Warnings: Shameless lack of knowledge about police procedures
Chapter 8: At Rest
It was odd how easily they'd slipped into a routine, into their roles as Bobby's nephews.
Sam had to give notice at the Wellness Centre or, rather, tell them to keep his last cheque in lieu of notice. He had to sign papers terminating his employment and other legal stuff about liability and confidentiality. It was freaking weird because all he'd done was pick up crap after people. It's not like he had access to their personal files. But he dutifully filled in the little check boxes and initialled every line. Had he had a uniform? Yes. Had he returned it in good condition? Yes. Had he done this; did he agree to that...blah blah blah.
He hadn't done this stuff since Stanford. Then it had been fun and exciting—a symbol of his normal life. Now it was just annoying.
At least when he'd quit Sandover—his last 'normal' job—there'd been no paperwork. Probably because it had been an angel-based hallucination but still...it had been a lot easier than quitting this minimum wage job where he'd cleaned toilets all day. He'd rather face down a chupacabra. Actually, he was looking forward to facing down one, facing anything supernatural in fact. He was more eager to get back on the road than Dean was...which was even weirder than the freaking paperwork.
Dean was cleaning up around Bobby's place, finishing up some repairs that were beyond the hunter now that he was stuck in a wheelchair. Sam knew his brother wanted to go over to say good-bye to Vera in person but he'd managed to convince Dean that he should phone first, make sure it was okay. Last he knew she hadn't answered and Sam carefully hid his relief at the news. His brother had enough to deal with without craving some woman who could make him go Dark Side.
Of course, there was no way he could ever say that to Dean.
Even playing the 'I know what I'm talking about because I've been there' card, it would come out sanctimonious and hypocritical. But Vera Holmes, or rather the woman occupying Vera Holmes, was a reminder of every bad thing that happened to Dean in Hell and his brother didn't need that. They were just treading water, and they didn't need anything to add waves to the pool.
Still, Dean was looking better for having, um, cleaned his pipes—trust Dean to find sex recuperative to body and soul—so Sam was moderately hopeful that this was the start of a trend.
Maybe, with luck, things would start to look up for them.
His faint optimism lasted until he drove up next to the Impala and saw Dean standing—leaning—on her. His face was that same grey colour it had been after Dad died, and Ellen and Jo. He jumped out of his car and went to stand beside his brother. "What? What is it?"
"That was the cops..." Dean frowned and looked down at the cell phone, gripped white-knuckled, in his brother's strong hand.
"We've been found out?" was Sam's first instinct, "have the FBI have reopened our files?" which was his second.
"What? No." Dean frowned even harder but said nothing until Sam lifted his hands to wave at him. "Oh, um... That homicide yesterday? The young girl brutally murdered?" Dean stopped again.
"What..." Dean looked up at him. "Vera?" Dean didn't even need to nod for Sam to be able to read his answer. "Aw shit, man. I'm sorry. What happened? The cops have somebody in custody, they said."
"Her ex."
"The asshole?"
"Yeah," Dean's voice was quiet. "She knew he was a killer, you know. Recognized some things about him from her time in the Pit."
Sam's voice was equally as quiet in response. "I didn't know."
"Why would you?" Dean shrugged. He took a deep breath, tucking away his phone, looking off into the distance. Sam gave him the time to pull himself back under control.
"Why did the cops call you?"
"Because I drove her home from the hospital. Because my number's in her phone. Because someone saw me leave her place at three o'clock in the morning. Because I've been calling her. Pick one." He finally looked up at Sam. "They want me to go in and talk."
"Shit." Sam ran worried fingers through his hair. He was already calculating how far they could get in the Impala. They could fill up here—Bobby had a tank he had filled every couple weeks—but they weren't ready to go yet. The trunk wasn't fully packed. He paced, only a couple quick steps then back, but it was pacing because this could be really, really bad and there was no way he was losing his brother to the cops
"I'm going to do it."
Dean's soft statement stopped Sam cold.
"What? No you're not!"
"Sam I have to. I'm not a suspect," he went on before Sam could say anything, "They've got the guy and he's been charged. They just want to fill in some of the blanks."
"What if someone recognizes you?" Not likely, Sam admitted to himself but possible.
"From a wanted poster that's over three years old? For a crime two states over?" Dean looked at him again, doing that serious thing with his eyes that pleaded with Sam for understanding and acceptance. "You hacked the FBI database, you said, made sure Henrikson had cleared out our files there so that's no problem."
Dean's faith in his computer skills was flattering but a little more than they actually deserved. He was pretty sure Victor'd wiped their files but that wasn't absolutely sure. Five minutes stolen on a police computer hadn't given him a lot of time to achieve certainty.
His brother hadn't finished justifying his craziness, "I've interacted with the locals here before and the covers you and Bobby built are solid. I'll go in as Bobby Singer's nephew Dean, just like I have for towing cars from accident sites. I've got cover for the calls and stuff," the older hunter said as if that made it all better.
Sam shook his head a little, unable to follow Dean's thought processes.
"I liked her but we're leaving so I've been trying to call to let her know," Dean explained. "Besides, it'll be better for Bobby if we leave after the cops' questions are answered rather than before, right?"
God-damn-it! Sam fumed. He tunnelled through his hair without even realizing. "I just don't like the idea of you going into the police station alone."
Dean grinned and it was a pale version of his old give'em Hell smile. "That works perfectly as you've been invited to come in as well. You remember Trin? From the café?" Sam nodded because, yeah of course he did—black bra with little pink polka dots. "I guess she remembers you. She described you perfectly—me, not so much. Just as well you stuck around in the parking lot. "
Bloody Winchester luck.
After days of snow and sleet, and just all over yucky weather, the sun has finally come out.—Yay!—
Since it may not last, you should get out there and enjoy it.
—The annual Clean Up the Falls is coming up; you can go to our website to sign up.—
That's right. Maybe we can encourage that bright yellow ball to keep glowing
if we make our town look pretty.
The station was like most police stations: brick and bullet-proof glass and the police crest rendered huge in the middle of the entranceway floor. He went up to the desk to check in with the heavy-set officer glowering at the world from the other side. "Dean and Sam Singer to see Detective Harris."
The sergeant frowned at him. "And your business?"
Rude fuck, Dean thought. He put a mild smile on his lips. "He called me, asked me to come in." Damned if he'd give the guy anymore detail than that.
The sergeant gave him a comprehensive glance but Dean wasn't wearing anything to raise any red flags: no leather, no biker boots. He just looked...ordinary. He kept the polite smile on his face, one eyebrow quirked in question, until the guy finally agreed to call the detective down to the front. Dean nodded at the guy, knowing it would piss him off, and wandered back to where Sam stood looking into a display case filled with pictures from community events and charities that the police department had been involved in.
"He's on his way down." Sam nodded but said nothing. He moved his attention to the bulletin board with their updated crime stats and safety tips. Dean sighed. Sam hadn't wanted to do this, had argued strongly against it, in fact. Too much risk, he'd said, pointless gesture. Maybe, Dean acknowledged to himself, but it felt like the right thing.
He sat in one of the not-too-uncomfortable chairs and picked up a magazine. It reminded him of the hospital waiting room.
There was the young woman with a baby in a stroller and over there was the ghost of some guy walking toward the counter. The mother looked up and it was obvious to Dean that she didn't see the spirit and he wondered once again how it was that he could see them. He couldn't remember a time when he didn't see what most other people didn't. He knew Pastor Jim figured it was a result of being touched by the supernatural when he'd been a kid—opened his 'eye' or some such—and it made sense because he knew Dad hadn't seen anything before Mom had been killed. Still, if he hadn't been able to see the ghosts and ghoulies, would his life have been different? It would be kind of hard to be a hunter if you couldn't see what you were aiming for.
"Dean," someone called his name and Dean looked up. It was the sergeant from the accident sites. She was in uniform, as if it were still that day and not a new one, and she had a friendly smile on her face as she approached. "What are you doing here?"
Dean stood up, desperately trying to remember her name, "Hey, Sergeant Miller." He held out his hand.
"Please, Rachel," she shook his hand. "After all, we shared stories over a severed arm."
"Good times," he said sarcastically and made her chuckle. Sam came up beside him so Dean waved at him. "Um, this is m'brother, Sam." Sam shook her hand.
"So, what brings you down here," she asked again, "Ambulance chasing?"
"Uh, no, actually," Dean hesitated. "Detective Harris called us in. He's investigating the death of someone we knew."
The smile dropped from her face. "I'm sorry," she said and her voice was sincere. "Detective Harris is a good man."
Dean nodded, "Thanks. That's...that's good to know." Sam's gaze focussed on something beyond their group and it pulled Dean's attention with it. A slim black man approached the group; cheap suit, half-opened tie—it had to be the detective.
"Sergeant," the man said, addressing Sergeant Miller but looking at them, "You know these men?"
She nodded, "I've worked with Dean a couple times." Her posture was straighter, more formal. She did the introductions before Harris pulled her aside for a quick conversation. They spoke quietly but there was nothing in the lobby to cover their talk—even the baby was quiet. Dean caught 'vet' and 'recently discharged' and he realized why he'd been called to the accident that day. It wasn't because he could handle the blood; it was because she'd thought he was just back from Iraq and needing a break.
Oh honey, he thought, I wish it had just been Iraq.
Still, he could see Harris' face soften sympathetically the longer the sergeant spoke and, as much as it felt kind of douche-y, he was going to let them think he was a returned vet if it meant fewer questions asked.
It didn't take long for the cops to break up their little conference. Sergeant Miller said good-bye and left through the main door. Detective Harris invited them upstairs where Harris' partner, Detective Amenguale joined them in a half way cozy room with half-way comfortable chairs drinking half-way decent coffee. It was a lot different than the cinderblock rooms and bolted down furniture he was used to. Then he realized he'd never been interviewed as a witness before. Whenever he'd talked to the cops it had either been as a suspect or as another law enforcement officer. He actually didn't know how to do this—be an innocent civilian 'helping the authorities with their inquiries'. How pathetic was that?
"So, Dean Singer, nephew of Robert Singer of Singer Salvage, and occasional tow-truck driver, how did you meet Vera Holmes?"
'She was on my rack in Hell, only I didn't know it was her at the time,' probably wouldn't cut it.
"My brother heard some people talking about this ghost that was hanging out at this club so we decided to check it out..." He ran through the story he and Sam had agreed on in the car, keeping his answers simple and straightforward, waiting for the cops to ask for more information rather than offering. After all, as an innocent civilian, he didn't know what was important for the cops to know. He glanced at Sam occasionally, as if seeking corroboration, making sure to keep it casual but concerned.
"She filed a report," Sam said, "The two deputies—" he turned to Dean, "What were their names?"
"Officers Dietrich and Yamana," Harris stated, "We've already talked to them. They said Ms. Holmes left the hospital with Dean."
"That's right," Dean confirmed.
Harris smiled, eyes cold, "What happened then?"
"We, uh, talked some. In the car, I mean." They already knew, Dean thought. They knew someone had slept with her, someone other than the asshole. He also knew that his prints and hairs and, oh god, his semen would be all over her place. He shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want to talk about it. He'd give something away. "Then we went upstairs to talk some more."
Sam snorted, "You slept with her. You can say it, Dean." Dean glared at Sam but Sam just shook his head and talked to Harris. "Dean doesn't like to kiss and tell but I was awake when he got home and he had that look, you know? Loose-limbed and sleepy?"
Dean blushed with the power of a thousand suns, "From my walk? How does that give it away?"
Sam smirked, "Because I walk the same way when I get laid."
"Really, really, didn't need to know that."
Their byplay got a smile out of Detective Amenguale but Harris ignored it. He reminded Dean of Henrikson who'd been a good man if a little confused. He couldn't help but hope, once again, that this time the guy was someplace safe from interfering demons who yanked people out of their eternal rest.
Harris' voice brought him back to the present. "So you had intercourse with the victim?" Dean nodded slowly. "Just once?" the detective prodded.
Okay, this whole 'innocent bystander helping with inquiries' thing officially sucked and he was never doing it again.
Dean shook his head but Harris wasn't satisfied with that. He had to know how many times and where. It was beyond embarrassing into a whole other world of mortification. It didn't matter that he and Sam had been living in small motel rooms together for the last five years—and he'd been bragging bullshit for even longer—there were things that his baby brother just didn't need to know about him. At least when Harris asked if Vera had liked it rough, Dean's face was already red and he was already squirming so his lie that they'd kept it pretty vanilla was buried and nobody was ever going to figure out different.
Until Harris brought out the photographs...
In an odd way he'd forgotten about the markings, that he'd done them and that they'd show up in the autopsy because in the end, they hadn't been that big of a thing. For him, what they'd done together hadn't been about her pain or the blood, not really. It had been about having Vera tied up and helpless, it had been about being in complete control of his world.
Sam leaned over the table, one long finger poked at the glossy pictures, turning them around. Dean knew when his brother recognized the markings underneath the obvious wounds because his breath caught and his shoulders stiffened. Sam covered it well though. "This is what he did to her?" His voice was filled with soft outrage and horror with a tinge of sadness. It was the voice Sam used to create empathy with witnesses when they did interviews and it covered a lot of what Sam was really feeling.
Ever since he'd gotten out of Hell, maybe even before that, he hadn't felt in control of much of anything in his life. Sam leaving, Dad dying, old Yellow Eyes chasing them down, then his deal and the clock ticking inexorably down to midnight. Angels and destiny and prophecies and, fuck, when was his life ever going to be just his life again? For a few brief hours, with Vera tied up and spread out below him, he'd had that control. The protections he'd carved had been a way of extending that control even after he'd left, a piece of him still there, still working, still protecting the people he cared about.
His protection hadn't lasted long and it hadn't protected Vera against the right bad guys.
...you can't save everybody, Dean. Hell, these days, you can't save anybody...
Dean didn't want to know what Sam was really feeling but knew he'd find out eventually.
"These symbols were present." The detective laid down some hand drawn facsimiles of the protections Dean had carved into her skin. "Do they look familiar to you?"
He flicked his eyes over the photos before focussing on the drawings the cops had made of the symbols. "Um," he made himself sound unsure, "That one looks like the thing witches wear, or wiccans, whatever they are."
"Like Nicole Kidman in Practical Magic," Sam tossed out because average guys would associate one of the world's most powerful sigils of protection with a witch movie featuring two hot actresses. It was normal and unsuspicious so Dean nodded agreement.
He looked at the next drawing: the mystic cross with its intricate interwoven lines. He gave the cops credit because they'd tried to draw it accurately but they'd done a really crappy job. "That looks Irish. And those are...arrows?" He looked up and hoped he looked concerned rather than guilty. "What do they mean?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss that, Mr. Singer."
Cops actually said that?
Sam was tracing the drawing of the mystic knot, following the lines as they wove back in on themselves. "Why would he do this?" he asked, "He said he loved her."
It was an honest question. Dean could tell that his brother felt truly bewildered by what the asshole had done. He stared at Sam and wondered how he could still ask that question after all that they'd seen and experienced, all that they knew. "Because sometimes people just suck, Sammy." He felt three hundred rather than thirty.
As if that had been a key, Detective Harris backed off. His partner gathered up the photos and the drawings and put them back into the file. Harris asked a couple more questions, about why he'd been phoning her all day, what their plans were; was Dean willing to give a blood and hair sample so they could rule out his DNA for when this case came to trial.
Sam frowned, "I thought you had a confession."
It was Detective Amenguale who explained that confessions were often recanted, especially once their lawyer showed up. Apparently, the douche's had.
Ignoring Sam's silent command, Dean agreed to everything. He wanted that homicidal asshole in jail because he agreed with Sam. The guy said he loved her. You don't stab the person you love a couple dozen times because they'd moved on.
...I'd go back to school, be a person again...I'm not going to live this life forever...
He pushed the memory aside. Those knives had only been verbal and time had proven Sam wrong anyway.
It was another hour before everything was done—thank Christ he hadn't had to cum in a cup—then Harris was walking them to the front entrance. "How can I get hold of you," the cop asked. "In case something comes up."
"Call Uncle Bobby," Sam answered.
Dean nodded. "He knows how to get hold of us."
They walked out into the thin sunshine and that was that; another episode in the fucked up story of their lives, finished. Or mostly. Dean braced himself because he knew what was going to happen as soon as the doors were closed.
Sam didn't fail him.
"What were you thinking of?" Sam spat out as Dean backed the car out of the narrow stall. "Cutting protection sigils into that girl's skin?"
Dean's shoulder hunched defensively. "I knew what I was doing."
"What the hell does that mean?" Dean stayed silent but he could feel Sam's scowl sinking into him, forcing the answer out. Sam wasn't going to let this go. "Dean."
"She asked me to, alright?" This time the silence was on Sam's side, demanding more. Dean sighed. "She developed a taste for it down in the Pit but she didn't trust anyone around here not to make a mistake, cut too deep."
"And she trusted you?" There was a world of disbelief in the young hunter's voice and it set Dean's teeth to grinding.
"Yeah, well, she knew my work." It was a cheap shot, a reminder of what he'd done so that Sam could live, but maybe it would shut him up. He glanced at his baby brother and the guilt was there but also an anger that was new.
"And you said I'd gone off the reservation." Sam waited for a response. Dean watched the road instead. "Do you have any idea how sick that is?"
...what's the matter, Dean? Don't you remember all the fun you had down there...
He had to pull over, had to stop. His hands were shaking he was so mad...and he was scared and freaked out and...and grieving because he had liked her and now she was dead.
He concentrated on mad because it was easier.
"Do I know how sick that is?" he repeated voice flat and not shaking like it wanted to. "Yeah, I do, Sam. But, for the first time since I got back, I didn't feel like it...like I was something scummy stuck to a shoe. That all the horrible, horrible things I'd done down there, hadn't left me all tainted and twisted and vile, like I'd always thought. All this time, every time I had to face down some creature, I've been worried that 'Dean the Apprentice Torturer' was just waiting inside me, ready to take over like it did..."
His breath hitched and he fought for control. He had to focus on this one part of everything or else it would all burst out of him and there'd be nothing left. He'd be hollowed out and oozing on the pavement, like leftover shape shifter skin. "I enjoyed torturing Alistair."
"That's understandable, Dean," Sam's voice was soft, kind, filled with real empathy not the fake stuff he'd used on the cops. "It was like revenge, right?"
"It was ugly and I hated that I enjoyed it but I couldn't stop myself and I couldn't help wondering about the next time I picked up a knife. Would I linger? Would I slide it in slow just to watch their agony? Would I care if the one I was cutting was even guilty of anything?" Sam opened his mouth to comment but Dean cut him off. "In the future, in 2014, I was torturing people, or demons I guess, though they used to be people. Nobody in that room even thought it worth commenting on. I guess it was pretty common for me to do it. I confronted myself but future me didn't blink or flinch or even care that there was a person being torturing along with the demon."
"That's not you," Sam stated quietly, "That future isn't going to happen."
Dean didn't even bother commenting on that bit of wishful thinking. The future wasn't the point of this little rant anyway. "You're right that isn't me. And I know that because, as I held the blade and, and, y'know," his hands recreated the lines he'd drawn that night, "it wasn't her pain I got off on. It wasn't. It was her pleasure."
He could feel the heat in his face and he couldn't look at his brother but he had to keep going. Had to make Sam understand that he wasn't going to start cutting up random women. That he wasn't a monster, not really.
He swallowed and forced the words out. "She trusted me to keep her safe, to give her what she wanted without going that one step further into true torture. She put herself under my control completely... and I didn't let her down. She enjoyed it." He could still remember the sounds she'd made. "We both did."
Dean hadn't put on the radio so there was only the sound of the traffic to fill the silence between them.
"Consenting adults, huh," Sam said half question, half understanding. Dean said nothing because what was there to say. Somebody drove by and they could hear the bass thumping through the Impala's closed windows.
Then Sam snorted, "You carved ancient and sacred protection sigils into a woman's skin...for sex." Another snort, "You don't think that was a little...sacrilegious?"
Dean turned to stare at his brother. That was it? That was all Sam 'sex is a deeply intimate act between people who care about each other' had to say? Sam's jaw was tight, his eyes were narrowed, but he was trying.
"Although you could argue that sex, in many cultures, is considered a spiritual act so, in a way, it fits." He stretched his neck and took a breath. "You're not a monster, Dean. You never were, not even in Hell. The demons wanted something from you in Hell and they did whatever it took to achieve that. They made you believe... I dunno, up was down, left was right, light was dark."
Dean wanted to argue but Sam raised his hand to stop him. This time when he looked at Dean, his eyes were concerned but not angry, not judging. "Vera was right. I did some reading and, given enough time, everybody breaks and they never really go back to being who they were before." Sam ducked his head, embarrassed or guilty; Dean wasn't sure which. "You're still a good person, Dean."
Now Dean was embarrassed. He didn't feel like a good person. He didn't feel like much of anything really just a stubborn determination to not let the angels win. Although he was beginning to think it would be a pyrrhic victory at best.
...you're not hungry, Dean, because, inside, you're already dead...
Famine or Sam, one of them was wrong.
Dean squinted up into the pale sky. "C'mon, Sam. We can still put some decent miles on today."
"We could stay at Bobby's one more night," Sam countered. "Start early tomorrow."
"Nah." There was no way they would fix anything by sitting around Sioux Falls. People hadn't stopped dying just because they'd opted out of the race for a bit...not that he'd expected any other result. No matter what Sammy hoped, there were no miracle cures for what they suffered from.
"Are we at least going to get something to eat before we go?" He stared at Dean and waited for his answer.
Dean took a breath, trying to connect with it, to 'be in the moment'. It was supposed to help, they said, but the air didn't smell sweet or fresh or cold or anything. It was just air, and this was just another day. Was he hungry?
...you're not a lesser man than your father was. You're just you and that's good enough for me...
"I could eat." He opened his door. "You know, I'm actually going to miss all those home-cooked meals. You really would make someone a good wife, Sam."
Sam sneered, "Bite me."
"I'd rather have lasagne."
Somehow, Dean thought, somehow they'd find a way to muddle through. They couldn't change their past and the road ahead was always just more of the same but they had each other and that counted for a lot.
It is finally spring break and all my brain cells are jumping for joy.
I don't know about you but I plan on going to Mexico and leaving our weird ass weather behind.
Me and my crew are gonna get in the car, drop the top, and blast the tunes.
For anyone else heading out: drive safe because I'll be out there with you and I like my life.
They were three days out of Sioux Falls, deep in the heart of cowboy country, when the radio crackled and the twangy guitar died. No great loss, Dean thought, it would give him an excuse to put something decent on. Then the radio started up again and Three Days Grace started singing about pain.
Dean turned the knob, changing the station...and found Three Days Grace. It was the only thing playing no matter where the dial was.
"Shit," the older hunter muttered; he knew what it meant.
"What's going on?" Sam frowned.
"It's Vera," he answered, "She's still out there."
Fin.
