Thanks to my wonderful betas sallyloveslinus and skzb for all their hard work and insights!
Chapter 4
Heather was horrified to see Dean covered in blood, and, for a moment, she felt weak in the knees, her heart starting to hammer with fear. Then her paramedic training kicked in, and she ruthlessly staved off the panic and immediately began to assess him.
He had suddenly gone a little pale, and he seemed to be holding his breath. She walked over and put her hands on his upper arms. "Dean, sit down at the dinette table and let me check you out."
Of course, she wanted to know where he'd been and what had happened to him, but first things first. She needed to make sure he wasn't seriously injured.
He seemed to come to his senses and gently put his hands on her elbows, looking her in the eye. "I'm okay, Heather. I'm okay."
"Dean," she said with unerring calm, "you're covered in blood. Have you been cut somewhere? Go sit down and take your shirt off so I can see." She had pulled away from him and was already looking over his arms and hands, checking the pulse in his wrist.
He crouched down a little and looked into her face, getting her attention. "Heather, I'm okay. I swear. This blood isn't mine."
She frowned. "Then whose is it?"
Dean's eyes shifted to Sam, who was behind her. She turned to see Sam's brows raised in interest and an apologetic, worried look on TJ's face.
Dean sighed. "Heather, there's something we need to talk about." He looked over her shoulder again at Sam. "Table. Now."
"All of us?" asked Sam, suddenly sounding wary.
Dean looked as if he were about to face a firing squad. "I think I'm gonna need backup on this, Sammy."
Okay. This is getting weird, thought Heather. She turned in time to see Sam nod, looking more serious.
TJ cleared her throat. "I'll put the smoothies in the fridge."
After they were all seated around the table, Dean looked at Heather with a solemn expression that was echoed by Sam and TJ.
Heather began to feel really uneasy. "What's going on, guys? You're starting to freak me out."
"Heather," said Dean, his voice sounding gruff, "there's something I should have told you about me a long time ago." He inhaled a deep breath, as if fortifying himself. "I know you don't believe in ghosts and stuff, but it's..." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "It's all real. There's things out there that are evil, that aren't human."
What? She must have heard him wrong. She stared at him, her hands neatly folded and resting on the table in front of her. He was going to somehow make that statement seem rational, right? She waited for him to go on.
"Sam and I grew up as hunters, people who fight supernatural creatures—evil creatures. Our dad got into it after our mom was killed by a demon, and we grew up in the life. We've been hunting since we were kids, but we quit after Sam got hurt. I still take an occasional hunt if I'm needed, and Sam sometimes helps Bobby out with research, but that's rare." He paused, as if waiting for some kind of reaction from her.
She showed no emotion. How was she supposed to react to that? This had to be some kind of joke they were playing on her. She looked at TJ and Sam and was disconcerted to see that their expressions hadn't changed. It didn't look like they were trying to hide smiles or might burst out laughing at any second at the absurdity of what Dean was saying. And how could he make up such a bizarre way for his mother to die, being killed by a demon? How could he joke about something like that?
The silence in the room grew, and Dean finally went on when it was clear Heather didn't have anything to say. "We've hunted ghosts, werewolves, vampires, and lots of other things that most people think only exist in horror movies. I was hunting a vampire tonight, and that's where the blood on my shirt is from. I killed it."
She sat there, numb, like this whole conversation was a figment of her imagination.
There was another awkward silence. Finally, Dean cleared his throat and said, "I know it sounds crazy."
Heather bit her bottom lip, still trying to comprehend what he had just told her.
He sighed. "Do you think you could say something, Heather? I'm kind of hangin' by a thread here, wondering what you're thinking."
She was thinking he was stark-raving mad, and the thought sickened her. She couldn't reconcile the words coming out of his mouth with the Dean she knew—with the Dean she was in love with.
Sam cleared his throat, and his brows were drawn together in an earnest expression. "He's telling the truth, Heather. It's how I got hurt. We were on a hunt, trying to take out a poltergeist, and it threw a knife directly into my spine."
She gawked at him, unable to move a single muscle, horrified by what Sam had just told her and knowing there was no way it could be true. A poltergeist threw a knife at him?
TJ reached over and put a gentle hand over Heather's, which were still folded on the table. "I know it's a lot to take in, but Dean and Sam aren't bonkers. I've seen some of it with my own two eyes."
Oh, God. Even TJ was in on this and believed them?
"I'm sorry, Heather," said Dean, his features rigid, as if he were holding in his emotions. "I should have told you a long time ago."
She suddenly felt like all the blood was draining from her body, leaving her shaky and cold. She didn't know what to think, didn't want to think, afraid that she might come to the conclusion that her boyfriend and her two closest friends needed to be committed. Suddenly, she just wanted to get away, wanted to run.
She scooted her chair back and stood, slinging her purse that had been hanging on the back of the chair over her shoulder.
Dean, Sam, and TJ all looked up at her.
She didn't know what to say to them, and she felt a little lightheaded. She couldn't make eye contact with any of them, especially not Dean. She stared at a nick in the glass of the table instead. "I..." She what? Needed time to think? Thought they were all lunatics? Never wanted to see them again? "I need to go."
She heard Dean say "Heather," but she couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to meet his eyes, afraid she might see madness there where she'd never seen it before. "I need to go," she repeated again and bolted for the front door, feeling their gazes boring into her back.
XXXXXXXX
Gordon Walker sat in his car and watched the parking lot of the San Diego County Animal Shelter, waiting for Ronnie Barnes to either drive up in one of the county vehicles or come from inside the shelter and get into one of the trucks that was already parked. Gordon had a picture of Ronnie, and he had scrutinized the driver of every truck he'd seen so far, but none of them had been his prey.
Gordon was a good hunter, but his skills as a computer hacker were almost nonexistent. He really needed to find a hacker that would do some less-than-legal work for him, but they were an elusive bunch, even more elusive than hunters, and quite skittish when it came to dealing with outsiders. Until he could find a hacker looking for regular work, Ronnie Barnes would have to be Plan B.
Gordon needed access to San Diego County's dog licensing records. The newscast showing the guy in the wheelchair and Marcus's dog, who had saved some toddler's life, had been a stroke of incredible luck, almost like divine intervention. Maybe it had been. After all, Gordon's intentions were pure. He was driven—some might even say obsessed—with ridding the world of evil, especially vampires, although he'd kill anything else that needed killing along the way.
Vampires aside, his latest cause was his best friend Marcus and Marcus's wife Felicia. Marcus was on the brink of finding a cure for her, and the dog was the key. Gordon would do whatever it took to help Marcus, who was like a brother to him, including bringing him specimens of whatever creatures he could find; but right now, Marcus needed the dog, and the dogcatcher was going to help Gordon find it.
Word on the streets was that Ronnie moonlighted as a buncher, collecting strays and selling them to Class B dealers to be test subjects in labs or as bait animals to train fighting dogs. Gordon figured if the man had no qualms about doing that, he wouldn't have any qualms about helping Gordon find the name and address of the disabled guy and the dog, especially since Gordon had dirt on Ronnie. It was illegal for Ronnie to use his job for personal gain in the nefarious way that he was, and Gordon was going to make sure Ronnie knew that. Gordon didn't feel guilty at all for blackmailing the scumbag.
The dog had only been missing for a couple of months, so hopefully by narrowing the search to new dog license applications during that time period, they'd be able to figure out the disabled man's name and address, although it probably wouldn't say on the license info that the man was disabled. Still, with a little bit of diligent searching, they should eventually be able to find out who had Marcus's dog.
Finally, after an hour and a half of waiting, Gordon saw Ronnie walk out of the building, his black hair and beady eyes unmistakable, matching perfectly the picture Gordon had of him. A slow smile spread across Gordon's face. "Hello, my friend," said Gordon to himself. "Gotcha."
He opened the door of his red El Camino and approached the dogcatcher. "Excuse me, sir. You're Ronnie Barnes; am I right?"
Ronnie looked at him suspiciously and then scanned the parking lot, as if trying to locate the nearest source of help should he need it. "Who wants to know?"
Gordon held out his hand. "I'm Wayne Tilden. I need your help finding a dog."
Ronnie's mouth twisted sarcastically, and he ignored Gordon's outstretched hand. "That ain't my area, mister. There's plenty of ladies in there that can help you adopt a dog."
Gordon pasted a polite smile on his face. "Oh, you misunderstand me, Ronnie. I'm looking for a particular dog, one that belongs to a good friend of mine, and he wants it back. Trouble is, we think someone might have adopted the dog not knowing that it already had a home."
"Well, if he was registered with the county—"
"Well, you see, my friend has had it since it was a very young puppy, and he just never got around to getting a license for the dog."
"Did he take it to a vet? Any vet in the county knows that dogs have to be licensed. Some even provide the service at their offices."
Gordon shook his head. "No. You don't understand. The dog is special, and my friend never took it to a normal vet. My friend is a doctor, so he just vaccinated the dog himself."
Ronnie's eyes grew large. "A people doctor? Don't you think that's a little weird that he didn't take the dog to a vet?"
Gordon gave a fake laugh. "You don't need to worry about that. All you need to know is that I know all about you, Ronnie. I know that you're a buncher, and I can prove it."
Ronnie narrowed his beady eyes. "How?"
"Do you really want to take that chance?"
"What do you want from me?"
"Like I said, I just need your help finding the dog. I know you have access to the county dog licensing records on the computer, and I need to search them for the last two months. You see, my friend and I just happened to notice the dog on a TV newscast about a week ago, purely by coincidence. Apparently, the owner is a disabled man—"
"Hold it right there," interrupted Ronnie. "You say the man was a cripple?"
Gordon disliked the term. "I said he was disabled, yes. A wheelchair user."
There was a calculating gleam in Ronnie's eye, and he rubbed his chin. "Is the dog a mutt, medium size, got some terrier and Lab and who knows what else in him?"
Gordon was suddenly on alert, his pulse picking up a bit. "How did you know?"
Ronnie leered. "Mister, we don't need to search those computer records. I think I got the man's name and address right here in my cell phone."
XXXXXXXX
Dean took a deep breath and knocked again firmly on Heather's apartment door. She wasn't answering, but he knew she was there. Her white Prius—a gift from her parents in better days—was in the parking lot.
It was Sunday, a little over a week since he'd told her the truth and she'd walked out of the apartment. He'd tried calling her several times and texting, but she wouldn't answer him, so he'd decided to go to her. He'd been to her apartment several times, too, but this was the first time he'd been sure she was at home.
He knocked again. "Come on, Heather. Please? We need to talk."
Finally, he heard the two deadbolts clicking on the other side before she opened the door a bit. Her mouth was in a grim line, and she looked a little pale. Her coppery hair was piled high on her head in a messy updo, and her light-blue eyes appeared hollow and somehow darker.
He felt an ache deep and tight in his chest. He'd missed her way more than he'd ever admit. It was the longest they'd gone without talking to each other since they'd met—for sure since they'd been dating—and the wondering had been hell. He'd had enough of the uncertainty and dread. He needed to know where he stood, needed to know if it was over. "Can I come in?"
She just stared at him like he had ten heads.
"Are you..." He trailed off, fighting a sick feeling in his stomach. He swallowed hard and tried again. "Are you afraid to let me in?"
She looked down for a second and then met his eyes squarely. "Yes."
"You think I'm crazy."
"I—I don't know." The deadness in her eyes was suddenly replaced with anguish, and she looked away.
"And Sam and TJ? You think they're crazy, too?"
She exhaled sharply and looked at him, her mouth in a tight line. "I don't know, Dean. I—I don't know what to think."
"Do you still love me?"
"You're not who I thought you were."
"I'll take that as a no."
Her eyes pierced him. "Are you playing some kind of sick joke on me?"
"You really think I'd do something like that?"
"I never thought you'd tell me you killed a vampire last Friday night," she countered.
He clenched his jaw. It was the whole Cassie thing all over again, and it hurt. "I'm not lying to you, Heather. I know it's hard to wrap your mind around, but what reason would I have to make it up?"
"I've asked myself the same question a hundred times, Dean, and the answer is always the same. Either you're lying to me for some reason, or..."
"Or what?"
"I think you need help, maybe Sam and TJ, too. I mean, are you—are you guys into some kind of role-playing game? Maybe you're taking it too seriously. Maybe the line between reality and fantasy has been blurred."
He could feel anger begin to spread through him, a slow heat that began in his stomach and spread outward. "I don't need to pretend I'm a fuckin' hobbit to get my rocks off, Heather. My real life is scary and weird enough."
"Well, excuse me for having a hard time believing all this, Dean. But you know what freaks me out even more?" She was usually soft-spoken, but her voice was getting louder. "What's even scarier, Dean, is if that blood didn't come from a vampire—which, let's be rational; it didn't—then where the hell did it come from? Maybe you're not just crazy. Maybe you're psycho. Maybe you, TJ, and Sam are devil worshipers and sacrifice virgins on full moons for all I know!"
He was barely holding in the rush of emotions threatening to overcome him, and his voice was intense. "How can you say that? You've known TJ and me for over a year, and you never thought we were crazy until now. You and me, we've been together for eight months. Doesn't that mean anything to you? Doesn't what we've shared mean anything to you?"
Her eyes blazed. "And just what have we shared, Dean? I've shared everything about myself with you, all my innermost thoughts and feelings. How many times have I told you that I love you? In return, you've shut me out, kept big chunks of your past and your life away from me. I thought you—I don't know. I thought you cared about me, you know? Maybe not loved me, but I thought there was a chance, that maybe in time..."
She looked up to the concrete ceiling of the apartment's breezeway and pressed her lips together, chin trembling. When she spoke again, she was back in control, but her voice sounded bitter. "You, Sam, and TJ, you're like The Three Musketeers, and I guess I've just been there to amuse you whenever you get an itch in your pants, right?"
He felt like she'd sucker-punched him, and he drew in a deep breath. "Heather, that's not true. I had no idea you felt that way." He reached out and lightly outlined her jaw with his fingers, almost wincing at the softness of her skin. "If that's how you think I feel, I'm sorry. You—" He had to stop, feeling his throat tighten and his eyes burn. When he spoke, his voice came out gruff. "You mean so much more to me than that."
She turned her face away from his touch and swallowed. "Right. That's why you've made up this weird story about vampires and ghosts instead of just telling me the fucking truth."
He'd never heard her curse before, and it was shocking coming from her, almost violent.
"Why can't you trust me?" she went on. "If your childhood or your past is so painful, share it with me, Dean. Let me help you deal with it. Don't make up some bizarre story about it."
He exhaled, trying to keep his breathing under control, trying to keep his temper in check. "Look at my face and tell me if I'm lying to you."
She searched his face, her eyes like walls of ice, not giving away what she was thinking.
He grabbed her upper arm, not hurting her but imploring, trying to will her to believe him. He wanted it so desperately. "If you really love me, then have faith in me. Stop being friggin' Joe Friday for once and take a leap of faith. Sometimes what the facts tell you is wrong. I could prove it to you, Heather. I could prove to you that I'm not crazy, and neither are Sam and TJ; but I'd have to take you on a hunt, and it's just too dangerous."
"Where did the blood come from, Dean? What were you really doing Friday evening?" She spoke deliberately, as if she hadn't heard anything he'd just said.
His heart sank. There was no way she was going to believe him. Keeping his voice hard and devoid of emotion, he said, "I was hunting a vampire. When I cut its head off with my machete, its blood splattered all over my shirt."
She let out a short, acerbic laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. "Do you hear yourself? Is this really how you want things between us to end?" Her eyes were suddenly pleading. "Just tell me the truth, Dean. That's all I want. I don't want you to be crazy. I don't want to lose TJ and Sam as my friends. I don't want to lose you. All you have to do is tell me the truth, and we can work through it."
His chest ached painfully. He knew the next words he said would damn their relationship, but he refused to lie anymore. "I am telling you the truth, Heather. All you have to do is believe me."
Her voice was quiet. "Tell me something I can believe, and I will."
He rubbed a shaky hand over his mouth. "I guess there's nothing left to say."
She slowly closed her eyes.
He didn't stick around to see her open them again.
XXXXXXXX
Heather opened her eyes to see the back of Dean as he walked toward the Impala, his slightly bowlegged gait so familiar to her, so much a part of the guy she loved.
She retreated back into her apartment, shut the door with her back to it, and slid down it as her knees gave way. She felt drained, numb, shocked. It was over, and she still didn't really understand why. The last few days, she'd vacillated between denying that the whole vampire conversation had taken place and not knowing what to think because it had taken place.
That darkness she'd sensed in Dean, the air of mystery and danger she'd thought was exciting and attractive about him, made her feel ill now. She'd been so stupid, so naive. Maybe she should call the police. Maybe the darkness was deeper and more sordid than she'd ever dreamed. She couldn't get the sight of all that blood out of her head, the way his shirt had been saturated with it. If it wasn't his, whose was it?
It was like she'd been living in some Twilight Zone for the past year and the people she'd thought were her friends—her normal, funny, intelligent friends—were, in reality, a bunch of weirdos. It was just so contrary to what her eyes and ears were telling her, that they weren't certifiable, that they—and especially Dean—must have been telling her the truth.
But, for God's sake, they were asking her to believe in ghosts and vampires and demons and who knew what else. Her mind just couldn't fathom it, couldn't process it. Those things weren't real. They just weren't. It was a catch twenty-two, and there was no acceptable solution. She had to choose between believing that Dean and two of her closest friends were crazy or believing ghosts were real. So, instead, it was like her brain was refusing either one, and she had sort of shut down, kind of like she did on the job when she was faced with some shocking tragedy or witnessed someone in pain. Her emotions were locked away behind a wall inside her, and as long as they didn't break through, she felt nothing.
She could get through this. She was used to being alone. Losing Dean would hurt more than anyone she'd ever lost, more than any of her other ill-fated relationships, but she was numb right now. Maybe time would heal the pain before it got out of hand, before the wall inside her crumbled to dust and the reality that Dean had just walked out of her life tore her apart.
XXXXXXXX
Gordon straightened his collar as he and Ronnie walked up the steep sidewalk to the Winchesters' apartment. He couldn't believe how things were turning out. He'd heard of the Winchesters in hunting circles for years, but he'd never met them. He'd heard about what a badass their dad John was and how the boys were following in his footsteps after he'd been killed in a car accident.
Gordon also knew that he needed to tread carefully, that the Winchester brothers wouldn't be as easily duped as civilians, although, maybe "duped" wasn't the right word. After all, most of the story he was going to use was the truth. The closer to the truth he got, the better, because he knew the Winchesters would check up on his story. It was good that Marcus kept his research lab well hidden and that Felicia knew nothing about it. Even if the Winchesters decided to pay Felicia and Marcus a "visit" to check up on the dog, there shouldn't be anything out of the ordinary for them to see.
Gordon was a little worried about the identity he'd stolen, but it should hold up unless the Winchesters dug really deep. He was banking on the fact that they would be more interested in who Felicia and Marcus were, since they were the ones who would actually be giving the dog a home.
It was good that Marcus had introduced him as Wayne Tilden to Felicia when Gordon had first started gathering creatures for Marcus's research. She had no idea that "Wayne" was anything other than an old friend of Marcus's from high school that had just recently moved to the San Diego area.
Gordon had opted to bring Ronnie with him, against his better judgment, because he thought it would lend credence to his story if he brought an animal control officer with him. The more time he spent with Ronnie, though, the more he was having second thoughts. Ronnie was a jerk, pure and simple, and it seemed like he was getting some sort of pleasure out of the fact that Sam Winchester was about to lose his dog. Gordon, on the other hand, was feeling a twinge of guilt.
It was apparently the younger brother who was disabled, whose name was on the dog license information. Gordon was surprised word of Sam's injury hadn't spread throughout the hunting counterculture. He'd heard rumors that the Winchesters had gotten out of the life, but he hadn't given them any credit, and no one had said anything about the younger one being out of commission.
Gordon wondered what had happened to Sam, what the nature of his disability was. Was he paralyzed, or was it something else that had put him in a wheelchair? If it was an SCI, then maybe the fact that Gordon was about to take his dog away was a blessing in disguise. Sam might very well benefit from it in the long run, and the thought alleviated some of Gordon's guilt.
As they approached the door, Gordon checked that his khakis and button-down shirt weren't too wrinkled and tried to paste a sincere, sympathetic look on his face. He wanted to look as nonthreatening as possible—as little like a hunter as possible—and more like a normal guy who was relieved to have found his best friend's lost dog.
Ronnie hitched up his pants and spat on the sidewalk. "You better let me handle this."
Gordon felt disdain, but he knew Ronnie was right. It would make more sense for Ronnie to do the talking, since Gordon was supposed to be a humble, regular-Joe guy who didn't go around taking people's dogs from them every day. "Try not to act like a jackass," warned Gordon.
Ronnie bristled but said nothing. He'd been around Gordon long enough to know when to keep his mouth shut.
Gordon reached out and knocked on the door, willing himself to remain calm.
A minute passed, and then a man's voice behind the door said, "Who is it?"
"Open up," said Ronnie rudely. "It's Officer Ronnie Barnes with the San Diego County Department of Animal Services. We need to speak with Sam Winchester. I met him on Coronado Beach when he picked up a stray dog there."
There was a beat of silence and then the sound of locks being turned.
Gordon's heartbeat picked up when the door opened a little, and he looked down to see a man who had to be Sam Winchester looking up at him from his wheelchair.
Winchester's expression was guarded, eyes intelligent and alert—the eyes of a hunter.
XXXXXXXX
Sam had a couple of hours to himself at the apartment between his last class and when he had to go to his bookkeeping job at Shorty's. Dean was at work, and TJ was in class, so Sam was at the dining table with his laptop working on a paper for his Special Problems in Public Law capstone course. It was a major paper, a culmination of all that he had learned, and he would have to present it to an academic panel at the end of the semester. It was a big deal.
He had loved being back in school. It was like riding a bike, even though it had been three years since he'd left Stanford. He was a political science major with a minor in English, and he'd easily picked up where he'd left off, since most of his credits had transferred.
His schedule was exhausting, especially when he added in the things he had to do every day to manage his health and deal with his disability. Then there was work and studying and trying to chisel out time for TJ, and it seemed like he had fifteen billion papers to write. He never got much sleep, but what else was new? He hadn't slept much when he'd been a hunter, either.
He was excited about the prospect of law school and realized he was becoming content with his life. Of course, given a choice, he'd rather not have to live it from a wheelchair; but, ironically, if he hadn't gotten hurt, he'd still be hunting, and if he were still hunting, there was no way he'd have a chance at a normal life like he did now. He was close to achieving what he'd always dreamed of, and if his disability was a part of that, then so be it. He could handle it.
He was about to take a break when there was a knock at the front door.
Rocket, whose bed was near the sofa, lifted his head and barked a low growl of warning and then laid his head back down on his paws. He wasn't the greatest watchdog in the world, but he did his best. Besides, Sam figured he should cut him some slack since it had only been two weeks since he'd been hit by the UPS truck. He was still pretty sore, although he was doing much better.
Sam pushed away from the table and wheeled over to where he was a few inches from the door. "Who is it?"
"Open up," said an abrupt voice. "It's Officer Ronnie Barnes with the San Diego County Department of Animal Services. We need to speak with Sam Winchester. I met him on Coronado Beach when he picked up a stray dog there."
Sam stiffened. As if he wouldn't remember the man and what an asshole he was. Sam was sure the reason the dogcatcher was there couldn't be for anything good.
He took a fortifying breath and then reached forward with his left hand, unlocking the locks and then opening the door. He used his right hand to grip his wheel and push back a bit so he was out of the way of the opening door. He found himself looking up into the faces of Ronnie the Douche Bag dogcatcher and a black guy dressed in business khakis and a blue button-down shirt. Sam's senses immediately went into hunter mode. "What can I do for you, Officer?"
The dogcatcher's features twisted into a version of the scornful expression he'd worn at the beach. "Well, Mr. Winchester, it turns out that mutt you thought you were rescuing on the beach didn't need rescuing."
"What?"
"There was already a legal owner of the dog before you applied for a license. Must have been a glitch in the system. It happens sometimes. You'll need to give the dog back to its rightful owner."
Sam's gut clenched at the thought of losing Rocket. "Do you have some kind of proof?"
Ronnie's face reddened. "Yeah, I got proof. Me," he said, pointing to his own chest with his thumb. "I'm an officer of San Diego County Animal Control. That's all the proof you need, mister."
This guy was such a dick, but Sam forced himself to remain calm. "Still, I'll need to see some paperwork."
"Is there something wrong with your ears, too?"
Sam gritted his teeth.
"I repeat," said Ronnie, leaning down close into Sam's face and speaking in a loud voice as if Sam were hard of hearing, "I'm an officer of the county. That's all you need to know. Hand over the dog."
With lightning-quick moves, Sam fisted the beige shirt of Ronnie's uniform in a vise-like grip and, at the same time, gripped his wheel with his other hand to maintain his balance.
Ronnie tried to pull back, but he was no match for Sam's immense arm strength.
Sam tightened his hold on the starched fabric of Ronnie's shirt and twisted, causing the collar of it to constrict around the man's neck. Sam looked him in the eye and growled in a low voice, "Stay out of my personal space."
Ronnie's lips were drawn back from his teeth in a grimace, and his pock-marked skin was turning purple, as if he were having trouble breathing. "You're...assaulting an officer of San Diego County," he rasped. "I'll throw...your ass in jail."
"Go head," said Sam, and he shoved Ronnie away from him, causing the man to stumble several feet backwards. Sam was actually a little surprised that the guy had stumbled so far; sometimes he didn't know his own strength. "You really want everyone to know that a cripple got the better of you?"
Ronnie was panting and rubbing his throat. "Where's the damn dog?" he choked out.
The black man who had been quietly observing the exchange stepped forward, a look of appreciation on his face, as if he didn't mind seeing Ronnie put in his place. "Mr. Winchester, maybe if I explain what happened—"
"And you are?" asked Sam, keeping his face neutral.
"I probably should have introduced myself in the first place," the man said in an apologetic tone, glancing toward Ronnie. The man sounded educated and had a precise way of speaking, pronouncing his words crisply and correctly. "My name is Wayne Tilden, and I'm very sorry, but we believe your dog rightfully belongs to my friend Marcus Ford and his wife Felicia."
"And why do you think that?"
"Well, you see, the dog has been missing for a couple of months, and my friends have been heartbroken that they lost it. By an incredible stroke of luck, they happened to be watching the newscast that featured you and the dog whenever it saved that child, and I've been doing the legwork for them, trying to find out who adopted the dog."
Sam inhaled a deep breath, fighting back a surge of anger at the reporter that had run the story without his permission. He'd known nothing good would come of it. "Why didn't your friend and his wife come for the dog if they're so attached?"
"Well, you see, Felicia has a spinal cord injury and has quadriplegia. She is dependent on a ventilator to help her breathe. Marcus doesn't like to leave her if he can help it, and it's hard for her to get out. The dog was going to be trained to be a service dog for her." He gave an indulgent chuckle. "It's a very spirited dog, though, as you've probably figured out, and not the best material for being in service. I don't even know if they still plan to have it trained." He chuckled. "It might just end up living the life of Riley, if you know what I mean."
Sam was suspicious. The man seemed harmless enough, but he was almost too polished, too congenial, and Sam wondered how true the whole story of the friend really was. The man had obviously known Sam used a wheelchair from seeing him on the newscast, so he could have made up the story to play on Sam's sympathies. And Sam didn't trust Officer Ronnie Barnes as far as he could throw him (which, apparently, was farther than he first would have guessed). He held back a smile of satisfaction.
There was something weird about how Tilden kept referring to Rocket as "it" instead of "he." It seemed to Sam that if the man had spent any time at all around Rocket visiting his friend and his wife, he would think of Rocket in a more personal way. Sam watched him closely, focusing on Tilden's dark eyes, looking for any tells. "So, what is the name of Marcus's dog?"
Tilden's eyes shifted ever so slightly to the left, and he hesitated just a beat too long before answering, "Uh...Van Gogh." He grew suddenly despairing, eyes full of pity. "Felicia named him. She was..." He trailed off, as if it were just too difficult to speak.
Sam frowned. It seemed a little contrived, but maybe he wasn't being fair. After all, he wanted there to be something fishy about this guy. He wanted to find a reason not to trust him because, quite simply, he didn't want this guy to take Rocket.
Tilden gave a small, sad smile. "Felicia was an art historian and a professor at UC San Diego until her car accident. The dog's muzzle reminded her of Van Gogh's red beard."
Sam inhaled deeply and exhaled, trying not to feel a twinge of sympathy for this woman Felicia that he'd never met. "Do you have any proof that your friend registered his dog?" He refused to acknowledge that Rocket and this other dog were one and the same.
"Yes. Of course." Tilden pulled a folded up piece of paper from the front pocket of his khakis and handed it to Sam.
Sam looked at the familiar form. It was identical to the one he had filled out when he'd registered Rocket. It was dated six months before Sam had gotten his license. He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. This was starting to look really bad.
"That good enough for you?" asked Ronnie tersely.
Sam clenched his jaw.
"Oh," said Tilden, "I have a picture Marcus sent with me, also. I can't believe I almost forgot." He grimaced sheepishly. "I suppose I'm a little nervous," he said, handing Sam a photo that looked like it had been printed on a home printer. It was of a beautiful black woman with short, curly hair, sitting in a power wheelchair, and a man standing next to her holding a dog that was unmistakably Rocket. Sam would recognize Rocket's distinct coloring and markings anywhere.
Rocket was licking the woman's cheek, and she was smiling with joy. She had a ventilator hose protruding from her neck and her hands were resting on the armrests of her chair, her fingers curved in the telltale way that signaled neurological damage, like the effects of quadriplegia.
Sam felt his heart sink to his stomach like a stone, and he closed his eyes for a second. This couldn't be happening. He wanted to deny it, to say that it couldn't be true, but what reason, really, would this man or his friend have to lie about owning Rocket?
It wasn't like Rocket was of any value monetarily. He certainly wouldn't be wanted by a breeder, and there were plenty of other dogs out there that needed adopting. Why wouldn't this couple in the picture just go adopt another dog, unless they had a particular attachment to Rocket? The worst part of it was, Sam could believe that above anything else. Who wouldn't get attached to Rocket? He was an awesome dog.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester," said Tilden with what seemed like genuine regret.
Sam felt a sudden tightening in his throat and swallowed against it, trying to find his voice. "He's still sore from the accident you saw on the TV. Is there any way you could come back and get him in a few weeks, when he's fully recovered?"
"No," said Ronnie. "How do we know you wouldn't abscond with the dog in the meantime?"
This guy is a fucking moron, thought Sam. "Look, I'm a college student, Officer Barnes, and I'm planning on going to law school next fall. I work as a bookkeeper at Shorty's Bar and Grill in the evenings. I'm not gonna throw everything away and move just so I can keep a stray dog."
Ronnie shook his head. "It ain't proper procedure. Are you gonna hand over the mutt, or do I need to call backup and get a warrant?"
Tilden flashed Ronnie a look of irritation and then said to Sam, "Mr. Winchester, I can assure you the dog will be getting the best care. Marcus doted on it before, and Felicia adored it. She'd never allow anything to endanger the dog's health."
Every cell in Sam's body screamed at him not to give in, but the logical part of him knew he didn't have a choice. He kept thinking about the picture of the woman in the wheelchair, how happy she'd seemed. If she and her husband were Rocket's rightful owners, how could he refuse them? Besides, he had no legal claim if the paperwork was as legitimate as it appeared to be.
His heart heavy, he pulled the door open wider. "He's right here," he said as he swiveled his chair around and pushed himself over to Rocket, who hadn't moved a muscle through the whole conversation between the humans.
Rocket looked at him with trusting eyes, and Sam felt like he was betraying him. He exhaled a harsh breath, feeling his throat constrict, and leaned to where he could scratch Rocket between his ears. "I'm sorry, boy." His voice was thick, and he paused for a second. "It's time for you to go home."
XXXXXXXX
TJ had just gotten done with her last class of the day. She was about to unlock the front door to Sam and Dean's apartment with the key Sam had given her, when she suddenly saw an extra shadow that wasn't hers looming behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she turned around to see Dean standing behind her. She put her hand over heart, relieved.
He looked totally handsome in the red shirt and black pants of his Firestone uniform. His dark-blond, sort of spiky hair and hazel eyes were highlighted by the early evening sun, and, even though he wasn't as tall as Sam, he was still at least an inch taller than she was—and that was saying a lot.
She was completely in love with Sam, of course, and would never be attracted to Dean in that way, but she wasn't blind. There was no denying that both Winchester brothers had been uncommonly blessed in the looks department.
Dean had been so quiet she never would have known he was there if she hadn't seen his shadow. "Mercy, Dean. You scared the crap out of me."
His face was shuttered and unreadable, the same expression he'd been wearing since he went to see Heather yesterday. He hadn't told TJ or Sam what had happened, but it was easy enough to figure out by his quiet, I'm-fine-just-leave-me-alone mood that things hadn't gone well. He hadn't said more than three words to either Sam or TJ since he'd come back from Heather's, and Heather hadn't answered any of TJ's texts or voice mails today.
At first it seemed like he wasn't going to speak, but then he said, "Sorry."
She turned back to the lock and stuck the key in. "How was work?"
His tone was flat. "Peachy."
"You totally snuck up on me. I would have been easy prey. It's a good thing you're not a psycho."
"Apparently, I am."
She looked at him over her shoulder and caught a flash of raw pain on his face before he erased it.
She felt a mixture of heartbreak for him and a pang of disappointment in Heather. She straightened, forgetting about the key. "Good Lord. She didn't—did Heather say something like that to you?"
His face was devoid of emotion again. "You know, Sam and I should teach you some self-defense. You should at least know the basics."
She stared at him a second, having a good idea how he must feel. "She loves you, Dean. Just give her some time."
He rubbed his fingers over his mouth. "You gonna open the damn door sometime tonight?" His tone was a little harsh, but he grabbed TJ's heavy backpack off her shoulder and held it for her, taking the edge off his words.
"Thanks," she said, trying to keep the sympathy she felt off her face, knowing he'd hate it. She unlocked the door and they both stepped into the apartment to see Sam pulled up to the table in his wheelchair, reading something on the screen of his laptop.
TJ was surprised and glad to see him, and her heart skipped a beat. He was supposed to be at work. "Sam?" she said with a smile. "What are you doing here?" She walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder, about to bend down to give him a kiss.
He looked up at her, but there was no smile of welcome on his face. His features were like granite.
She froze, instantly knowing something was very wrong.
Dean frowned and said gruffly, "Sammy?" The one-word question held as much meaning as if he'd given Sam the third degree.
"Rocket is gone."
She wasn't sure she'd heard right. "What?"
Sam exhaled. "Turns out he had a legal owner after all. He wasn't a stray, and they wanted him back."
TJ felt numb and sat down at the table with Sam.
Dean took the chair opposite her. "What happened?" he asked.
Sam explained everything, and when he was done, TJ looked at the empty dog bed by the sofa and felt her chest tighten. How could God or fate or whatever higher power have allowed this to happen? What was the point of saving Rocket's life if he was cruelly taken from Sam anyway?
"You gonna just let this go?" asked Dean.
"I don't have a choice."
"Bullshit."
Sam rolled his shoulders and tilted his head briefly to one side. "I called Bobby. He's starting an investigation, looking into Tilden and the Fords. I've been researching them on the Internet to see what I can find. So far, I haven't seen anything that looks off. Tilden doesn't come up, but Dr. Marcus Ford's name does. He made quite a name for himself a few years ago. Apparently, he was a well-respected surgeon until his wife was severely injured in a car accident a couple of years ago." He cleared his throat. "Tilden said Ford's wife is a high-level quad. Looks like Dr. Ford dropped off the face of the earth after her injury."
Dean nodded.
TJ caught Sam's eye. "You don't think Tilden was on the up and up? I mean, he did come with an animal control officer."
Dean gave her a cynical look. "TJ, anyone can be on the take. Would you really be surprised if that dick Ronnie Barnes was into something shady? It's weird that he just happened to be the officer that Tilden came into contact with, don't you think?"
She couldn't argue with Dean there. The dogcatcher had given her the creeps the first time she'd laid eyes on him. "But why? What reason would they have to go to all that trouble?"
Sam put his hands on the wheels of his chair, moving them back and forth absently in a small motion like he did sometimes when he was thinking or agitated about something. "It might be just as Tilden said. The Fords were attached to Rocket and just wanted him back." He gave her a grim look of determination. "But if there's something else behind it, I'm gonna find out what it is."
XXXXXXXX
"So, I'm sorry about Heather," said Sam from the passenger seat of the Impala.
Dean was sitting in the driver's seat, and his only reaction was the hardening of his jaw as he stared out the windshield.
They were parked a few houses down from the residence where Marcus and Felicia Ford lived, and they'd been there for a couple of hours. It was the day after Wayne Tilden had come for Rocket. Dean had taken off from his job at Firestone, and Sam was skipping class.
They were staking out the place, watching it for any signs of weird activity and searching for peace of mind, at least on Sam's part. He sensed that Dean was worried about Rocket, too, although he'd never admit it.
Bobby had done a cursory investigation into the Fords and Wayne Tilden, and they all seemed legit, at least on the surface. Bobby was digging deeper just to make sure. In the meantime, Sam wanted to watch the house where Rocket had supposedly been taken. He wasn't sure what they were watching for. Maybe he was just making sure everything was as normal as Wayne Tilden had made it out to be.
At least one thing rang true. There was a small wheelchair ramp that had been installed next to the four steps leading up to the front door of the stately Spanish Colonial-style house. The Fords lived in the city of Coronado in The Village area, which also lent support to the assertion that Rocket once lived with them, since the house wasn't far from Coronado Beach where Sam had found him.
"I guess I shouldn't have pushed you so hard to tell her everything," Sam said, resuming his conversation about Heather.
Dean snorted. It was his 'It's not your fault, Sammy' snort. "I came home with blood all over my shirt. I had to tell her. It had nothing to do with you pushing me."
Sam still felt a little guilty. "I think she'll come around eventually. Maybe she just needs more time to wrap her head around it."
"She thinks we're all nuts, even you and TJ. She thinks we're all into some role-playing game that got out of hand."
Sam huffed. "Put yourself in her shoes, man. It is all pretty unbelievable. I don't think even TJ would have been so easily convinced if she hadn't seen some of it firsthand."
Dean clenched his jaw again. "TJ would've believed anything you told her. You can do no wrong in her eyes."
"Heather loves you, too, Dean."
"Loved."
Sam frowned. "Is that what she told you?"
Dean's voice was hard. "I don't wanna talk about this anymore. It's over. I'm surprised it lasted as long as it did."
"Dean—"
"Let it go, Sam. I don't need to share my feelings and get all touchy-feely. I'm fine. It's not like I was in love with her."
Sam studied his brother for a moment, not believing him for a second. True, he'd never been around Dean the one time he'd gotten close to that other girl Cassie, had never seen him in love, but he knew Dean cared for Heather a lot. He didn't know if Dean was in love with her, but he wasn't even sure Dean would know love if it bit him in the ass.
Dean tried real hard not to show his feelings, but there was a certain way he looked at Heather, a certain way he touched her that might seem casual if you didn't know him, but Sam knew it wasn't. The fact that Dean was so attentive to her was something Sam had never seen from him before.
Sam tried to put himself in Heather's shoes and tried not to be angry with her for thinking they were all lunatics. He'd seen her once at Shorty's since Dean had told her everything, but she'd obviously been avoiding Sam and had been really busy waiting tables, and he hadn't had a chance to talk to her. She was rational and level-headed, and Sam hoped that if he could sit down and talk to her one-on-one, maybe he could start to convince her.
One thing was for sure, Dean had been miserable this past week. He'd been quiet most of the time when Sam was around him, and the few words he'd spoken had been abrupt, but Sam knew not to take it personally. His brother was hurting.
Dean took a swig of his coffee, finishing it off. "I'm gonna need to take a leak, soon."
"Wanna borrow a catheter?"
The corners of Dean's mouth curved upward. It was the closest he'd been to a smile since the whole thing with Heather. "Gimp humor. Fuckin' hilarious."
Sam grinned.
They sat in silence for a few minutes after that. Sam pushed his palms down on the leather seat of the Impala and lifted his buttocks for a second, doing a pressure release. He had also taken his ROHO seat cushion out of his wheelchair and was sitting on it as an extra precaution against skin breakdown, since he knew they'd be sitting for a long time. It was ironic that the cushion had cost nearly three hundred and fifty bucks, yet he couldn't feel it under his ass. He hadn't gotten another pressure sore since he'd bought it almost a year ago, though, so he guessed it was worth the price.
"You ever miss it?" asked Dean, breaking into his thoughts.
"Miss what?"
"Hunting."
Sam half-shrugged. "No. You know I always wanted out."
Dean gave a faint nod and stared at a point somewhere outside of the Impala.
"Be careful what you wish for, right?" mused Sam.
Dean looked at him sharply, but there was no pity in his eyes. "Which would you choose, your life now with the disability or hunting?"
Sam thought for a second, but, surprisingly, it wasn't that hard of a question to answer. "My life now. I'm close to having everything I've ever wanted. It's maybe not exactly how I first envisioned it, but..." He trailed off. He was about to say he was happy, but he didn't want to say it out loud, didn't want to jinx it.
"Shit happens," said Dean, "but maybe it's for a reason."
Sam gave a faint huff of agreement and slanted a look at him. That was about as philosophical as Dean ever got. "What about you? Would you choose your life now or the hunting?"
"I think the choice has already been made for me. I tried to get out of it."
Sam was skeptical.
Dean looked slightly pissed. "Oh, come on, Sam. You know I did. I didn't seek out the hunts. They found me. Just like this."
Sam frowned. "Just like what?"
"This," said Dean, waving a hand that encompassed the car and the stakeout. "This is a hunt, Sam."
Sam snorted. "No, it's not. We're just checking up on Rocket, making sure he's in a good home."
"Yeah. But how many normal people do you know who'd take off work and school and do what we're doing? Most people would let it go, Sam, even if they were bummed about losing their dog. Most people would have taken that dogcatcher's word, would have believed in his authority. We're doing this because we know what's out there, because we know that things aren't always as they appear."
"You still didn't answer the question. Which would you choose, your normal life or full-time hunting?"
Several emotions played across Dean's features, but then his face hardened. "It's a stupid question."
Sam's brows went up. "You're the one that started it."
Dean rummaged through his box of cassette tapes, apparently done with their conversation.
Sam rolled his eyes. Dean found a cassette, but just before he put it in the player, Sam reached out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him. "I miss this, though."
"What?" Dean eyed Sam's hand on his wrist.
"You and me in the Impala," Sam said, letting his hand drop away. "The road trips, the talks."
This time, Dean was the one to roll his eyes. "You're such a fuckin' girl."
Sam laughed and leaned his head back on the headrest.
Dean was about to pop a Black Sabbath tape into the player when Sam's cell phone rang. Sam looked at the screen. "It's Bobby," he said, and pushed the talk button. "Hey, Bobby. Find anything?"
"Sam?" said Bobby over the phone, sounding irritated. "I swear you idjits would find trouble in a glass of milk..."
TBC