Love and War
Summary: Sam and Dean's visit to a car museum has given them a little surprise…
Thank you so much for the reviews! Especially for such a teeny little chapter. I promise not to shoot Sam again. Today.
Chapter Two
Sam jerked like he'd been shot and fell backward out the open door. Dean lunged to catch him and was momentarily staggered by his brother's dead weight. He wrapped his arms around Sam and eased him out of the car to lay him flat on the concrete floor.
Dean looked him up and down, but couldn't see any major injuries, no bleeding. One second Sam had been talking to himself, the next he was out like a light. "Sam?" Dean said loudly, smacking him on the cheeks. "Dude, open your eyes for me. I don't know what to shoot 'til you tell me what's going on."
A middle-aged woman came running toward him, and Dean recognized the desk clerk who'd sold them their tickets. He quickly held up a hand to stop her approach.
"Diabetic," Dean said, making sure none of his real worry showed through. "He didn't eat much breakfast and his blood sugar got too low. You have a piece of candy or something?"
"Just a second," she said, almost sliding to a halt and then jogging back toward the reception area.
Dean returned his gaze to Sam's pale, drawn features. "C'mon, Sammy," he urged. "Can't die here. It'll taint the cars. Wake up, man."
Sam lay completely still, however, and Dean noticed what looked like a powder burn on his brother's forehead. Like… when the muzzle of a gun was close to the skin when it was fired. Crap. This was so not good. And Sam still wasn't moving. Dean leaned over and rubbed his knuckles hard into Sam's breastbone. From experience, Dean knew it hurt like someone was trying to burrow into your chest, but unless you were dead it should get a response. He needed to know if Sam was just out or if this was a bigger problem than he could deal with.
Sam gasped painfully and tried to sit up, but Dean held him flat. "You with me now?"
Sam raised both hands to his head and groaned weakly as the museum worker came trotting back, already unwrapping some sort of hard candy.
"Dean," Sam grunted, sitting up, and Dean let him this time. "He shot me."
The woman skidded to a halt, and Dean knew she'd heard him. He held out his hand for the candy.
"Dean," Sam said more forcefully, grabbing a fistful of Dean's t-shirt, "he sh-"
Dean shoved the candy into Sam's mouth. "I heard you the first time." He raised his head to look at the woman. "Blood sugar." He used his smile that was specifically geared to melt the motherly types. "Not thinking straight."
The woman was wringing her hands, but she nodded, accepting it at face value. Dean saw her eyes nervously dart toward the Packard Sam had been sitting in, though.
"You think you can stand?" Dean wasn't sure what was going on, but he wanted Sam away from here and away from that car. In seconds, his personal Mecca had turned into his personal nightmare.
"Dean, he shot me," Sam said loudly, looking like he was about to bolt.
"You want me to call an ambulance?" the woman asked uneasily.
Dean got right in Sam's face and waited for his eyes to focus on him. "Sam, there's a very nice lady here that you're scaring," he growled. "Now, unless you want me to clock you to shut you up, I need you to concentrate." He saw understanding filter back into Sam's eyes. "Better?" Dean asked, unable to hide his relief.
"Yeah," Sam said, breathing like he'd run a race. "Yeah."
Dean didn't wait for anything else. He stood, grabbed Sam's arm, and hauled him to his feet. "Ma'am, if you'd hold the door for us?" he asked, already pushing Sam forward. The woman hurried for the front of the building, and Dean had the disturbing impression she was getting away from the car as much as trying to help them.
In only a minute, Dean had Sam loaded into the Impala, and in under ten he had him at the motel, sitting on the bed. Silently, he dug through their bags for the aspirin and handed two to Sam along with a bottle of water.
Sam raised his head to look at him. "You really didn't see him?"
With a sigh, Dean sat down across from him on the other bed. "Unless you're talking about the bald guy slobbering on the Jag, then no. Can't blame him, really. That thing was prettier than most girls I know."
"He looked real," Sam said, ignoring Dean's strained attempt to lighten the mood. "I would have sworn he was real."
"What did he say?"
Sam shook his head. "Nothing, really. He didn't look good. I thought he was sick. Said his name was Michael."
"And he shot you?" Dean asked, worriedly studying his brother's exhausted face again.
Sam raised a hand and tapped his forehead dead center over the powder burns, although Dean noted they were already starting to disappear. "Said he had a delivery for me. Called me Bob."
Dean rummaged through his pocket and pulled out the small plaque that had been clipped to the rope in front of the car.
"You stole a museum plaque?"
Dean looked up at Sam's disapproving tone. "Swiped it on the way out." He shrugged. "Hey, their car shot you. The least they could do." Dean mumbled to himself, reading through the technical information. "Nice," he said absently, then kept reading at Sam's annoyed huff. "All right. Says here the car was donated to the museum by Robert and Mabel Mills of Tupelo." He raised an eyebrow. "I'm guessing Bob's part of that donation was posthumous."
Sam rubbed his forehead absently. "Good guess."
Dean watched Sam wince as his hand touched the fading powder burn. "The not-so-dearly departed needs to depart," Dean stated firmly, "and soon."
Sam and Dean stood in front of a two-story Victorian home sitting on a quiet, affluent street.
"Remind me why people live in this state again?" Dean asked. "It's so hot, I feel like I've been boiled."
"You could try taking your jacket off," Sam suggested.
"Can't do that to the ladies. Too much for them to handle all at once," Dean answered, knocking again, more loudly this time. Truth was, he didn't like going out without a jacket. It was as close to armor as he could get. If he got knocked down or dragged, the jacket would rip and not his skin.
A quick internet search hadn't shown anything about a murder in an old Packard or anything else having to do with a Robert or Mabel Mills. If the murder was old enough, however, the records might not have been computerized. They'd stop by the library if they couldn't get any information here.
A very sprightly looking elderly woman opened the door and smiled. "Can I help you?"
From behind her, they were greeted by the high-pitched chattering of a party, although it didn't sound like the sort of party Dean was used to. Definitely no loud music or booze. The driveway and the road in front of the house were clogged with land barges and, judging by the woman in front of him, Dean had the feeling it was a tea party in full swing.
"Mrs. Mills?"
"Yes?" She looked them both up and down, and Dean suddenly felt scruffy and underdressed, which didn't happen too often. She was dressed simply but elegantly, every hair in place. She just seemed proper somehow.
"We're from the museum, ma'am. We're planning a special Packard retrospective and we were hoping…"
The woman's expression changed only slightly, a mere tightening of the lips. Dean could see the wheels turning, see her stalling for time. He ought to know that expression. He imagined he'd worn it himself often enough.
"I'm afraid I'm a bit busy at the moment," she said, her tone slightly breathless. "We're having our Garden Club meeting."
"Really?" Dean smiled. "Sam, here, has a green thumb like you wouldn't believe." He slapped Sam on the back. "You should see what he can do with gladiolus."
"Oh?" It was a distraction from the car, and Dean could see her almost physically latching on for all she was worth. "You know about flowers?" She beamed up at Sam like he was a wonderful human being, and he shifted uncomfortably.
"Yes, ma'am," Sam said with a slightly uncertain smile.
"Mabel?" another elderly woman asked, worriedly sticking her head through the doorway all the noise was coming from.
"I'll be right there, Myrtle," Mrs. Mills assured her, then turned back to them. "Won't you come in? The ladies would love to have a man's opinion on the new flower arrangements for the courthouse." She was already backing up and heading for the door into the room with the party.
Sam shot Dean a furious look that promised retribution to come, but Dean happily ignored it. "Sam would love to take a peek." Dean patted him on the back again, then pushed him forward.
They walked to the door and stopped as twenty pairs of curious eyes turned to look at them and the chattering of conversation died away. They were examined up and down, and once again Dean felt the insufficiency of his wardrobe in the face of an entire herd of blue-haired women.
"Dude, I feel like Fat Albert," Dean muttered, "and I just walked into a room full of cannibals."
Sam shot him a toned-down version of his normal glare, then turned back to the room. "Ladies."
"These gentlemen have offered to give us their opinion on the arrangements," Mrs. Mills announced happily. "Sam?" She waved him forward, and Sam was immediately enfolded into the gaggle of women, who began dragging him toward a table strewn with silk flowers.
Avoiding the crush, Dean stood back and enjoyed the sight of Sam surrounded by women who were all a good foot shorter than he was. Out of the corner of his eye, he also watched as Mrs. Mills cast him several wary glances as she slowly disentangled herself from the group. Little by little, she moved closer to him and then finally stopped at his side. Dean could see she had used the time to compose herself, but he still waited for her to start. The car was obviously a touchy subject, and he didn't want to spook her.
Mrs. Mills stood beside him, quietly watching the other women, then looked up at Dean, a startling intelligence in her eyes. "Now, young man. You said you were from the museum. What can I do for you?"
Dean offered a calm, soothing smile. "Yes, ma'am, we're planning a special Packard retrospective for a few months from now, and we were hoping you might have some photos we could borrow or," he paused hopefully, "or maybe a few stories you'd like to tell us?"
Mrs. Mills paled, and any happiness she'd been feeling seemed to seep out of her. "No," she said tightly, if politely. "No stories. I couldn't bring myself to get rid of the car, although I hate to even look at the thing. When the museum opened, I couldn't give it to you fast enough."
"There was a problem with the car?" Dean asked, all innocence.
"The man I loved died in that car," she said plainly, her face turned away, watching the women bustling around the table while Sam hesitantly pointed at a few flowers here and there.
"Was your husband in an accident?" Dean asked. He supposed it was kinder than, Did somebody shoot your old man in the car?
"My husb…?" the woman said, frowning. "Oh. No, not him."
Before Dean could say another word, Mabel was gone, wading into the crowd. She grabbed a very relieved Sam's arm and began drawing him away. As she passed, she caught Dean's arm with her free hand and began ushering them both toward the front door.
"Well, the ladies and I really need to be working on the arrangements and we've taken up enough of your time," she said, smiling. "I'm sorry I couldn't help with your little project." Dean had the distinct impression she wasn't sorry at all. With the gentlest of shoves, she pushed them out. "So nice of you to stop by," she added and shut the door.
Dean blinked, scowling at the closed door. "Were we just outmaneuvered by someone who gets Meals-on-Wheels?"
"She used the Garden Club. I think they're this town's version of the Mafia," Sam observed as they turned and made their way back to the car.
"So Mabel's husband was named Bob, right?" Dean asked.
"Yeah."
"And Michael called you Bob?"
"Yeah," Sam said again. "So what?"
"So, Mabel just said the man she loved died in that car. And it wasn't Bob."
"An affair that went bad?" Sam asked.
"Maybe," Dean pursed his lips, "but Bob's the one who would've been pissed about an affair, and he died first."
"We need to get to the library."
"Sure you don't want to stay and help, flower boy?" Dean chuckled.
"Thanks for that, by the way." Sam glared at him. "Do you just enjoy embarrassing me?"
Dean's Cheshire Cat grin appeared as he opened the driver's side door. "Do vampires have pointy teeth?"
Sam only continued to glare at him.
"Do demons like devil's food cake?"
"Dean…"
"Do zombies eat brains?"
"Technically, no," Sam asserted.
"Not even the monkey-virus infested kind? I'm telling you," Dean said, shaking his head. "Those monkeys are dangerous."
"Dean, just drive," Sam sighed.
"Fine." He paused. "Man, I hate monkeys."
See? No cliffhanger. It can happen. More tomorrow...