Wrecked Angles
Summary: A jail, ghosts, the police, impending disaster…
Alllrighty… Pardon the delay. Now that the site is willing to cooperate, on we go!
Chapter Two
"Doug?"
Sam and Dean walked into the hospital room to find the 60ish looking man they had rescued the night before sitting up in bed. A pleasantly plump gray-haired woman sat in a chair beside him, holding his hand.
"How are you feeling?" Sam asked.
"I'll be all right," the man replied tiredly. "Just took a knock to the head. You… You're the men I called?"
They nodded. "Sam." Dean pointed. "I'm Dean."
"You pulled me out of the fire, didn't you?" The man coughed and the woman beside him hurriedly reached for a glass of water. "The firemen told me two young men carried me out, but then disappeared."
"We found you having some quality time with the lobby floor," Dean offered. "You want to tell us what happened?"
"Ruth," the man said, "could you give us a minute, honey?"
The woman nodded. She stood and had almost walked past them when she stopped. "I'm grateful… for my husband. Both of you." Her face was stricken, lined by time and grief, and Dean was reminded that the couple had lost their son only days before.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Avery," Dean said quietly. He knew the look she wore. It was the same look he'd seen for days, weeks even, every time he'd glanced in the mirror after their dad had died. They ran into it often enough in their line of work. But after their dad… it had felt different, seeing that look. The woman seemed broken.
"Thank you," she answered woodenly. She looked up and Dean didn't want to know what she saw in his face, because her expression suddenly softened and she brushed a tear away. "Thank you," she said again. "He… he was a good boy."
Dean nodded. He knew there really wasn't anything else to say. There never was.
Sam cleared his throat and Dean saw that he was watching him, his eyes silently asking if he were all right. Dean immediately straightened his shoulders and rubbed a hand over his chin. He really should shave one of these days, he thought absently.
Dean waited for Ruth to leave before turning back to the man on the bed, his no-nonsense expression firmly in place again. "So what's going on, Doug?"
The man sat up very slowly and slid his legs over the side of the bed so he could face them. "I have no idea." He shook his head back and forth, clearly frustrated. "Yesterday, I went to the jail to meet you. I had no sooner walked into the lobby than someone clobbered me over the head. The next thing I know, I wake up here and my wife is crying."
"What about your son?" Dean asked more carefully. "You didn't tell us much on the phone. Do you know why he might have been there?"
"My son…" The former guard's voice broke and he cleared his throat. "You know he… was a policeman. He must have seen something odd and was checking the building."
"But you said he was panicked when he called you," Sam hinted. "If he was on duty why wouldn't he radio for help?"
"Once again, I just don't know," Doug sighed. "I told the boys stories when they were little. Ghost stories really. About the jail. That might be why he called me."
Dean doubted that. When real disaster struck, especially something that couldn't be explained rationally, people had a tendency to regress and yell for mommy. Or in this case he'd called Daddy. "Anything ever happen at the jail that you know about?" Dean asked. "Anyone ever get badly hurt or… killed even?"
Doug put a hand to his head like it was hurting. "Years ago… but since then… It's all just ghost stories," he said, as if he didn't really believe that was true. "I don't really know anything for certain."
"Somebody does," Dean said, pointing to Doug's head.
"I suppose so," the man said.
"Who knows you called us?" Sam asked. "That should narrow who might have wanted you out of commission."
Doug actually snorted. "Haven't spent much time around cops have you?"
"More than we'd like," Dean replied dryly. He'd tried to talk Sam out of taking the job altogether. Sure, these people needed help, but the Winchesters and law enforcement were known to have problems getting along from time to time.
"Policemen gossip more than old women," Doug said. "Half the time they are running around from disaster to disaster, but the rest of the time, they talk." He smiled tolerantly. "Their job is to be in other people's business, knowing who knows who and who knows what. Everyone's fair game. All I had to do was tell one person and in 24 hours every single cop in town, every jail officer, dispatcher, everybody at the courthouse…" He shook his head. "Ten bucks says even the metermaids know. Something this crazy… it's too good a bit of gossip not to pass on. After Nick… I'm sure they think I've lost it, calling in the ghostbusters."
All three men looked up and turned at the sound of movement behind them. Four policemen walked into the small hospital room, all unsmiling, their watchful eyes glued to them. Two were in city blue, one was in Sheriff's Department brown and the fourth was wearing a State Police uniform.
Dean immediately felt his hackles rise. It was a small room and they were most definitely cornered. Almost before he realized what he was doing, his hand began to edge toward the gun resting against the small of his back beneath his jacket. Sam must have guessed that would be his reaction and as inconspicuously as possible set his own hand over the gun, simultaneously blocking Dean from drawing and silently willing him not to do anything rash.
Dean glanced at Sam to say he understood and Sam let his hand drop back. Dean's eyes traveled from officer to officer as each side sized up the other. Finally he grinned. If he couldn't shoot his way out, then the only weapon he had left was his mouth. "Either I'm having an acid flashback or we just walked into a Police Academy movie. Which one of you is Hightower?"
None of the officers smiled. The deputy cleared his throat and looked past them to the man still sitting on the bed. "You didn't tell us they were funny."
"I'd have told you myself if you'd asked," Dean offered. When cornered, talk. It was his standard response. It gave him time to think of something else while he put his mouth on automatic.
"You two have ID?" the trooper asked and the other three officers simply stood and waited.
"None of that," Doug said and in an instant the four men stood down, obeying him as if it were automatic.
Dean knew there was only one thing in the world that followed orders like that. A son. Brothers. The four men had to be brothers and the jail officer had to be their father.
"Be polite," the man ordered. "I told you, boys, you didn't need to talk to them. I will take care of it."
The officer uniformed in brown stepped closer to his father. "Dad, we came here to see if you were all right. You should have called. We had to find out what happened from the night shift when we came in," the man chided. He appeared to be the youngest of the group.
Now that Dean really looked at them, the four men were very similar. Beyond the standard cop haircut and the uniforms, they all had the same short, stocky build, the same oval faces, the same dark hair. Dean tried not to smile as it occurred to him that they looked like a bunch of surly, armed hobbits.
"Sam, Dean," the older man said, "These are my boys. Adam works for the county, Tim is a state trooper, Josh and Ben work for the city." None of the men offered a handshake or even a nod.
"Dad, Tabitha is out in the waiting room with Mom. She was here alone all night," one of the two city officers said, his tone far more accusatory than his brother's had been. "She shouldn't have had to do that."
The older man rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. "You're right, boys. Your mom and I, neither of us is thinking too clearly."
The same son sighed and sat down on the bed beside his father, the picture of what he would look like himself in 30 years. "Sorry," he offered more gently. "It just… surprised us… After Nick…"
"I know, son. I know," Doug smiled sadly. "Not what we needed right now, was it?"
As Doug unashamedly put an arm around his son's shoulders and gave him a quick squeeze, Dean couldn't help feeling a sudden pang of loss. Their dad had never been given to outward shows of emotion, but he'd been there for his sons… in his own way. Dean dared a look at Sam and saw he was wearing an almost wistful expression. Typical, Dean thought. He wanted what he'd lost and Sam was wishing for what he'd never had.
The state trooper cleared his throat drawing everyone's attention. "Have you told them?"
"They just got here," his father answered defensively.
"You know what I mean, sir," the trooper eyed him, giving him no quarter. Two of the other brothers nodded along with him.
"Your father doesn't know much," Dean said, and ordered himself not to flinch as four sets of cop eyes swung in his direction. He knew there was more to it than Daddy was saying. The brothers didn't seem pleased and Doug had at least known enough to call them in the first place.
"Dad, you know there's more to it than just ghost stories," the son sitting on the bed said. "You've always known."
The one officer who had remained silent until that time made an impatient huffing sound. "Dad," he said, and his voice was lower than expected, intense. "You told us yourself, these guys were coming here to help us. We have no idea how to deal with this and they do. Don't tie their hands by not giving them the proper information, no matter how embarrassing it is to admit. Nobody will say it, but we all know something is wrong at the old jail. And whatever is in those cells, it killed Nick."
"Ben…" his father said, almost plaintively.
"So why don't you tell us," Sam said, making eye contact with the officer.
"It's an open secret around here," Ben said. "We made up a whole lot of reasons that we needed a new jail and they all sounded nice and rational. But every officer in this area knows that we moved because that place was a death trap."
"How so?" Dean asked.
Adam, the county officer, cleared his throat. "The group of cells where Nick died… They were left empty unless we had no other choice. And even then, we would handcuff guys to the benches in the lobby before we'd put them in there."
"Why?"
"They'd go freaking nuts," the trooper answered. "Most of the time, they'd start fighting each other, but if one of the jail officers got anywhere near them, they'd attack them and try to rip their head off."
"The rest of the time, we just stayed away," the blue-uniformed officer still sitting beside his father said. Had to be Josh if the one who had returned to being stern and silent was Ben.
"I got locked in one of the cells," Dean offered. "Pulled me right in." The men all looked up at that, like he'd said something interesting. "What?"
"It never did that to police officers or prisoners. Only jail officers," Doug answered.
Dean only shrugged. "But you said your son was a cop."
"Nick worked in the jail as a guard when he was younger. All my kids did," the man explained. "Which means he should have known not to go anywhere near those cells. Especially not at night."
"Any idea what happened to turn that corner into spook central?" Dean asked, watching closely for any sort of reaction. There had to be something. Their dad had nearly been killed just for asking someone to look into a ghost story.
"That's a bit of a problem," the deputy answered. "There was a riot at the jail years and years ago. Two inmates died, but we don't know how. The place would have been a zoo and anything could have happened." He swallowed nervously. "But sometimes… sometimes I swear you could hear voices."
"What did the voices say to you?" Dean asked him and saw the deputy pale visibly.
"Said I was a dead man," Adam replied. "And at the time, I really thought I was."
Dean looked at the others. "How about the rest of you?" They did not respond and he felt a grin spreading across his face. "What? Bunch of tough guys don't want to admit to hearing voices?"
"And you do?" Ben growled.
Dean snorted. "Dude, I hear voices for a living."
"Don't call me dude."
"No problem," Dean continued to smile. He could practically feel Sam at his elbow begging him to be polite. "My brother and I have work to do. I won't call you dude and you don't get in our way."
Ben cocked his head to one side, studying them. "Within reason," was all he responded.
Dean's eyes narrowed. "Just make sure we get a clear path. That's all we need from you. We can't take care of this if one of your buddies arrests us for trespassing."
"Dad?"
The entire group turned toward the door hearing a female voice.
"Come in, Tabitha," Doug said.
"Let me guess," Dean stage-whispered. "FBI? CIA? Navy SEAL?"
The woman bore a marked resemblance to her hobbit-like brothers though nature had been far kinder to her in its arrangement of her dark hair and features. Instead of a uniform, she was wearing business attire, a skirt and blouse. She was pushing a wheelchair in front of her, but came to a halt hearing Dean's question. She looked past them to her father. "You didn't tell us they were funny."
"What were you expecting?" Dean couldn't help asking.
She looked him up and down, and it wasn't flattering. "Something a little less Road Warrior."
"Is this because I didn't shave this morning?" Dean rubbed a hand over his jaw as he'd done earlier.
"Our father told us you were… professionals," she said ruefully.
"I don't think she believes we're pros, Sammy." He glanced over at his brother and they shared a look of commiseration. "We hunt vampires and demons. Rough and tumble is kind of necessary, wouldn't you say?"
"I hate to tell you this, but they don't think you're funny either," Sam smiled innocently.
Dean snorted and they both turned back to the room to find every single person staring at them.
"Sam?" Dean asked out of the side of his mouth.
"Yeah?"
"Why are they looking at us like we just mentioned Uncle Morty's second wife in Utah?" His eyes moved from sibling to sibling.
"Vampires?" the trooper asked.
"Demons?" the deputy said, turning almost green.
Ben was once again giving them an assessing look, though he too appeared startled.
Sam and Dean shared another glance, half-amused, half-exasperated. These people believed in ghosts. They'd spent their entire working lives avoiding a cell block that tried to kill them if they got too close.
Dean scratched at the back of his head. He could feel the thin line of an old scar beneath his fingers, running just under his hair. Ghosts and demons everywhere to haunt him. "You should take your father home. We need anything, we'll call."
The thought seemed to galvanize them all into motion. Doug was quickly assisted into the wheelchair and whisked out the door, followed by three of his sons.
Tabitha stopped very briefly. "I work for the mayor. Don't do anything stupid that will make the papers. Got it?"
"Will do," Dean nodded. A pretty lady, other than the rampant disdain marring her features. She was watching him like he was a wild animal that might go berserk at any moment. It kinda hurt a guy's feelings, even if it was a semi-valid assessment.
"Dean," Sam whispered, as she walked out the door. "You can stop glaring now. I think she got the point."
"It's not like we're rabid," Dean frowned.
The only person left was Ben. He walked a few steps closer to them and stopped. He was still watching them coldly, calculatingly.
"Just spit it out," Dean suggested. Something told him Ben was the oldest of the children. There was something in his demeanor that told Dean that this was the protector, the guardian.
"I don't need to see your ID," he said pointedly. "I already looked you two up."
Sam shifted nervously beside him, but Dean didn't break eye contact with Ben. It was a staring contest and he couldn't afford to flinch. "See any good pictures?"
"I saw plenty."
"This is the part where you threaten us," Dean offered. "It's ok. I don't mind as long as you let us do our job."
"My father says you can be trusted," Ben said, as if he hadn't heard. "His friend vouched for you, said your records aren't what they seem and told him enough for Dad to believe you could help us."
"We can," Sam said and Ben nodded. Sam's forthright tone always worked better with the law enforcement types. Having a brother who was so decent and wholesome had its uses.
"My family has been through a tragedy," Ben stated. "I won't allow them to be hurt any more. Is that understood?"
Sam and Dean both nodded. On that much they could easily agree.
"You get rid of whatever it is that killed Nick and I'll let you two walk away. No questions asked."
"But?" Dean raised an eyebrow.
"But if you cross us, you won't have to worry about seeing the inside of a courtroom." Ben's gaze briefly traveled to Sam, then moved back to Dean and stopped there. "I'll gut you myself and leave you in the woods."
"Good to know," Sam said.
He put a hand on Dean's shoulder to ask him not to do or say anything foolish, but he needn't have worried. Ben had lost his brother and he was close to the breaking point. Dean knew some of what that felt like. "Just give us a few days. We'll let you know what happens," he said solemnly.
"You do that," the man replied, then strode from the room and left them alone.
Both brothers let out a breath. "Small town hospitality at its finest," Dean observed.
"I'd feel better about making promises if I had a clue what was going on," Sam said.
Dean huffed. "Why break with tradition now? We fumble around, nearly get killed and then figure it out," he shrugged. "It's what we do."
Sam rolled his eyes and pushed Dean toward the door. "Just stop goading the police, Dean. I'll worry about how well you stick to tradition later."
Lots of talking… sheesh. I promise to hit something tomorrow. Honest…
