins. "Easy."
Sam nods.
"Um…excuse me?"
Dean leans into the car. "What?"
The ghost straightens his spine. "I don't think I want to go in there."
"Well too bad, Casper. You're going whether you like it or not."
"Dean." Sam quiets him with a glare and sinks back into the passenger seat. He turns to face the deceased. "Sir, I…" He presses his lips together and tries again. "This may be a bit of a shock, but, um…you're dead," he finishes bluntly.
"I'd figured as much," the man replies stiffly. "I do have eyes." He points at himself, the corpse on which he now sits.
"And, uh, you're okay with this?" Sam asks slowly.
"I don't see where I have another option, unless I intend to pull a Lazarus, eh?" He smiles goofily at his own joke.
Sam nods encouragingly and the man continues.
"I guess this must be purgatory then." He glances between Sam and Dean. "You two must have died awfully young."
Dean straightens his jacket and sits back in the car with a huff. "We ain't dead, Fred."
"You must be, though. This is purgatory. You have to be dead."
"If this is purgatory, then what's your body doing here?" Dean raises his eyebrows.
"Oh." The man's faint features crease into a deeper frown as he takes in his still body. Slowly, he raises a hand and holds it in front of his face, finally noticing the translucent quality. "Huh."
Dean rolls his eyes.
"Dean." Sam's voice is suddenly tense and he motions out the windshield.
A security guard is prowling the parking lot, wandering closer and closer to their car. Their car, with a very visible corpse sprawled on the backseat.
Just as the guard flicks his flashlight on and over the hood, Dean starts the engine and pulls away, sending a sarcastic salute to the guard as they cruise past. He turns out onto the main road. "Cover him up, would you?"
Sam reaches over the backseat to cover the body with the wool, army blanket.
"Am I a ghost?" the man asks as the blanket passes through his abdomen and settles there.
"Something like that." Sam nods. "Are you sure you're okay with all of this?"
"I don't feel any different," the deceased says slowly. "You'd think you'd feel different, but I don't. I'm just…curious." He glances between them, looking for reassurance that isn't quite there. "As long as you two didn't kill me, I seem to be in good hands, eh?" He smiles nervously and swallows. "You didn't, did you?"
"No!" Sam answers quickly as Dean starts to laugh. "No, we didn't. We just found you."
"In a trunk?"
"Yes." Sam nods.
"In your trunk?"
"No, well, yeah. I mean, you were in this car that I stole, or, uh, borrowed."
"What were you stealing a car for?" the ghost asks critically.
"Hey buddy," Dean interjects. "I don't think you're in any position to be judging."
"No, it's okay," Sam says quickly.
"Naw, Sam. He's just a stupid spirit. And let me tell you, upstanding citizens don't often find themselves in trunks."
"People get kidnapped, Dean."
"Does he look like a kid to you?"
"It doesn't matter. You know that. Anybody can be kidnapped."
"He's probably a drug dealer or something," Dean goes on irreverently. He looks into the rearview mirror. "Deal gone bad, Freddy?"
"Dean, I don't think…"
"Actually," the man interjects calmly. "I was a priest."
"This just keeps getting better and better." Dean sighs and fixes Sam with a glare across the table. "And it's your fault." He points his fork at Sam. "Putting the dead guy in my trunk."
"His name is Father Henry."
"I prefer dead guy."
"Of course you do." Sam pushes his mashed potatoes around on the plate. He wasn't really hungry, but they had some time before they could make a second attempt at the hospital and Dean had insisted they stop for a bite.
Opposite Sam in the booth, Dean inhales his sandwich like it isn't two o'clock in the morning and they don't have a dead body in their backseat.
"How can you eat that now?"
Dean shrugs and talks around a mouthful. "It's good."
"Uh-huh." Sam nods skeptically.
"Want a bite?" Dean offers him the sandwich.
"Nope." Sam grins tightly and holds up a forkful of mashed potatoes. "Got my own." It doesn't even smell appetizing though. Reluctantly, he sets his fork down and pushes the plate to the side. He leans over to peer out the window, cupping his hands to block the light from inside the diner. "You think he's okay out there?"
"Nobody's going to steal him, Sammy."
"I know." Sam rolls his eyes.
"And I wouldn't bet on him running away."
"No kidding."
"He seems to be pretty well adjusted," Dean finally says seriously. "I don't think you need to worry."
Satisfied with this, Sam leans back in the booth and stretches his legs out into the aisle. "So how do you think he died?"
"Good dinner conversation." Dean grins.
"It's two o'clock in the morning, man. Seriously. I didn't see any wounds." Sam shrugs. "If it was murder, there'd be evidence of that, right?"
Dean sets his food down and takes a swig of water. "Did you see those red marks on his neck and hands?"
"No." Sam shakes his head. "What, you think he was strangled?"
"No, no. They're not like that. They're big splotches, sort of like a rash. It's called lividity."
"Lividity?"
"Yeah. When a body dies, the blood isn't flowing anymore so it starts to pool in the veins and stuff. It causes discoloration on the skin, called lividity."
"Good dinner conversation." Sam smirks.
"Yeah, well." Dean shrugs. "On our man, Henry, those marks were bright, scarlet red."
"So what's that mean?"
"It means he was murdered." Dean wavers for a moment and shrugs again. "Or suicidal."
"How?" Sam leans forward. "What killed him?"
Dean takes a huge bite of sandwich, throws his head back and croons in the worst AC/DC rendition ever, "Concrete shoes!"
Sam stares at him for a long moment before it clicks and he can finish the line. "Cyanide."
"Cyanide?" Sam repeats, trying to make the idea a little more graspable. "People really do that?"
"People really do that." Dean nods.
"I thought it was just in James Bond movies and those cheesy mystery novels."
"You read cheesy mystery novels?"
Sam blinks. "No."
"Uh-huh." Dean smirks.
Sam frowns at him. "Can we be serious for two seconds, please?"
"You were the one that brought up James Bond."
"Dean. We have to figure this out. I mean, why would someone do that to a priest?"
"We don't have to figure anything out, Sam. We're dropping off the body and then we're done with it. Keepin' our hands clean."
Sam purses his lips. He leans forward onto the table. "Do you think…" He whispers. "Don't you think he knows?"
"How he died?" Dean raises his eyebrows. "No way."
"But, I mean…he was there, right?"
"Yeah, Sam." Dean rolls his eyes. "The guy was probably present at the time of his death."
"So why don't we ask him? Why wouldn't he know?"
"One." Dean holds up a finger. "We don't want to know. And two; Bad shit happens when dead people remember how they died."
"They get angry?" Sam guesses.
"Exactly."
"But Henry seems pretty okay with everything. He isn't…vengeful."
"It doesn't matter how he seems. Ghosts and spirits, new ones anyway, it's like they're dreaming they're falling and never hitting the ground. If he remembers, if we make him remember…"
"Splat?"
Dean nods grimly. "Yep."
Dean has this aversion to religious leaders. He respects them, sure, he just doesn't like to be within three feet of the people.
Sam figures it has something to do with Pastor Jim frequently warming his knuckles with a ruler.
"Alright, Father," Dean says as he sits behind the wheel, back at the hospital and more than ready to get rid of the body already. "We're going to do this again."
"Try again," Sam interjects pessimistically.
"Do or do not do," Dean deadpans. "There is no try."
Sam scoffs. "Yeah, okay Yoda."
Dean shoves his shoulder. "Man, just go get the gurney already."
"Wait a minute."
They turn simultaneously to see Father Henry. "What?"
"What exactly are you boys planning to do?"
"We're just going to drop your body off here."
"So they can send you home."
Henry squints his ghostly eyes at them. "Why can't you just take my body home?"
"We don't know where you're from."
There's a pause.
"I know where I'm from," Henry says.
Dean groans and leans forward to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. "Better and better, Sammy. Better and better."
"Why can't we just airmail him?"
"He is sitting right behind you, Dean."
"Hey, buddy," Dean calls, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Would you mind if we stuck your, uh, you in the out-of-town box?"
Henry turns slowly away from the window. "I don't think I'd fit."
"He doesn't think he'd fit." Dean laughs quietly, glancing over at Sam. "We'd just have to get a really big box…some of those peanuts…duct tape and shove him in there with…bubbles…" He trails off, catching the glare Sam is sending him. He clears his throat. "Anyway, I'm just saying, you know, it would save us the trip."
"We'd probably be passing through here next week anyway," Sam points out. "It's not going to save us any trip. We're always…tripping."
"You're always tripping."
"Shut up."
"You first."
"Are you kidding me?"
"So…" Father Henry interrupts calmly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the front seat. "You boys live out of this car?"
If he thinks it's a good way to diffuse the situation, he's wrong.
"Sort of."
"Pretty much."
"There are resources at the church," Henry says slowly. "We have many programs to help the homeless."
"We aren't homeless," Dean snaps quickly. "We just…"
"Live out of a car?"
Dean falls silent at this and Sam dares a glance over at him. Personally, he'd never thought of them in those terms, never even crossed his mind, not even in all those times growing up that he had spent cold nights curled in the backseat, because they couldn't find or afford a motel.
They had a home it was just different. It was every room in every lodge and motel they stayed at. It was the Impala. It was everywhere Dad and Dean were.
"We just travel a lot," Dean finally says. "For work."
"And what is your work?" Henry asks in a tone that implies he still sort of thinks they might be hit men.
"We help people," Sam says. "Like you to…crossover."
"You make us sound like John Edwards," Dean gripes.
"And you travel a lot to do this?" Henry asks, undaunted.
"Yep. All over the country." Dean grins at him. "Even Utah."
"You know," Henry says thoughtfully. "I've been to South America and Africa and Europe doing missionary work, but I never made it east of the Mississippi."
"Actually, you did."
"In life." Henry frowns at Dean. "I always wanted to see New York City. The Statue of Liberty."
"You aren't missing much," Sam puts in, in an effort to make him feel better. "It's just a big statue. And it's moldy."
"Still." Henry shrugs. "I'd like to have seen it for myself."
"No regrets," Dean tells him.
Henry turns again to look out the window, at the dark plains spread out around them. "Everyone has regrets," he says quietly. "You're lying to yourself if you think you don't. The trick is just not to get hung up by it. The past is the past. I could never regret the life I lived anyway. It would be a disservice to everyone I ever loved or knew. This death thing though…" He shakes his head and smiles wryly. "I have to say, it's not quite what I expected."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"Oh, it's not disappointing, Dean. It's just not what I'd always thought. I figured I'd move on right away. Never thought I had so many issues. Unfinished business." He glances between them and goes on when neither of them says anything. "But that's what you two are for, eh? My very own spiritual guides."
"Spiritual guides." Dean scoffs. "Even better."
"That's not what you do? I mean, I'll admit you're not exactly what I would expect either. A bit unconventional…I never thought the afterlife would be spent in the back of a car, being trucked around by a couple of kids with bad manners."
"Bad manners?" Dean interrupts, clearly put off. "You think we have bad manners?" He turns to Sam. "Tell him, Sammy. We're the politest bastards you could ever run into."
Sam gapes at him, shifting uncomfortably. "Um…"
"Never mind," Dean goes on. "Are you sure we can't UPS him?"
"No." Sam glances between his brother and Henry, who is smiling impishly, clearly enjoying rattling them. "Definitely not."
"Yeah," Dean agrees and sighs. "Postage would be insane anyway."
tbc...
