Unseen, unheard
Chapter 4
'So, what do we do now?'
Dean was startled by the question, and he took a while to answer. Honestly, he had no idea what they should do now: he had been about thirty seconds away from asking the same question himself. But Sam's voice was so helpless, so utterly lost, and childlike, that he felt compelled to provide an answer. Desperately, he sought some convincing answer in the blank volumes of his mind, cursing himself for the inability to disappoint Sam with an 'I don't know'.
'We could… go back to the library and look through the rest of the records… maybe we missed something. Or, maybe not, 'cause we weren't really getting anywhere with that idea. We could talk to people around the school, see if anyone knows anything.' He paused, out of ideas, and changed tactics. 'We're gonna find out what's going on, Sam. Don't let it get to you.'
Sam sighed heavily, grimacing down at the backs of his hands. 'Yeah, I know. It's just… really frustrating. I should know… but I can't remember.'
'Well, look at it this way: there's no sensible reason why you should know. Any normal person wouldn't…'
'But…'
Sam trailed off, seemingly without anything to follow that up with. 'Do you want me to take the library, and you can talk to the students?'
Dean grinned. 'That's the best plan you've come up with in a long time,' he replied, laughing.
Sam pretended to scowl, but he was grateful for the opportunity to spend some time alone in the quiet of the library, to think everything through.
Dean climbed out of the car, and leaned down to talk to Sam through the window.
'I'll see you back at the motel room, right? And- ,'
'Yeah, yeah, I know. Take care of the car.'
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Louise's friend Emma discreetly disappeared when she saw him coming, and Dean couldn't really blame her. For one thing, it had plainly been a struggle for her when she first spoke to them, with the memory of her friend's horrible death so fresh and raw in her mind. Quite apart from that, and more to the point, the last person who had given them any useful information had paid for it by becoming next on the list. He caught sight of her thin back vanishing behind a door, and decided not to follow. She had helped a lot already, and he felt that she deserved her peace.
Instead, he went in search of Philip Basing's friends: presumably, the football team. Without having seen Philip, it could have been difficult to find people who knew him in such a huge, sprawling building, but the distinctive red and yellow jackets proudly worn by the team members made them easy to pick out.
The corridors were unremarkable and crowded, lined with lockers and battered advertising posters, like the hallways of any high school anywhere. Dean had attended a variety of schools in his life, as his father's unusual lifestyle had resulted in constant moving, but all had seemed more or less the same, and the years had melded them in his memory into one school, one set of cliques, and one labyrinth of locker-lined hallways.
The red and yellow jackets stood in a closed circle, laughing loudly and self-consciously taking care to look 'cool' as they lounged against the lockers. One or two had petite cheerleaders leaning against them adoringly, wearing their cute uniforms as a mark of status. Clearly, this was the elite among cliques.
'Hey,' Dean said loudly, elbowing his way into the exclusive circle. The red and yellow jackets looked at him with identical expressions of disdainful confusion, questioning his right to be talking to them, to be in the hallway, and possibly even to exist. Dean smiled back at them impudently, affecting not to notice their objection.
'I'm looking for people who might have known Philip Basing,' he said, figuring that he might as well jump straight in and get it over with as soon as possible. He watched their faces change from disdain to guarded mistrust.
'Who are you?' said one.
Dean produced an ID from a deep pocket of his jacket and held it up for their inspection, trying to look professional and competent rather than smug.
'What do you want to know?' asked another. The tone was still interrogative, even though he had proved himself to be an authority figure. These people were used to being looked up to, and they expected it from adults as well as their peers. Dean rebelled inwardly against his own thought labelling him an adult.
'Just anything you can think of. Anyone with a grudge against Philip, or… uh, anything weird he might have said or done before he died… Anyone strange hanging around the school…'
'Besides you?'
Dean steeled himself, and carefully ignored the comment.
'Look man,' offered one of the guys, a dark haired youth taller than Sam, with an open face that suggested that he might have marginally less ego and more brain then the rest of the group, making him just about human. 'He was just another guy, you know? No enemies, nothing weird. He just… disappeared.'
Dean nodded, biting back the sarcastic reply before it could leave his lips. Trying to be helpful but… just… not succeeding…
The boy who had spoken first opened his mouth again, tilting back his head as he spoke so that his over-long hair fell out of his eyes. How do you play football if you can't see past your hair? Dean wondered idly, waiting impatiently for the kid to form coherent words.
'Hey, Phil was a football player, ya know? He had a whole lot of people who were jealous of him; maybe you should check them out…'
Dean doubted that this would turn out to be an important lead, but he figured that his masquerade as a cop would be strengthened if he attempted to show some interest.
'Any names in particular?' he asked. It took great effort not to sound bored.
'Uh… no, not really. Just, like, people, you know?'
Oh, thank you, please, try to be less helpful…
'And, hey, what about his last girlfriend. Sadie. She was one crazy bitch…'
Dean abruptly ran out of patience. 'Yeah, well, thanks a lot for your time,' he said, and turned sharply away.
'Fuckin' cops,' one of them muttered as he walked away.
'I thought he was cute!'
'Oh my god, yes, me too!'
Dean grinned; the shrill, excitable voices of the cheerleaders improved his mood greatly as he left the school with absolutely no useful information. He could only hope Sam was doing better.
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Sam jerked awake in his chair and blinked, hard. He squirmed guiltily in his chair for having fallen asleep and reflexively glanced around the room as if worried that somebody had seen him who would report him to Dean. He couldn't understand why he was so tired. Hadn't he got enough sleep last night?
Suddenly nervous, he studied the desk in front of him, the chair, the wall and the papers, scrutinising every inch of space within his reach for any new message. When he found nothing, he realised he had been holding his breath and he exhaled loudly in relief.
Wearily, he turned his attention back to the endless files and records in front of him. They seemed to be, quite literally, without end.
He leaned back in his chair and picked u the next sheet, scanned it carefully, and moved on. Every sheet was laid out in the same pattern. He wondered idly whether he would notice if he found what he was looking for, or just skim read it without absorbing any information and automatically discard it. It seemed that his powers of academic concentration had diminished almost to nothing in the time since he left.
He shifted awkwardly in the chair struggling to find a comfortable position. Rolling his shoulders, he took up the next sheet. No, still nothing.
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Sam had taken the Impala with him to the library, so Dean was left with no choice but to wander back to the motel room on foot. He was in no particular hurry, as he doubted Sam would be finished at the library for a while yet, so he took a detour to explore the town a bit. It didn't take him long to get thoroughly lost in the unfamiliar tangle of streets.
He realised it was the second time he had been lost this week, and, irritatingly, this time he couldn't claim that it was Sam's fault.
He stood still for a moment to get his bearings and estimated that the motel was more or less in that direction, so maybe if he followed that alleyway then he would be able to guess his way from there. Hindered by his gender, he stubbornly refused to ask for directions.
He strode down the street, trying to give the impression that he knew exactly where he was going and didn't need any help. He was so preoccupied with this task that he didn't notice the kid approaching until he was right in front of him. Then he blinked, hard, to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was.
'Hey,' he said, flinching back in surprise. 'We thought you were missing… shouldn't you be at school?'
The skinny kid shrugged awkwardly. His guilty eyes betrayed him. Yes, I should be at school…
'Your friend… Emma? She said your parents haven't seen you…'
'Mrs Stoke? She's not my mother. I was at a friend's house last night.'
Dean raised a hand in a vague, friendly gesture which was supposed to indicate 'don't worry about it.' 'Hey, I'm not gonna report you. Just pleased you haven't turned up dead.'
'Do you know what got them yet?' he asked eagerly.
Dean frowned. The kid's voice was morbidly curious, not remotely concerned. 'Ah… no, not yet.'
'Good,' he replied, under his breath. Dean's frown deepened: he didn't think he had been supposed to hear. He tried to take a step back, but for some reason his intention didn't seem to register with the muscles in his leg, which didn't move.
Dean never knew whether the kid had an accomplice come up behind him and smack him over the head, or if he somehow rendered him unconscious with the freaky power of his mind. Either way, everything turned white, he woke up somewhere else with no memory of how he got there, and with a headache that felt like someone was trying to drill a hole in his skull. What with everything that happened afterwards, he never thought to look for a bruise.
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At last, the end was in sight. After all these hours, Sam was finally beginning to see a noticeable decrease in the size of the heap of papers. It was nearly six.
He flicked through the last few files with even less concentration than he had allocated to the previous ones, already halfway out of his seat. The last file had a black mark on it, that made him glance back urgently, snatching it up again after he had thrown the sheaf of papers back onto the table. He flicked back feverishly, thinking, Typical, the last one I look at…
It was an ink blot.
He slammed the collection of files angrily back down onto their table, and stood up, scowling. He left the papers scattered haphazardly across the table, and thanked the librarian brusquely on his way out the door.
He was so tired. Every sheet had been a struggle to read, with blurry eyes that wanted so badly to close. He planned to collapse and sleep the minute he returned to the hotel room: Dean would have to have some pretty momentous intelligence if it was going to keep him awake.
The only explanation he could find for this chronic need for sleep was that the elusive dreams which had plagued him recently had prevented him from resting properly even when he was asleep. Either that or he must have pricked his finger on an enchanted spinning wheel. In fact, he reflected, sleeping for a hundred years didn't sound so bad…
He was surprised to see that Dean wasn't back yet, when he stumbled into the motel room, but quickly concluded that he must have gone out to a bar or something, bored of waiting for Sam. Frankly, he was too lethargic to give the matter much consideration, but just slumped, face down, onto his bed, fully dressed, and drifted blissfully into nothingness.
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When Dean woke, the first thing that caught his attention was the headache, pounding mercilessly away behind his eyes. He opened them hoping that he would see something to take his mind off the pain, and then immediately wished he hadn't. He didn't know where he was, but it was dimly lit, enclosed and oppressive, and, even more disconcertingly, he was stuck here. He was leaning against some kind of metal pillar or roof support, and his wrists were yanked painfully behind his back and secured with what felt like wire: thin and sharp and strong. It was grating agonizingly against the bones of his wrist, and digging deeps ruts in his flesh. He could feel blood, slick on his hands.
The other thing about the view which was less than encouraging was the skinny kid, who was leaning against the opposite wall, watching him with interest and predatory eyes.
When Dean spoke, he found his throat was bone dry, and the words came out hoarse. He said the first thing that came into his mind.
'Did you kill them?' he asked.
'Who?' asked the boy, with wide eyes feigning innocence, and a crooked smile which belied them. He was enjoying every minute of this, evidently.
Dean clarified, glaring fiercely at his captor.
'You know. Louise and Philip. Did you kill them?'
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