1983
"Dude, this is a little skeevy, don't you think?" Dean asked, passing over Clint's drink before he took his own. "Hanging out at the high school and watching teenage girls twirl flagpoles? Someone's going to call the cops on us." He took a big sip from his white Styrofoam cup as the young voices counted to sixteen over and over again, their tall aluminum poles dwarfing them with big white pieces of fabric that flapped as they spun. Dean had to admit the little black shorts they wore showed some of their very mature curves, not that he noticed those kinds of things. Really.
"As long as John David Oakes is grounded and sitting right there on the hill smoking his cigarette – or joint which is more likely – we're here." Clint just ignored Dean, settling back in the driver's seat. They'd had a long discussion, ahem, argument about Clint always driving this morning with some choice words about passengers and riding which had then devolved into a long series of really bad sex puns and ended in quick hand jobs in the front seat. Dean didn't count it as a loss since he spent most of the day annoying Clint with the most creative double entendres he could think of while they shadowed the next victim. J.D. as his family called him – Dean refused to think of the 14-year-old kid as 'Slick,' the name the losers he hung out with used – was treading on some very thin ice and it was a damn shame. He seemed like a good kid at heart, but he was lashing out at everyone around him. Classic signs of some sort of trauma, Dean had said while they ate lunch at a local drive-in with damn fine hot dogs and these things called frosted cokes that were a slushy mix of cola and ice cream. Something had happened to J.D. about six months ago, after his last year in junior high, and he'd gone from a normal pain-in-the-ass younger brother to a druggie down by the railroad tracks. His day had consisted of a very loud argument at home before he got in the car with his sister, skipping most of his classes to hide out behind the gym, and then trying to ditch Marie after school. Kid needed some therapy, obviously, but this was 1983 and all he had was a very earnest school counselor who had only too gladly talked to the nice F.B.I. agent about drugs at the school.
"Fine, but if one of those girls' dads show up with a shotgun, you're in the driver's seat. I'm just the passenger." Dean shifted to get more comfortable; they'd parked the car behind a corpse of trees across the creek. Clinton Senior High School was one of those failed 1960 experiments in equality of space or some such doubletalk shit they used to build really strange buildings. Made up of four round circles, inventively called 'pods,' each circle was cut into wedge shape pie piece classroom with an inner area for the teachers at the center. (Clint had already pinched Dean for using up his quota of 2001 quotes – "open the pod bay doors, Hal" – so Dean had moved on to Body Snatchers and lines about escape pods). Half of the circle was outside; the other half was connected with a long arcing hallway. The Gym was the biggest pod of the four and it backed up to a wooded area complete with a creek that ran around the whole campus. Cars had to drive across a bridge to get into the lower parking lot where the girls were practicing and then up a hill to enter the school's main doors in the center of the hallway. Most of the students and teachers had left already, the band practice scheduled to run until 6 p.m. From his vantage point, Dean could see the parking lot, the hill J.D. was sprawled on, and the trampled area just behind the gym only steps away from where his body would be found.
The rap on the window made him jump. Clint's pistol appeared in his hand before they recognized the face of Bill Oakes. Today he had on a black and white plaid shirt with mother of pearl snaps and a Bass master belt buckle, his John Deere cap shading his eyes. Dean rolled down the window after he shot an 'I-told-you-so' look at Clint.
"Well, now boys, I think maybe it's time you told me what you're really doing." Bill scratched his salt-n-pepper beard. He didn't appear to be armed, so Clint slid the pistol back onto the seat. Clint nodded to Dean's unspoken question.
"Yeah, you're right," Dean said as he opened the car door and got out. Clint came around, casually leaning his bow on the front fender.
"You ain't no regular divorced man and his brother, that's for sure. Been all over town asking questions. F.B.I., according to Nita down at the Richy Kreme." Bill crossed his arms and gave them the once over. He couldn't miss the guns or the silver knife that peaked out of its sheath on Dean's belt. Positioning himself so he had a good view of the school, Dean let Clint do the talking.
"My brother is an F.B.I. agent," he explained. "He thinks your son might be in danger."
Bill's eyes widened and then gave an exhausted sigh as his face fell. "Can't understand what's going on with that boy. Damn drugs, right? I told him he was getting in too deep but he doesn't listen to me anymore."
"Look, right now the most important thing is to keep him safe. What we need is for you to let us do our job," Clint said.
"You think he's dealing?" Bill shook his head in denial. "I know he's using, found the bag of weed myself in the barn, but I don't think he's selling."
"Clint. Heads up." Dean saw the man jump over the half wall that separated the school terrace from the grassy hill, easing down to where the young man sat. "Incoming."
"Aw, damn it. He's still on probation from the last arrest," Bill complained.
"That's Elmo Lynch, the detective," Dean told Clint. "Who else would he leave with, no questions asked?" They were already moving, in sync with each other, Dean breaking to the right towards the gym and Clint towards the parking lot.
"Bill, get the girls and get them in the building," Clint ordered.
"Wait, you think Elmo's the dealer?" Despite his protest, Bill stumbled along after Clint. Dean kept his eyes on the detective. It was a perfect cover for a monster, working the very same murders he'd committed. People trusted him, knew him – question was, Elmo had a family in town, so were they all monsters? Clearing the stream, Dean intercepted the man and the teenager, palming the compact mirror he had in his pocket; a wrath's real appearance would be revealed in the reflection.
"Detective, I thought that was you." He smiled and waved, as if bumping into the man on a street corner. "I've got a couple questions if you have a second."
Lynch paused, turning towards Dean, annoyance on his face. "Agent Van Zandt. What are you doing here?"
"Legwork." As nonchalantly as possible, Dean blocked the trail to the gym. "It's a matter of follow through, you know?"
Squinting at him, Lynch grew angry. "No, I don't know. Look, I'm in the middle of something." Grabbing J.D.'s arm, Lynch tried to move around Dean.
"What's the rush?" Dean asked. He tilted the mirror until he caught Lynch's reflection expecting to see a distorted face of a wraith, but there was nothing but a human man in the circle. Shit. "You going to threaten him into selling drugs for you?"
"I don't know what you're getting at …" Lynch started to say. With a quick move, J.D. jerked free and ran; Dean cursed and took off after him, Clint further behind. The teenager was fast, darting into the trees, and Dean saw a dark figure slide between two poplars.
"Lynch isn't it," Dean shouted.
"I see it," Clint shouted back. "Get the kid."
Glad to have tennis shoes instead of dress shoes, Dean took off after the sprinting boy, jumping a narrow part of the creek as the kid scrambled up a bank towards the road. He leaped and caught the edge of stone washed denim, pulling J. D. back down. They lost their footing and slid back, the teen rolling into the water and Dean sinking into the soft bank, mud squelching up to his ankles. Well, hell, there went his new shoes and jeans.
"You think it's going to be that easy? Hardly
Andrew Martin, church handyman, held J.D., a long spine protruding from his palm aimed just behind the boy's ear.
"Let the boy go and we can talk about this," Dean said. J.D.'s eyes were staring, not with fear, but with what looked more like pleasure. He sagged down, relaxing.
"Oh, please. Hunters. You have no clue, do you?" Martin pressed the spine in and a trickle of blood ran down J.D.'s neck.
"Why don't you give me one? Tell me how an alpha died and came back from Purgatory." Dean tried to get him talking.
"Oh, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, isn't it? Purgatory's not a drive-thru boy, can't just waltz in and out."
"Unless you have a little help from, say, an ancient bitch with a god complex?"
That surprised the Alpha. "How could you …?"
"No matter what she promised you, she's pure chaos. She'll kill you when she's got what she needs." He wasn't sure what he hoped to accomplish except to gather as much information as possible.
"Stop!" Lynch caught up to them, his gun at the ready.
"Put that down, Lynch. You don't know what you're doing." Damn it. Just what they needed, someone blundering into the middle of this.
"Stay out of my way," Lynch shot back. "That kid's mine. I need him."
"Actually, Elmo," Martin said. "You're a real idiot." Pushing J.D. towards Dean, the wraith leapt at Lynch. Three shots rang out before the monster was on the cop, riding him down to the ground, spine sinking all the way into the cop's neck. Lynch cried out once then fell silent, body relaxing into the wraith's poison. Martin moaned as he fed, draining the precious fluid.
With only the slightest noise, the arrow drove the monster's body away from the cop, silver head sinking deep in his chest. Dean's knife slammed into Martin's back twice and the wraith screamed as Dean stomped on his hand, breaking off the long spine.
"What the hell?" Bill Oakes skidded to a stop; through the trees, Dean could see a gaggle of girls watching from the gym doors.
"Call an ambulance," Dean instructed Bill. Turning to the wraith, Dean checked, making sure he was gone.
"That was too easy," Clint muttered as he came up behind Dean. "I've got a bad feeling about this ..."
Grey smoke rose from the wraith's body, coalescing into a figure, half-formed. Dark haired and wearing a tunic, it grinned at Dean and then rushed towards the retreating back of Bill Oakes, knocking him down and dissolving into him. The man convulsed, eyes rolling back in his head; Dean got there in three steps and slashed across Bill's forearm with his knife. Blood flowed and steamed. Bill screamed as the mist poured back out of the wound, oozing onto Dean's foot. The second it touched bare skin, the most incredible feeling rushed over him. Not like sex, but those rare moments when warm arms cradled him, a body curled around his own, sleep stealing over him as their breathing synced in a long, slow, content slide into unconsciousness. Those quiet moments on the hood of the Impala, watching fireworks or drinking a beer, no words needed, just comfort in being alive one more day. So rare and fleeting, no doubt, no worry, just the best of all the moments of his life -true happiness.
"Dean?" Clint was shaking him, yelling from far away. "Fight it. You've got to fight it."
Clint's hands felt warm, bringing memories of a shared shower, easy strokes of fingertips, wet mouths … the pain slashed into the lethargy that griped him as the ghostly presence fled the silver's touch. Suddenly Dean was wet and muddy, and a new cut burned on his arm.
"What the fuck?" Dean demanded; he scrabbled away from Bill who sat on the ground, stunned. His vision was blurry, the wraith's poison still affecting him. He wanted to lean back into Clint and just close his eyes. "Where did it go?"
"There!" It was J.D., wet and shaking, who pointed to the roiling mist creeping along the ground, back towards the school. He'd stopped by his dad and was helping him up. Gone was the cocky attitude, replaced by a concerned son and brother. "Marie's back there."
Clint was up and moving, grabbing his bow and notching another silver arrow. Girls spilled out of the doors and were coming down the hill, Marie Oakes in the lead, running towards her father. Clint's arrow buried itself just in front of the mist, driving it to the left; a second arrow turned it away even more.
"Stop," Bill yelled, standing now and leaning on his son. "Go back in the school right now."
He was woozy and more than a little aroused, but Dean climbed up off the ground and pulled his pistol out. Clint kept the mist away from the girls, but he was going to run out of arrows soon and Dean had loaded the gun with silver bullets. Wasn't ideal, but better than nothing.
"Ladies, please. Back into the school." Dean crossed out of the trees, keeping a close eye on the wraith ghost mist thing. "I'm with the F. B. I." He got giggles and a few gasps as another arrow whizzed and thunked.
"That's my brother and my dad." Marie charged ahead despite the warning, but most of the others slowed and stopped. Some even retreated back into the building. Like a snake, the mist coiled and struck, lashing out at the teenager; she stumbled and fell, tumbling down the last of the incline and landing in a heap on the asphalt of the parking lot.
"Damn it," Dean cursed as he ran to the struggling form. Just as he got there, she pushed up and the black figure exploded outward with an unearthly scream, splattering into tiny atoms that blew away in the light breeze. She groaned, rubbed her eyes, and took Dean's hand when he offered it.
"Rie?" Bill came up behind them, J.D. in tow. Marie went into her dad's arms, ignoring the red stains on her shirt from his sluggishly bleeding wound, and then reached out to bring her brother into the hug.
"What the fuck was that?" Clint asked, tucking his arrows back into the quiver. An easy hand on Dean's back for a quick touch and Dean got the message.
"You're the one who said it was too easy," Dean replied. He answered with a bump backwards into Clint; he wasn't okay, but he could fake it while the echoes of the wraith's bliss rippled through him.
NOW
"We've got another one," the voice on the phone informed Sam. Rubbing his eyes, he looked blearily at the old digital clock on the night stand. 5:27 a.m. He'd been asleep a little over three hours. Looked like that would have to be enough. "Off of Route 61. I'll send you the directions."
"On my way." Sam sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed his shoes. He got the location, grabbed a shirt that didn't smell that bad and the loaded duffle he kept by the door as he left the room. The drive was only about 15 minutes, but it took him out into the countryside, down a winding road that wasn't even two lanes wide. The black and white with its lights on at the end of the gravel road was the only reason he turned at the right spot, the Impala rumbling as he inched along the two ruts that seemed to climb up the side of a hill and drop off. Just as he thought there was nowhere to go, the road curved and he saw a house built of river rock with hewn logs as posts that held up the large deck tucked into the hill side overlooking the valley. He pulled into the parking area around the detached barn and headed not towards the house, but the smaller side path where a uniform stood guard. In the last two weeks, Sam had gotten to know most of the small police force; the rookie cop nodded and waved Sam on through the tangle of brambles that caught on his jacket. Just a short distance down the path, he came upon an old house, obviously abandoned and dilapidated, the porch sagging, only bits of cracked glass in the window.
"Sam, over here." The dark haired man in a rumpled blue suit waved from the gaping doorway. Sam ducked his head and entered the ramshackle old house. On the floor was the body of a teenage girl in her t-shirt, tight jeans and Ugg boots, eyes wide open in fear, body set in rigor, mouth open in a scream. "Just like the others, only a bigger gap of time between this and the last kill. Something must have happened to knock him off his schedule."
Sam looked around at the three others in the room – two uniforms at the doorway and Billie Von Hardin, the M.E. That was strange; someone was missing. "Where's Marie?" he asked.
The man looked up at him quizzically. "Who?"
"Marie. She's lead on this case." Even as he said it, he realized that this new person looked a lot like Marie – younger, male, but same facial features, same brown, curly hair. "Oh my God. You're J. D."
"Yeah, you know that. We've been working on this since …" J. D. Oakes, Anderson County detective, trailed off as understanding dawned in his eyes. He tugged on Sam's sleeve. "Outside."
"Marie's your sister." Sam stated as soon as they got out of earshot. "Where is she? Is she …"
"She's probably home asleep." J. D. talked over him. "Your brother and Clint? You think they changed something? Marie. A detective. She'll find that funny considering she writes mystery novels for a living." J.D. turned serious, flipping open a small notebook and working backwards. "Lynch/Woods, time gaps, change in the order of victims … what's changed now?"
"Wait, you remember all that?" The problem, of course, was that J. D. was alive; how exactly to break the news that he should be dead was a more delicate matter.
"We've been through this before. My obsession with this case since the damn thing almost got me years ago overrides the changes." Now he was the one who looked confused. Actually, it made sense. If Clint and Dean had stopped the wraith from killing J. D., that would have made a big impression on the teenager. Marie would never have become a detective to avenge her brother's death, leaving J. D. to follow that path instead.
J. D.'s phone rang. He looked at the display and his eyebrows went up as he answered. "Marie? What are you doing up?" Dark brown eyes flicked up to Sam as he listened. "You want what? Why?" An eye roll and a sigh of a brother used to his older sister's foibles. "Fine. Okay. Here." He held the phone out to Sam. "She wants to talk to you."
"Marie." He took the phone and answered.
"So I wake up from the strangest dream where I'm married with two kids and have this overwhelming urge to call you but then I can't remember your number and Barry started snoring and I don't know which life was a dream anymore." She gave a strangled little laugh. "My husband is staring at me right now like I'm crazy, probably contemplating calling the paddy wagon to come get me."
"You're not crazy," Sam assured her. "Look, I need to talk to both you and your brother. Alone. Figure out what the new timeline is."
"Me and my brother. Oh God. You don't know how that makes me feel to hear those words. And at the same time, I'm still mad at him for forgetting my birthday last year." She was almost crying; he could hear it in her voice. "Come over after 7:30 a.m. I'm up now. Barry's got to go to work and the kids leave for school at 7:10. Sam. I have kids."
"Yeah, you do. Give them an extra hug this morning. We'll be there soon." Sam hung up and passed the phone back.
"Something tells me we have a lot to talk about," J. D. said.
1983
Clint swirled the whiskey in his glass as he sat at the dining room table, Dean next to him, nursing his own drink. They'd managed the scene as best they could, wrangling teenage girls and cleaning Bill and Dean's wounds, holding the cuts together with butterfly bandages. The EMTs who arrived took Lynch to Oak Ridge hospital, talking of comas and possible brain damage. Too many questions were left unanswered; there was no hiding their presence, not with all the witnesses. Fortunately, Dean's F. B. I. cover held, and they were able to spin a tale that made sense. If the girls had seen a black cloud around Marie as she tumbled down the hill in her haste to get to her father, well, that was an understandable mistake for scared kids to make.
Finally, they'd escaped the police station and made their way back to Bill's house, a lovely old farmhouse with freshly painted white siding and black shutters. Florence, his wife, had barbeque from a local joint ready for all of them. A red head, Flo was a hair dresser and decked in sensible nurse shoes, khaki pants and a floral shirt that covered her generous curves. Fortunately, she also had a sense of humor, so happy to have J.D. and Marie home safe that they could have said they were aliens and she wouldn't have cared. The first rounds of beers were replaced with whiskey as the food disappeared and the conversation turned to the afternoon's events.
"So Andy Martin? Doesn't make sense. I've known him my whole life, went to school together. He was always helping people, even back then. Married his childhood sweetheart Jessie right after high school. Was the Den Leader of the Boy Scout Troop." Bill pushed the last bit of baked beans over to J.D.; the boy grimaced and Clint caught the look.
"Does that mean his son and daughter are also … what did you call them? Wraiths?" Flo asked. She was watching both kids, a worry line between her eyes.
"I don't think so." Dean finished off his drink, his second glass. Clint was a little worried about him; he'd been acting strangely ever since the wraith had touched him. Bill, J.D. and Marie seemed to have shaken off the effects, but not Dean. He was too quiet, dropping into distraction easily and zoning out on conversations. He'd told the cops he was just tired from pulling a long night of work - but he didn't even glance at Clint when he'd said it, that mischievous sparkle Clint expected missing from his eyes.
"But silver hurts it? Like werewolves?" J.D. asked around a mouthful of his third sandwich, a bit of hero worship in his eyes as he looked at Dean. "That's why it left Dad after you slashed his arm."
"Can we not talk about that at the table? Let's just be glad you're all okay." Flo wrinkled her nose, her blue eyes glancing at the bandage on her husband's arm.
"Mom, I'm not a kid anymore." J.D. protested. "I'm glad the son-of-a-bitch is dead, he deserved it."
"John David!" Flo was aghast.
"No, Flo, let him be," Bill said, laying a hand on his son's shoulder. "Man was trying to kill our son. I have to agree."
"If it helps, he wasn't Andrew Martin anymore, not since his accident, anyway. That's probably when the wraith took over," Dean offered.
"Doesn't answer why the thing left Rie." J.D. looked at his sister. "Just exploded out of her like she tasted bad or something."
"Gee, thanks, Davey. Maybe I was just too totally awesome?" Marie shot back, but she was smiling. "How about this?" She pulled a silver chain out from under her t-shirt; at the end dangled a heavy silver medallion, edges worn down and a patina covering the smooth finish.
His stomach plummeted; Clint had seen a similar symbol before, around the necks of some very nasty customers who tried to kill them in Pennsylvania. Two crescent moons and a full moon, only this time the slivers of circles were inside the full one rather than facing away. Dean nudged his leg under the table; he recognized it as well.
"That was my grandmother's," Flo provided without being asked. "Been in the family for years. She gave it to Marie just before she passed; said it was meant for her. Granny was little touched." The last was said as an apology.
"Do you know where it came from?" Dean leaned over Clint to look closer, his hand dropping on Clint's leg as he braced himself. A little spark jumped between palm and thigh; Dean cut a quick look at Clint and pulled his hand away.
"Granddad probably bought it at a second hand store; he was a notorious liar, had a woman in every town along his sales route," Flo laughed. "But Granny always said it was a talisman to give women the power to be whatever they wanted. Silly, but there are a lot of Grimes women who did amazing things. There's an explorer, the first woman representative from Tennessee, and a famous writer in the family. My aunt went to the Olympics back in '52 and won a bronze medal. And Granny's moonshine was famous; she made enough money to put her brothers and sisters through school selling the stuff. Revenuers never suspected a woman of running shine."
"May I?" Clint asked as he reached for the necklace to examine it closely. Marie tugged the chain over her head and dropped it into his outstretched palm. The metal was warm from Marie's skin, and for a second, it lay still in the center of his hand, chain wrapped around his fingers.
A wave of lightning blew up his arm, sparks chasing along his muscles to reach his shoulder and spread in a flash. Not time to breath, his heart contracted, a tight band settling across his chest, forcing the air out of his lungs. Discharge danced in front of his eyes, crackling along his jaw and into his head. He jolted as his chair fell over backwards, and he went down with it, body seizing up. Suddenly, the power coalesced in the center of his chest around the warm point where Dean's hand was braced and Clint's left hand that still clutched the medal. Forcing his eyes to focus, he could see the sparks rolling up Dean's arms where they were connected by touch.
"Clint!" As fast as it started, it was over. Dean was leaning over him, and his hand was open, the necklace pooled on the floor where it had fallen. Opening his mouth, Clint dragged in a full breath of air, filling his lungs and releasing it, slowing his galloping heart. "You still there?"
"Well, that was shocking," he managed to say. Yeah, it was a bad one, but his brain was still a little scrambled. Dean smacked him in the arm then helped him get up.
"That's all you've got? You scared the hell out of me." Dean righted the chair and Clint gratefully sat back down.
"Careful, I charge extra for better puns." His hands were shaking; he clenched his fingers and he curled them open then closed again. "Didn't expect that."
J.D had left his own seat during the commotion. Now he bent down to pick up the necklace.
"Hey, don't touch …" Dean started to warn him but the boy casually coiled the chain and medallion in his palm and handed it back to his sister.
"What just happened?" Bill asked. The whole family was wide-eyed, staring at Clint.
"Seems Granny Grimes was right; this is a magical talisman and, for some reason, it likes Clint," Dean explained.
"Just damn attractive, I guess," Clint winked at Marie who actually blushed at that pun. Dean huffed, but Clint earned a ghost of a smile for that attempt, the best he'd gotten since the afternoon.
NOW
"You're saying I died? That thing got me?" J.D. curled his hand around his coffee mug, trying to understand. "But I remember meeting Dean and Clint then, time travel, everything. How can I know that if I was dead?"
"Because in this time line, you were the one who became obsessed with finding the wraith." Sam was trying to wrap his own brain around it all. By saving J.D., Dean and Clint had made drastic changes. Now, there were nine dead bodies in 1983, the first three the same peaceful victims both Sam and Marie remembered, but the rest, new victims dying in abject terror.
"And Marie went to college, wrote bestselling books, got married, and had kids." A sip of coffee, and the detective looked at his sister for help. "God, sis, all those years chasing this thing and to just wake up in a different world?"
"It's sort of fuzzy, to tell the truth, slipping away. The details, anyway. The big plot points are still there, but it's like one of my novels now." This Marie Oakes was different than the one Sam had first met; she was slimmer, happier, moving with purpose around the kitchen in her renovated farmhouse, cleaning up breakfast dishes. As she paused, deep in thought, her fingers found the silver necklace around her neck and absently rubbed it, obviously an ingrained habit. "What's clear is Dean and Clint sitting right in there at the dining room table, telling us all about the wraith. You remember, Davey?"
"Andrew Martin that bastard. Sick fucker." The venom in J.D.'s voice was strong. He shivered at the thought. "Honestly, though, Dean saved me from more than just Martin – he saved me from myself. I was pretty intent on destroying my life back then. I still wished Martin had died in that accident and saved all of us the trouble."
"Accident?" Sam asked, trying to clarify the details of the new events.
"Martin was almost electrocuted; doctors were surprised he survived. Dean thought that was when the wraith got hold of him, or his body, we don't know for sure," J.D. provided. "Between the accident and when he tried to kill me, he was my Boy Scout leader." There was something there, Sam could tell, but it was J.D.'s secret to keep, so he left it alone.
"So there was a connection between you and him. And Canady was found at the church, right?" Sam asked. He scrolled through the files on his tablet to pull up the details. "Damn. He's the one who found her. That leaves Johnson and Holt."
"Bob Johnson was a Scout leader of another troop." J.D. said. "I wanted to transfer but the troop was full."
"The Holts are still members of the church. There's been a Holt on the deacon board there for years." Marie sat down her full cup and grabbed a laptop from the counter, opening it and sitting at the table to type up notes. "The six after that are different; you think the wraith used the information of the person it inhabited to choose victims?"
"Makes sense. But then there's the addition of the violence. When Martin had me, I felt really good, like the most amazing high. I wasn't scared at all, didn't want it to end," J.D. added to the theory. "The later victims were terrified before they died."
"And the multiple entry points on the neck weren't there anymore. Always figured either there were more than one of the bastards at those first three kills or he fed off of them at different times. Whatever it was, it stopped when Martin did." J.D. flipped through some notes, rereading the current case files. "Okay, at least we have somewhere to start. Find a commonality between the current victims, the way the wraith is choosing them …"
"… include the characteristics of the next victims based upon the profile of the original nine …" Marie was typing as they tossed ideas back and forth.
"… six or nine? Why were there six, then nine? What if the first three were part of a set and then … yes, look! Four, five, six, and seven match the same profiles. He started over again. Must be significant somehow …" J.D.'s pen was flying as he drew circles and connected the dots.
"… as is the way he kills them. Could the change have anything to do with the new body? If I were writing it, I'd make it so the wraith took on some of the person's characteristics. Martin was seen as a nice person …" Marie mused out loud.
"… motherfucking son-of-a …" J.D. muttered underneath her.
"… he volunteered and helped out in a lot of different ways. So maybe the wraith feeds off of good feelings because of that. And then he hops over into someone mean and nasty …" Marie kept going
"… and the kills get messy and violent." Sam jumped in this time, getting into the flow of things. "Yeah, it could work. So it would be someone who was here 20 years ago and is still around …"
"… or it jumped again into another nasty bastard when that person died." J.D. finished the thought. "Still, this is small town. I think we can brainstorm a list of people who fit the bill: violent, mean, might have had an accident or something at some point, connect to the vics. Hey, it's more than we had before." He slapped Sam on the back, grinning as he flipped his notebook closed. "I've got a case to work on, so I better get back to the station. Sam?"
"You're welcome to stay here," Marie offered. "This is my prime writing time while the kids are in school. Johnny has band practice after school and Jules has drama club so they won't be home until after 5 p.m. Place is ours. We can set up a murder board in my office."
For the first time in a long while, Sam felt like they were making progress, that they were one step closer to figuring this out. "That sounds great. Coffee's better here than the station."
1983
"Look, you boys are welcome to stay here," Bill offered as they passed through the foyer on their way to the side door where they'd parked the car. A beautiful set of wooden stairs curved gracefully upwards to the second floor, the basement door tucked under them. Across from the stairs, the front door was in a darker alcove, beveled glass insert giving a view of the street where headlights came and went in the distance. "Got plenty of room in this old drafty place. Better than a hotel."
Dean glanced over at Clint. He had that look on his face, the one that said they had some talking to do before the night was over. As stubborn as he was, Clint was not going to let this go until he got Dean to spill it all.
"Thanks, but we'll be coming and going at odd hours so it's best we just stay where we are." Dean shook the man's outstretched hand. "Sorry again about the whole slicing you with a knife thing."
"Better that than being shoved out of my own body," Bill said with a laugh. "And that was a strange statement I never thought would be coming out of my mouth."
The ghostly figure materialized right behind Clint, only her torso visible, bottom half dissolving into a white mist. From her clothing and hair style, Dean would guess she was from the late to mid Nineteenth Century, her hair pulled back in a loose bun and her calico dress buttoned all the way up to her neck.
"Clint. Behind you," Dean warned. Without looking back, Clint took two steps forward then turned. The woman stayed where she was, bobbing gently up and down.
"Oh, that's Aunt Agatha." Bill's voice was calm and matter-of-fact. "Flo's great-great-great aunt. This is her family's old house. Been a Grimes in this house since 1782."
"You have a resident ghost?" Dean asked. From his experience, ghosts who lingered were very dangerous.
"A couple actually. Agatha usually doesn't show up unless something's happened to rile her. I guess all this talk of the wraith has upset her. She takes family seriously." Bill didn't move, even when Agatha floated closer to Clint, following him. "Or maybe it's what happened to you."
Agatha raised her hand and reached for Clint. "Dean?" he asked, uncertain and edging backwards.
"I don't think you should let her …" Dean began. Fast as a will-o-the-wisp, Agatha slipped into Clint, disappearing inside his body. He froze, jiggled some, and then looked over at Bill and Dean.
"Oh, my, I am sorry," he said. Well, it was Clint's voice, but the phrasing and the tone were very different. He wiggled a little as if he clothes were just a bit too tight. "This is very inappropriate."
"Get out of him," Dean growled. Bill stood with his mouth hanging open.
"William, dear, you need to protect Marie. Don't let her take that necklace off ever again. And I will leave Clinton for you, Dean, don't worry." Clint smiled, but it wasn't his smile. Even the way he held himself was more feminine. For a moment, he/she seemed confused, his/her eyes wandering around the room.
"Agatha?" Dean prompted.
"Oh, yes! I remember. The bow. She'll need the bow to finish her spell. The sacrifices are only enough to get her here." Clint/Agatha answered. "But the bow isn't the bow anymore. He knows where it went."
"Spell?" Bill found his voice to ask.
"I was a witch, dear. Not a follower of Lilith, mind you. So glad that bitch is gone."
Bill's eyes opened wide in surprise at Clint/Agatha's words. A mist formed around Clint, Agatha losing contact, fading out of Clint's eyes.
"Wait, who knows? Who is he?" Dean asked.
She pulled back long enough to whisper one word.
"Hyperion."
And then she was gone and Clint dropped to the floor.
