Disclaimer: Not mine.
Author's Note: Yeah, I did kind-of-sort-of cheat with the title. But I think it can count for Doyle just this once. ;-) This chapter's up today because I'll be away over the weekend – so, once again, next update on Monday.
To everyone reading this story, I wish you a very happy 2012.
Thanks to Cheryl and SandyDee84, and to criminally charmed, luvmydogz, Kathryn Marie Black, BerrySPNFMA, Katy M VT, doyleshuny, Eavis, Whateva876, BranchSuper, SPN Mum and Tendencia.
Chapter VII: The Game's Afoot
When the mist clears, we're still in a library – but it's a different library now. I can't quite put my finger on exactly what, but something about it seems newer.
We're clearly still in a country house: there's a huge window to my left and the curtains are drawn back to reveal rolling parkland bounded by a high wall. Beyond that there's a huge, empty moor that's so damp and foggy and positively creepy that if I didn't know better, I'd say we were back on the job.
I'd be thrilled if we were back on the job. Vengeful spirits? Angels trying to kill us? Demons out for our blood? Bring them. They can't possibly be worse than freaking Sauron.
But no such luck. We're special that way. Other hunters just have to hunt and bitch about having to hunt. It takes the Brothers Winchester to find situations that suck so completely and comprehensively that they make staking out the house of a suspected werewolf seem like an evening of entertainment in comparison.
So, yeah, we're in a library. It isn't as big as the Netherfield one, but it's big enough that Sam's probably feeling like a kid in a candy store.
That's what I would've thought, anyway, but when I look at Sam he seems a little nervous. Before I can ask him where the hell we are and why he's upset about being in geek paradise, the door to the library opens.
The man who comes in looks like a Brit dude from a period movie. He's got a moustache and side-whiskers and he's wearing a three-piece suit in a depressing shade of greyish-brown, topped off with a horrible yellow tie that totally doesn't match.
The sight makes me check what I'm wearing. I just manage to hold back a sigh of relief. It looks like Sam and I are still soldiers – and this time we're the good soldiers, the sensible soldiers who carry guns like reasonable human beings instead of toting swords around and expecting the bad guys with AK-47s to quake in their shoes.
"Have you found anything?" the man asks. Neither of us answers. He prompts impatiently, "Selden. Have you found him?"
I can practically hear the cogs whirring in Sam's brain. He bites his lip, bows his head a little, and finally shakes his head. It's a masterful performance. Hollywood doesn't know what it lost.
"No," Sam admits sadly. "We're doing the best we can, sir."
He looks like a puppy that doesn't know why it's just been kicked. Dude with the yellow tie doesn't stand a chance.
"I'm sure you are, but you must appreciate that this is an untenable position! How much longer are we to…" He trails off at the sight of Sam's guilt-stricken face.
Seriously, these Brit dudes seem even more gullible than the Americans – first Darcy, and now this guy, whose name I still don't know. If only we were hunting monsters in England… We wouldn't have to do any research ever. Sam would just show up and look sorry for himself and that would be it.
"Just tell me how much longer," the dude says at last.
"We'll be able to tell you more in a few hours, Sir Henry," Sam promises, sounding brisk and business-like and just a little deferential. "We will find him, I promise you that."
Sir Henry grunts and leaves.
"Sam?" I ask as soon as we're alone. "Who the hell is Selden and why are we looking for him?"
"He's an escaped convict – a murderer. The area's full of soldiers looking for him."
I'm not too worried about the escaped convict. It's not ideal to be wandering around in the same county as a murderer and possible lunatic, yeah, but considering the kind of company we have kept…
"And where are we?" I ask, because that's the more pertinent question right now.
"Sherlock Holmes. The Hound of the Baskervilles."
"Oh." I pause, taking that in. "Giant spectral dog that foretells death?"
"Something like that. Except that it's not a real spectre. It's just –" He looks around and lowers his voice. "It's just a normal hound dog with phosphorus smeared on it."
"You think so? Big ghostly dog, people dying… If we were back home, we'd check this out."
"But we're not back home. Dean, the only thing that matters here is what was in the book. And in the book it was just a regular dog. Sir Charles Baskerville saw it and had a heart attack out of pure fear."
"If you really thought so," I point out, "you wouldn't've made me promise not to go after it no matter what."
"Dean, please –"
"Sam." Sam looks up at me, and I can tell he's only seconds away from tearing up. He looks like a distraught child. Unfortunately for Sammy, I'm just about strong enough to ignore the eyes when I have to. For a few moments, anyway. "Sammy, c'mon," I say gently. "Tell me what it is."
"I should never have brought us here," Sam says, ducking his head. "It was stupid."
"It's not like we had a lot of options. What is it? You think it might be something else? A Black Dog?"
There's silence for several seconds. When Sam speaks again, his voice is shaking. "Samuel – Samuel Campbell – told me once that he thought Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a hunter – or came from a family of hunters at the very least. He didn't write that the Hound of the Baskervilles was supernatural, but he might have thought it, and if he thought it…"
"Then, for our purposes, it is," I finish. "Fine. Let's gank it."
"Dean, it's not that simple. Just let it go."
"Don't be ridiculous, Sam."
"Dean, this is a book! It's freaking fiction! The only supernatural hounds are in Conan Doyle's head. We know how this is going to end. Just let it go. Please."
"Sam –"
"Dean, please."
"What if it kills more people?"
"It's a book. When you turn the last page, it's over. There's nothing more after that unless you read it again."
"When we – wait. When you turn the last page it's over?"
"I'd think so," Sam says, looking startled at the question. "Why?"
"What happens if we're still hanging around when the writer says THE END?"
"Let's just say we should try not to be." Right. Now I feel so much worse about all this. "Don't worry," Sam adds, sensing my thoughts. "We're a long way from the end."
"Not this book I'm worried about. OK, what now?"
"We search." Sam gestures. "It's a big library. Pick a row."
"Fine. And Sam –"
"Don't open anything. I know."
For once it would be nice to have a case – or even part of a case – that began and ended with looking stuff up in the library. You know, sit around pretending to read and watch the way Sammy's expressions change while he's flicking through books.
Most fun I've ever had was watching Sam go through a codex a few years ago. It was the kind of thing only one of those kinky mediaeval alchemists could've written, a combination of erotica, obscure lore, and DIY potion-brewing instructions. Kid was alternating between blushing scarlet and pursing his lips at the more… explicit… illustrations, taking copious notes, and handling the pages with an incredible amount of care while at the same time trying not to actually touch any of the pictures. It was freaking hilarious.
Really, you'd think this time it would be easy. We materialized right into the library, we don't have to get through murderous sorceresses or pass ourselves off as Rangers, all we have to do is find the freaking book. And considering that I'm with Supergeek, it shouldn't take more than five minutes.
Yeah. That's me. The eternal optimist.
We pick our rows. Sam's working near one of the windows, I'm near the door, and for a while neither of us says anything. It's not exactly quiet: the windows are open, and we can hear people – probably soldiers looking for that Selden character – shouting to each other. There's the occasional bark of a dog, making me wonder if they have bloodhounds on his trail – I pity the son of a bitch if so, murderer or not.
Then something makes Sam stop short and raise his head, staring at the window. (Yeah, I had my back to him, but it's Sam and I haven't been a big brother for almost twenty-nine years for nothing.)
I go to join him.
"What is it, Sammy? Hear something?"
"Listen," Sam hisses.
I listen. There's a bit of a commotion – apparently an unexpected visitor has shown up. There are excited voices, loud but indistinct.
I glance at Sam. He shrugs.
"I don't know. I suppose it's Stapleton's wife or somebody like that. I guess it doesn't matter… We still need to find the book and get out of here."
I don't bother asking who Stapleton's wife is. Kind of book this is, Stapleton and his wife are both probably suspects in some gruesome murder involving a glowing phosphorescent dog. The less I see of them, the better.
"If you say so, Sasquatch. Keep looking."
Sam gets back to work. I sit in a big armchair by the window and put my feet up on a small padded ottoman. Sam makes bitchfaces. I ignore them. Finally Sam gets tired of frowning disapprovingly at the back of my head and says, "What the hell, Dean?"
"I'm taking a break."
"It's barely been ten minutes."
"Ten minutes of looking through books, Sammy. That's your department, not mine. I would just slow you down. So I'll just sit here and enjoy the breeze while you do your thing. Go to it, tiger."
Sam scowls at me, but he doesn't push it. I'm surprised. I expected to be hauled physically from the chair. For a moment I wonder if there's something wrong with Sam, then… No, kid's fine. Just broody as usual. I'll let him work for a bit, and then maybe I can persuade him to come downstairs with me. Place like this is bound to have a huge, well-stocked pantry, and Sam might as well use the eyes for something useful and get us some food.
As I expected, it takes a while for me to persuade Sam to come downstairs when the time comes. I'm not complaining: considering how relentless he is when he's got a problem, I was expecting a detailed and unflattering commentary on my lack of an upstairs brain. A short lecture about how we're supposed to be working is nothing in comparison.
I lead the way to the kitchen – don't need a brain for that, just a nose. It seems to be baking day, or whatever the hell it's called. The air smells of flour and butter and sugar, reminding me that I haven't eaten in a while. My stomach is already rumbling in anticipation.
Sam's no help when we finally get downstairs.
When I want him to let me check him for injuries he makes the eyes at me until I feel guilty about forcing him to do something that's freaking good for him. When hospital nurses want to inject him with a painkiller he makes the eyes at them and they back off, leaving me to deal with a cranky and hurting little brother. But when there's a cook and two kitchen maids just waiting to give us scones fresh from the oven? Then Sam sidles off into a corner and expects me to do the talking.
Freaking moron.
But I'm not too dusty either. The cook is elderly and prim. When I turn on the Dean Winchester charm she sniffs disapprovingly and turns her back on me. The maids, on the other hand, are young, eager, and gullible. I almost feel bad – but the basket of buns, teacakes and muffins that I find myself holding makes the guilt go away very quickly.
"C'mon," I say, nudging Sam with my elbow. "Useless little idiot. We would've had twice as much if you'd pulled your weight. If you were going to be this helpful, you might as well have stayed in the library and done some research."
"Exactly my point."
I sigh, following Sam as he heads for the stairs.
Halfway there, he almost bumps into a man. He draws back quickly, apologizing and introducing himself as "Inspector Winchester".
"Holmes," the man says in response. "Sherlock Holmes at your service. I just came down from London. I had urgent business there. I thought it would detain me for some time, but it resolved itself fairly quickly and I was able to join my friend Dr Watson. You must have met him by now."
"Yes, of course," Sam says, lying without a blush. "I wish you had visited us at a better time. The countryside is in uproar."
I peer over Sam's shoulder to get a better look. After the surprises in Austen-land, I'm expecting… I don't know what I'm expecting. Maybe a short, fat, bald man wearing eyeglasses. Instead…
Well, for one thing, he really does look kind of like a cross between Jeremy Brett and Robert Downey Junior. (I know. I wouldn't have thought it was possible either. But I'm seeing him, and he does.)
For another… He looks good. Not as good as Dean Winchester, of course, but he'll clearly have an easy time with the ladies. He's tall (shorter than Sam, but then I've seen giant redwoods that were shorter than Sam), well-built, and clearly strong as well.
He tips his hat and walks past us. I wait for Sam to move, but he seems to have frozen in his tracks.
"Dude, what?" I ask.
"He's not supposed to be here," Sam says in a strangled whisper.
"Yeah, I know. I was listening. He said he had business in London but –"
"Damn it, Dean!" Sam looks like he's inches away from having a full-blown panic attack. "The book. It's supposed to follow the damn book. He's not supposed to be here. He's supposed to be in London."
Oh.
"How?" I ask.
Sam shakes his head. "Someone must be interfering. Maybe the witch – maybe someone else. This means we can't count on anything behaving like it should or sticking to the plot anymore."
There's a moment's silence while we both absorb the ramifications of that statement.
Then we say together, "Library!"
What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!
