AN: Hi! Slightly longer chapter for you today. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed and favourited/alerted the story! You are all so kind. Hope you're enjoying it so far; here's a little story development for you. I promise there'll be some action next time!
All Sam wanted to do, when they reached the motel they'd selected to stay in overnight in Portland, was sink back into a bed and sleep. Unfortunately, the Ghostfacers had other plans – as usual. Ed and Harry insisted on inspecting his room for 'spectral entities', despite his protests and attempts to lay down salt lines – each of which was foiled when one of the Ghostfacers managed to accidentally break the lines by tripping over them or kicking them.
Ed and Spruce were sharing a room, and Maggie had pointedly asked for a room for her and Harry, alone. His face was priceless, even Sam had to admit. On the way over, he'd asked Maggie, 'So, are you and Harry the show's 'will-they-won't-they'?', to which she'd replied, 'it's a definite will they for now, at least'.
That didn't mean they didn't barge into his room all at once as soon as he told them which one it was. They followed him, and spread out maps on the plastic table, planning their route for the next day until they reached their proposed destination.
Of course, it was mainly Maggie that was doing the navigation with her hard-won map-reading skills, with Ed occasionally chipping in, only to back down again sheepishly when he received a harsh look from his adopted sister.
Sam smirked at that: the hallmark of a sibling relationship. It was nothing like his and Dean's, of course – not once did they refer to each other as jerk or bitch – but it had him reminiscing all the same.
Cause I'm the oldest, and that means I'm always right.
No it doesn't!
It totally does.
Once she'd finished letting everyone know exactly their plan of action for tomorrow, Maggie retired with Harry to their room, leaving him alone with Spruce and Ed.
Sam hadn't noticed, as he'd been so distracted, that Spruce had been rifling through Dean's duffel. When he looked up, his breath hitched, and he leapt up from the seat he'd taken at the table to snatch away the bag.
"Dude, what the hell?! What is your problem with keeping your hands to yourself?" He asked angrily. Spruce looked taken aback, and Ed made a face that plainly said, awkward.
"I – was just wondering," He replied, and then tentatively held up the one item he'd managed to sneak from the duffel. ". . . What's this?"
Sam regarded the object, and then wondered how he could possibly explain it without sounding crazy.
"It's a book," He replied simply, as if it were obvious; as if there was nothing wrong with it being in the duffel.
"It's a book . . . About us," Spruce clarified, avoiding Sam's pass at the book, and flicking through the pages. "Ed, this is totally the book the angel had,"
"No way – where'd you get it?" Ed asked Sam, amazed; he successfully attempted to snatch it away from his colleague. His eyes widened as he flipped through the pages, and then looked up at the hunter, anticipation of the answer clear in his eyes.
"Wait, wait – angel? What angel? When?"
"Uh, it was . . . Like, early 2010 – wait, what do you mean- 'what angel'?"
"You know – Gabriel? Balthazar? Castiel? Inias?" Sam listed, a little frustrated that they didn't understand him immediately.
"That – that second last one," Ed confirmed, "He shattered our Shatner,"
"He – okay, whatever," Sam began, but decided that was probably something you had to be there for. He was a little put out when they mentioned how long ago this had been: he'd been wondering if Cas was still alive, and had visited them. "Anyway, he had that book?"
He was met with a round of nods. Sam sighed, and rubbed his hand down his face. He guessed he was going to have to get used to the stubble, as Ed had agreed with Maggie's quasi-disguise and pseudonym plan.
"He had it because . . . Well, there's this prophet – his name is Chuck, and he write books about our lives – I mean, Dean and I," Sam explained, wincing as he waited for the crazy reaction he was likely to get.
"So – this book," Ed began slowly, eyeing the cover with slight suspicion, "Only has us in it cause you met us that one time at the Morton house,"
"Yeah. Pretty much,"
The two Ghostfacers looked a bit disappointed that they weren't the stars of the series.
"But, why would a prophet write about you?" Ed asked, wrinkling his nose slightly in distain. Sam ignored it.
"Seriously, you do not want to know," He shut that whole conversation down.
"So, do you have fans and stuff?" Ed wondered aloud, curious now about the relative size of their respective fan followings. He sure hoped that the Ghostfacers' website was better known than the Supernatural series.
"Yeah. We, uh – we had to go to a convention once," Sam blushed, remembering not only the first and second times he'd met Becky, but the third time, when she'd drugged and married him. He was really glad Chuck wasn't still publishing the books, or he'd never hear the end of that particular adventure. Not that Dean ever let him forget it-
You mean she wasn't really the love of your life?
Shut up!
"Do you have LARPers? - Do they LARP your lives?!" Spruce asked enthusiastically.
". . . Unfortunately, yes," The hunter shuddered.
"That is so cool," Spruce said reverently. "I love LARPing. I'm one sixteenth Native American so sometimes I go to these re-enactments and-"
"How do you know so many angels? – How many do you know?" Ed asked, one eyebrow raised.
Sam wasn't ready for this conversation, and he didn't have the energy for it. He sauntered over to the bathroom, placing his wash-bag there, and moved to sit on the bed, trying to signal that they should probably leave now because he wanted to get some sleep.
"I haven't really been keeping count. It's double figures, at least. Most of them are dead now, though. Cas – uh, Castiel – he was a friend of mine. But he's gone too," Sam finished, looking down and picking at the stray threads on the comforter.
"Well, you learn something new every day – did not know angels could die," Spruce articulated blithely, and Sam glared at him for how obviously insensitive he was being.
"Um . . . We'll get going now. Early morning tomorrow. 6:30 start, remember!" Ed reminded Sam quickly, distracting from his colleague's ignorant statement. The last Winchester nodded, and they filed out of his room at length. He strode over to shut the door, but didn't bolt it in case those morons needed something in the night. The wards would keep out anything that meant him harm, anyway.
He used the bathroom, and strode wearily over to the bed, feeling like a zombie. He noticed that the sickly pallor he'd seen on himself in the mirror in the cabin had clung to him, clearly along for the ride. He didn't look healthy at all, and he knew it, now. As he pulled the blankets over himself, rolling over and wrapping himself up facing away from the door, he thought that, yes, the day had finally come that what he felt on the inside was reflected outside.
He spent a few minutes trying to get to sleep. After many hours of travelling, he still felt as if he were in the car; as if he were being rocked gently back and forth as Dean turned corners, the engine causing the car to gently vibrate, and the motion swaying him comfortingly to sleep. The imagined sound of the wheels flying over two-lane asphalt was his makeshift lullaby.
But it didn't last too long. He opened his eyes, and stared up at the ceiling; rolled onto his back, his arms crossed against his chest, as if trying to embrace himself. It was too quiet, and he hated it. If not for the Ghostfacers, he wouldn't have left the cabin; however, if he'd stayed, the thing that would have eventually driven him insane would have been the silence, he decided.
Insane. He wasn't sure where that line was.
So, he listened carefully: oh, there it was. He was actually genuinely grateful for the arguing couple in the next room almost coming to blows over something or other, and the loner in the next room loudly listening to a nature documentary on wildebeest. It was quiet, yes, but not silent. He couldn't deal with more silence.
He remembered Dean's knife; rolled out of bed, and paced quickly to his brother's duffel – he knew he'd brought it for a practical, useful reason, and not just because he was a sentimental freak – he took out the knife Dean traditionally kept beneath his pillow. It felt cold in his hand, so as he made his way back to the warmth of the covers, he clutched it close, until it felt warm enough that Dean could have been holding it under his pillow only seconds ago.
He just had to wait, was all. Just give it time.
I'm a freak. But I'm managing it.
The journey the next day began at 6:30, and didn't stop until many hours later. They finally reached the town of San Luis Obispo, half way between San Francisco and LA, after travelling for a day along the Western-most coast of the US. Sam stared idly out at some of the most beautiful views available in the country, but he couldn't enjoy them. Dean never got to see these, he thought.
For a few hours, he tried to dissociate himself from the truth of Dean's death, as thinking time set in and he found his mind wondering over the subject too much. It felt better just to pretend it never happened. Trail's pretty twisted here. Better be careful – Dean would be mad if I crashed the impala.
But when they got there, there was no forgetting he was gone. Not when they had to check into another motel, and he had his own room, alone again. He almost didn't hear the excited chattering of his companions as they discussed their plan of action for tomorrow animatedly. When they asked him what he thought, he just replied curtly,
"I think it's midnight. Y'all need to get some sleep, or you'll be even less prepared for this hunt tomorrow,"
They got the message and left. He got Dean's knife and slept.
They began filming at nine o'clock the next morning in Sam's room. Harry argued that this was because Sam had more 'badass stuff' lying around.
"What badass stuff?" Sam asked warily.
"Like, knives and guns and stuff – it'll make us look more like pros," Harry explained enthusiastically. That enthusiasm was almost infectious, and Sam found himself not only rolling his eyes, but smiling slightly.
"Or serial killers," Spruce muttered in response to that last comment. Maggie punched him on the arm.
"Alright Ghostfacers, are we gonna do what we all took sabbaticals to do, or not?" Ed asked, positioning the main camera as a vantage point where it could see the table. There were various others littered about the room and, as usual, Spruce and Maggie had one each.
"I'm not a Ghostfacer," Sam protested. He didn't get a sabbatical from his work, ever, either.
"You're right. You're like, a specialist," Ed replied, but the way he said 'specialist' made Sam think that he wasn't exactly a prized member of the team.
Harry cleared his throat. "Anyway . . ."
They turned the cameras on.
"So, the San Luis Obispo, or 'SLO' haunting. This place has seen a few near-misses lately, in terms of violent 'accidental' deaths," Harry explained. "One: Larry Norton. He's a crane driver. A few weeks ago, a couple of witnesses said they saw him almost fall out of his crane cab – but at the last moment, he managed to grab onto one of the rungs of the ladder underneath. The local paper are calling it a 'miracle escape',"
"Then there was victim number two," Ed continued, handing out information sheets neatly word-processed by one of the team – Sam guessed Harry – to everyone, much to Sam's incredulity. Imagine what Dean would think. Their research is even nerdier than mine. "Cynthia Greenberg. Her chandelier almost fell on her, but witnesses are saying that they saw an unknown force push her out of the way in time for her to be saved from being crushed to death. What do you make of it, Sam?"
Sam was taken aback, as everyone - and their cameras - turned to him.
"Uh . . ." He looked at the information sheets, and his brow furrowed. "I think we need to question the victims. We don't know it's definitely a spirit yet – it could be a psychic; someone with telekinetic ability, or something. The main issue here is why these people haven't died, rather than why the accidents happened in the first place," He mused out loud. The Ghostfacers were rapt though; all nodded in synchrony like tacky parcel shelf ornaments.
"So, we should split up – some of us should question the chandelier woman, and some of us should question the crane driver,"
Blank faces all around.
"You . . . You have questioned witnesses before, right?" He asked, getting a sinking feeling. They all shook their heads, and the feeling was confirmed. He sighed in exasperation.
"Fine. Does anyone have a suit?"
When Sam pulled up to Larry Norton's run-down house – complete with wire fencing and overgrown weeds – he was accompanied by a very reluctant Harry.
"So what do I say if they ask for some ID?" Harry asked. Reluctantly, Sam opened the glove box, and handed Harry a leather wallet with a fake ID in it.
"This . . . This is-" Harry spluttered.
"Just make sure no one sees it for too long," Sam grumbled, and got out of the car, slamming the door shut with pent up frustration at having to hand his brother's prized fake ID to a Ghostfacer as he stepped into the California sunshine.
Harry blinked too much and too fast, and tried to regulate his breathing and heart rate: he wished his suit would have fitted one of the others, because he was not okay with pretending to be from the FBI. He wondered how Sam was going to convince Mr. Norton that his accident was an FBI matter, and so get him to talk about it to them.
Sam, meanwhile, was busy surveying all the trash around the rotting wooden porch. There were garbage bags full of empty bottles and take-out wrappers, which all stank, giving away their previous content. His nose wrinkled, but he schooled his features and knocked at the door.
"Act natural. Try not to freak out," He muttered to Harry, although it was like telling him 'try not to breathe'.
After a few minutes, they heard no noise. Sam knocked again, thudding his fist against the door; shaking it on its hinges as he called authoritatively: "Lawrence Norton. FBI – open up,"
Harry gazed at his partner for the day, marvelling at how the broken and bleary Sam he'd seen two days ago had been stowed away in place of this actor; how this guy was so much older and harder than the guy they'd met at the Morton house a few years back. The only thing the three men had in common was that they were all driven to do one thing: hunt.
Eventually, they heard a scuffling inside the house, and a few seconds later it was followed by the door opening. The man revealed to them obviously enjoyed drink - even, Sam wagered, more than Dean and Dad put together.
"Lawrence Norton?" Sam asked, retrieving his ID from his suit jacket pocket. Harry followed suit, flashing his badge for the briefest of moments. "Agents Lennon and McCartney, FBI,"
"FBI? . . . What do you want?" The guy slurred, his bloodshot eyes blinking one at a time, out of synchrony with one another. Sam eyed him doubtfully.
"We're here about your fall, Mr. Norton," Harry chipped in helpfully. Sam nodded, glad he hadn't freaked out yet. He subtly glanced into the hallway behind Larry, and took in the portraits of a couple on the wall - they were of Larry and his wife, who was clearly not in residence any more, if the state of the man's stained clothes and dirty house were anything to go by. Sam smiled politely in sympathy for the man, while Harry still looked a little like he was about to puke at any moment from stress.
"Wha? . . . Oh, yeah. I told you guys already, I'm just a lucky guy," The man replied, leering at Harry, who physically recoiled slightly. Sam, who was more used to dealing with the stench and behaviour caused by booze, just sighed and continued.
"We were wondering if you believed that there could be any foul play involved,"
"Umm . . ." The guy considered it for a good minute, during which time Harry started to signal to Sam that they should probably leave. Sam shook his head minutely, as Larry continued looking up at the ceiling, eventually answering, ". . . No, no – I don't – I don't wanna press charges," He replied. It sounded as if he'd forgotten the question, and had just said the first thing that had seemed appropriate.
"What?" Harry mouthed at Sam, who rolled his eyes.
"Never mind. Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Norton. That'll be all for now," He gave another brief smile.
The door was slammed shut in their faces a second later, and they turned tail to head for the car, both shaking their heads.
"What was that about 'pressing charges'?" Harry asked, one eyebrow raised.
"I have no idea. Guy was so drunk that he probably didn't even know himself. I think we've solved your mystery about what caused him to fall,"
"What? – What made him fall?"
"Seriously?" Sam asked in disbelief, pointing at the house as he opened the driver's-side door. "He was drunk on the job, obviously,"
"Oh . . . Guess that's why he didn't want to talk to us," Harry thought out loud.
"Right. He didn't want to get caught. If you ask me, it's his own damn fault he had that accident. He's just lucky he grabbed that bar,"
They both settled into the car, and Sam started the engine, revelling once again in the sound; the smell of the leather, and the sway of the motion as they pulled away. It was all synonymous with 'home'; he just wished the other thing – the person it was synonymous with was with him right now.
"What now? Cynthia Greenberg's house?" Harry asked, pulling out his notepad and rifling through the carefully hand-written details of the case, searching for her address.
Sam nodded, "Let's hope this one is down to an actual ghost, or we've wasted a tank of gas,"
