I want to thank everyone again, not only those that are new to this story, but those who are continuing to stick with it. A special thanks to gr8read and PsychoPicasso for consistent reviewing-you're both awesome.
The sun is high in the sky by the time Dean steers the car off the road, his foot barely pressing the gas as he drives over the pitted earth, the Impala's shocks creaking as Sam and Dean bounce in the seat with each dip and bump.
The windows are rolled down, more to help ease the intense smell of gasoline still present from the gas cans than from the dead body wrapped in the back seat. As soon as they left the alley, Sam began to rethink his preference for the black body bag in favor of the thicker, clear bag that was obviously designed with retaining the smell of rotting flesh in mind.
Dean looks in the review mirror, mostly out of habit and a deeply ingrained sense of self-preservation. They had made certain no one was following them when they left town. Now, they only have to burn the body, and they're home free—hopefully with Dean's voice intact and a little less psycho in the South.
Once he figures they're far enough away from the road, Dean kills the engine and takes a deep breath. Damn, he hopes this works. Hearing the whine of the passenger door followed by the feel of the car shifting as Sam climbs out, Dean gets it into gear and follows suit. Time to get this show on the road.
"Help me carry him," Sam says, coming round the car and opening the back driver's side door. Dean wrinkles his bruised nose in disgust, but takes one end of the tarp-wrapped body bag, helping Sam maneuver it away from the car and onto the ground.
Next order of business, ditching the jumpsuits. Dean doesn't even wait until he's back at the car, he simply unzips the suit, strips down to his boxers and t-shirt, and tosses the dark blue monstrosity onto the tarp, fully intending to set it ablaze.
He turns to find Sam watching him, one eyebrow Spocked high in judgment, prompting Dean to offer a 'what?' gesture. After all, they're in the middle of nowhere and it's not like Sam hasn't already seen all Dean has to offer any way.
A few short minutes later, the tarp is unfolded, the boys are dressed, and each is pulling on a pair of the stolen latex gloves Sam had so thoughtfully borrowed. The salt and lighter fluid are resting on the ground at their feet, the two jumpsuits resting against Dr. Tate's body bag.
Neither Sam nor Dean move, both wanting to hurry and get this over with without actually having to do it. After several seconds of inaction, Dean elbows Sam, cutting his eyes towards the zipper.
"Dude, I had to carry him all the way to the car. The least you could do is open the freaking bag," Sam replies, adamantly not looking at the clear plastic or the near-sludge inside. Dean frowns, his lips pursing as he engages his brother in a stare down.
When it becomes obvious that Sam is still the more stubborn jackass of the two, Dean angrily looks away before letting his eyes fall to the body on the ground. Bending at his knees, Dean tentatively reaches out, gloved fingers pinching the zipper as he takes a deep breath and pushes his lips together as tight as they will go. Mentally counting to three, he bounces on the balls of his feet, ready to spring back as soon as the bag is open, before he pulls the zipper down as far as it will go.
"God, that's…god..." Sam turns away, the back of his hand held to his nose, his eyes watering from the overpowering smell. He feels the gag reflex kick in once, twice, before he's got it under control and he can turn back around.
Dean, still holding his breath, pops the lid of the salt canister off with his thumb and begins to liberally pour the entire contents over the body, even going so far as to grab a stick to hold the edges of the bag open as he pours salt into the sides.
He doesn't release his breath until the canister is completely empty and he steps back, leaving room for Sam to douse the remains with lighter fluid. His hand's already in his pocket reaching for the matchbook as Sam squeezes the last of the fluid, little bursts of air shooting though the last few squirts.
Pulling off one match and lighting the remainder of the book, Dean allows a small, cocky smirk as he drops it on the body, immediately backing far away as the accelerant catches light, a thick smoke permeating from the melting plastic and flesh.
Dean's on one side of the flames, Sam on the other. They stand in complete silence, simply watching the body burn, the sides of the tarp curling in with the heat, an occasional 'pop' and 'hiss' emanating from the makeshift pyre.
He's almost afraid to try, to open his mouth and attempt to speak. It isn't until Sam calls out, a quiet yet concerned "Dean?" that he decides to man up and go for it. He coughs first, feeling the edges of his sore throat vibrate with the action before he opens his mouth, and moves his lips, his tongue flicking against his teeth with practiced ease—all for silence.
Sam doesn't even have to ask, he can tell from the fall of his brother's shoulders, the way Dean dips his head and clenches his jaw that it didn't work. The curse is still in effect. Burning the trees and torching the body didn't work, and quite honestly, neither knows what to do next.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-
"We'll figure this out," Sam says reassuringly, his mind already racing in an attempt to figure out what's fueling the curse. He had a feeling burning the body wouldn't work, but hadn't thought ahead to make a Plan B. Truthfully, they had planned to skip town the moment the body was burned. Now, they're forced to stay and hope that the steps they had taken to cover their tracks are sufficient enough to give them a little more time so they can learn what's really going on.
Dean uses the toe of his boot to push off the remaining bits of dirt on the end of the shovel before setting it neatly in the trunk. The small mound were they had buried the doctor's charred remains sticks out like a sore thumb in the middle of the pasture, but given enough time, it'll hardly be noticeable.
Like his brother, Dean had every intention of hopping in the car and speeding away, putting Clarksville and Granny Jean far behind. But like almost every time before when things seemed too good to be true, a little too easy, they end up falling flat on their faces back at square one.
Well, square two. They're almost absolutely positive that Granny Jean and the late Dr. Tate are involved. Putting the last of their supplies back into the trunk, Sam and Dean climb into the car and head back towards town.
"We'll have to talk to Jean again," Sam points out, his face leaning towards the open window, allowing the wind to take away the smell of gasoline and smoke. "And we'll have to expect Deputy Adams to call us when they discover that Tate's body is missing."
Dean taps his thumb against the steering wheel, taking deep breaths to calm his anger. Inhale, hold it, release, inhale, hold it, release, inhale…
Why didn't it work? Why the hell is he still cursed? Past experience dictates he should be singing from the rooftops, Linda should be buying a lifetime supply of Nicorette, and Mr. Banner should be picking daisies and feeling the love.
"We missed something," he hears Sam mutter and Dean knows if he had his voice he'd have responded with a very sarcastic "Gee, ya think?"
Either Dean thinks a little too loud, or Sam knows his brother a little too well, because as soon as the thought crosses Dean's mind, Sam leans forward and turns on the radio, more static coming through the speakers than actual tunes. "Try to keep calm, okay? You blowing a gasket and getting pissed at every little thing I say or do isn't going to help us figure this out any faster."
And if that doesn't just make Dean angry…
"Please?" Sam adds, throwing in that kicked puppy look Dean hasn't seen in God knows how long. Shouldn't he have outgrown that gig by now?
Inhale, hold it, release.
Taking another deep breath, Dean nods once, giving his consent to keep his temper under control, at least until they learn who's responsible for cursing his pie.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-
It probably wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that Sam feels a little guilty. He's sitting at Jean Dobson's kitchen table, an untouched cup of coffee in front of him as he listens to Granny Jean try her hardest to contain the random sob that breaks out as she recounts the morning's events. Even Dean, still cursed into silence looks as though he's feeling a little remorseful. It's kind of hard not to feel bad about burning her apple trees that they now know she had grown herself, having spent an entire spring planting each and every single sapling, even digging the holes one at a time.
They had seen the remains of the orchard when they drove up, the trees stripped of their leaves and fruit. The gas had done its job, leaving nothing more than a shriveled trunk and a few branches spaced every few feet in a field of black.
"Fire Chief said it was arson," Granny Jean explains, her hands shakily grasping the large mug in front of her. "I don't know what this world's coming to, burning down a bunch of trees. What was the point other than being just plain mean?"
Dean's actually a little happy that he can't talk, giving him an excuse for not having to answer really uncomfortable, yet ultimately rhetorical questions. Sam can only look away as Granny Jean swallows back another sob.
"Mrs. Dobson," Sam begins again, having already tried more than once to steer the woman's attention away from the trees, "As I mentioned earlier, we're here to talk about Dr. Larry Tate."
She seems to bristle at the mention of the doctor, her hands dropping to the table with a defiant thud as she looks Sam in the eyes. "I've already spoken with the police about that man. I'm sorry to hear he's dead, but it has nothing to do with me."
"I understand," Sam says quickly, his hand patting the air in a placating gesture, silently willing the woman to calm the fuck down. "Deputy Adams mentioned that you've already been questioned about Dr. Tate, however we have some different questions."
"Such as…?" she asks, looking suspiciously between Dean and Sam.
"The doctor had your name listed in his calendar. Now, we understand that your foster son was one of Dr. Tate's patients—"
"That's none of your concern, Agent," Granny Jean points out, everything overly caring about her suddenly fading away. "Grant is a good boy, and the state required him to go to those appointments. It's not because there's something wrong with him."
"Mrs. Dobson, we never said—"
"I swear, just because the man was found in your creek, everyone automatically thinks you had something to do with his death." Granny Jean stands from the table, nervously grabbing a hand towel and wiping the counter as she continues her tirade, more to herself than to Sam or Dean. "Grant didn't even need to see that doctor. And now the FBI is here, wanting to bring that child into a murder investigation. Well, I never…"
Dean grits his teeth and looks to Sam, a little relieved and slightly happy to see the same 'what the fuck, lady' look plastered on Little Brother's face that he's sure is plastered on his own.
"Mrs. Dobson," Sam says sternly, causing the woman to look up with wide eyes, "We're not trying to drag Grant into a murder investigation. We're simply following the leads, and so far Dr. Tate's body was found near your property, and he went missing shortly after having a meeting with you about your foster son. We're not accusing anyone of anything, we're just trying to get the facts straight."
Dean has to admit he's a little impressed with this whole 'take-charge' thing Sammy's got going on. It definitely comes in handy when crazy ladies get their granny panties all in a twist.
"Well, I assure you, Agents, me nor Grant had anything to do with the doctor's murder." Granny Jean tosses the dishtowel onto the counter and empties Sam's still full coffee cup into the sink before turning back to them, one hand resting on her hip impatiently. "Anything else you'd like to know?"
"No ma'am. I think that's it," Sam answers, already standing, knowing they're about two seconds from being thrown out. "If we need anything else, we'll be in touch."
"Oh, I'm sure you will," she says, pulling the front door open, making it perfectly clear she means them to leave. Sam and Dean don't waste any time, each quickly stepping over the threshold onto the seemingly mocking welcome mat. Granny Jean looks to Dean, momentarily adopting that overly caring persona again as she says, "I hope your cold gets better," before slamming the door shut.
Dean stares at the door, the curtains still swinging from the force of it closing. He looks back to Sam as he takes the front steps two at a time, his thumb pointing over his shoulder in Granny Jean's general direction as he mouths, 'She knows something.'
Sam simply pulls open the car door, his eyes looking towards the house as he watches Granny Jean peer out her front window. "Yeah, she does."
-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-
Dean stares at the speckled Formica table top, his fingers slowly working to pull the straw wrapper apart, forming a small pile of torn bits of paper. The waitress has already refilled his drink twice thanks to his smoke irritated throat needing the soothing coolness.
The diner, which wasn't crowded when they first came in, is quickly starting to fill up as the afternoon comes around and school lets out. Teens walk through the door at regular intervals, paired up in twos and threes, their backpacks thrown over one shoulder like it's the only way to carry the thing.
"Dean," Sam says, kicking Dean's shin beneath the table, because for some reason, simply saying his name won't get Big Brother's attention. Just to prove how stupid that thought is, Big Brother kicks back before following Sam's line of sight.
Grant Williams walks in, his eyes focused on a lone bar stool at the counter, one hand reaching into his pocket for the few rumpled dollar bills, as the other grasps a thick text book. Sam and Dean watch in silence as Grant leans onto the counter, pushing the few bills towards the waitress and mumbles something they can't quite make out from across the diner. The waitress simply smiles and takes the money, and Dean can just make out the words "Coming right up" on her highly glossed lips.
Order placed, Grant drops his backpack to the floor, his elbows still resting on the counter, fingers tapping the cover of the text book as he takes in the rest of the crowd, a look of extreme boredom overpowering his boyish features. But when his eyes land on Sam and Dean, his posture stiffens slightly, his head tilting as he tries to remember exactly where he's seen them.
As recognition hits, Grant quickly glances around before grabbing his book and backpack and walks towards their booth.
"You're the FBI guys, right?" he asks them. Dean tries not to react to the slight scoffing he hears in the question.
"That's right," Sam tells him, the squint in his eyes telling Dean he's not the only one not feeling the boy's attitude. "We were actually just talking about you." This gets the boy's attention. He nervously looks back and forth, one hand fidgeting with the strap on his book bag.
"Why don't you sit down," Sam offers, scooting over so as to make more room for Grant in the booth. Grant, however, shakes his head, glancing back towards the counter.
"Nah, I'm not planning on staying long. Just wanted to see if you finished with my library book yet?"
Sam shares a brief look with Dean before turning his attention back to Grant. "No, not yet." He taps the booth seat, putting on a friendly face that somehow blends with a decent mix of authority all at the same time. "We have a few questions we'd like to ask you."
Grant takes a step back, slight wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. "About what?"
"Your psychiatrist, Dr. Larry Tate," Sam answers honestly, once again patting the booth.
"Yeah, I heard he was killed." Grant sets his textbook on the table as he eases into the booth. It's Dean's brow that does the little wrinkle thing this time as he hears the hint of sadness in Grant's voice.
"We know that your foster mother had a meeting with him shortly before he went missing," Sam says, opening the door for Grant to explain.
"Yeah, judge said I had to go to therapy. Jean gets monthly updates as my guardian or something like that." Grant rolls his eyes at the mention of therapy. He reaches over and grabs Sam's straw wrapper, working the paper into small pieces just like Dean had been doing moments earlier. "It was just a huge waste of everybody's time."
"Any idea what Dr. Tate wanted to say during that last meeting?" Sam tries to keep his tone calm and professional, not wanting Grant to feel as though he's being judged.
"I dunno," Grant says with a shrug. "Probably the same stuff he'd been saying for a month. He had it in his head that I was a sociopath or something like that. Wanted me to go to a loony bin or something, get specified help."
Dean's starting to think that wrinkle on his forehead is going to stick around, but he keeps his thoughts to himself, letting Sam continue playing the role of the diligent FBI agent.
"Any idea what your foster mother thought of that idea?" Sam asks, earning a shocked frown from Grant.
"Look, if you're thinking Jean's got anything to do with this, then you're the ones that need to take a trip to the loony bin. The woman's like a hundred years old. There's no way she'd be able to take out the doc. I mean, she bakes pies for a hobby."
Dean smirks a little, having to agree with the kid's assessment, but past experience has taught him not to underestimate the elderly insane.
"Alright, I've got a double bacon cheeseburger, extra onions for the silent brooding type," the waitress interrupts, placing the first plate down in front of Dean, "and a single cheeseburger, no mayo for Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. Sorry, kid. I left your shake at the counter. Didn't know you'd be here."
"It's not a problem. I was just leaving anyway," Grant assures her, grabbing his textbook and backpack as he stands. "See ya," he says, dipping his head as he leaves.
The waitress lays down a stack of extra napkins, smiling as she asks, "Is there anything else I can get you fellas?"
"Nope, I think we're good," Sam tells her.
She smiles again, "Just let me know if you change your mind," she says, winking at Dean before turning and leaving to check on her next table.
Dean smiles, wishing like hell he could speak what's on his mind as she walks away.
"So, Dr. Tate thought Grant was a sociopath," Sam says as he picks up his burger. "You think it's possible Grant didn't like the idea of going to Hartfeld Memorial?"
Dean feels that wrinkle return as he reaches into his pocket for his pen.
You really think Grant's a sociopath?
Sam frowns as he reads his brother's message. "I think Dr. Tate thought he was," Sam says, wondering where his brother's mind is going. "You're thinking the doctor was wrong?"
Dean wipes his greasy fingers on his pant leg before taking his notebook back.
I know that sociopaths aren't supposed to feel emotion. Kid looked like he had emotion.
"They might not be able to feel emotion, but they can pretend," Sam argues, forgetting all about his burger. "Dean, it's possible the kid could be faking."
And it's possible the doctor was wrong.
"Dr. Tate went to medical school, he had a degree and twenty plus years experience dealing with this kind of stuff."
People say we're sociopaths.
The message is written in ballpoint ink, but Dean might as well have screamed it out loud for all the effect it had. Sam sits back in his seat, his mouth slightly open as he tries to think of a counterargument. Finding none, he once again picks up his burger and concedes defeat.
"Fine, it's possible the doc might have been wrong about Grant."
Dean has the decency to keep all traces of cocky out of his smile.
"I guess we have to keep looking."
TBC...
