Chapter XXV - Suffocating

"We've got a problem. I lost my wallet!" Uncle Dean said the next morning as we packed up to leave. He frantically searched around the room, disheveling everything in his path.

"How's that our problem?" Dad asked, shoving his clothes back into the duffel that Uncle Dean just tore apart in search of his wallet.

"Because I think I dropped it in the warehouse last night," Uncle Dean cried, crossing over the other side of the motel room and rummaged through his jacket for the umpteenth time.

Dad looked at him, bewildered. "You're kidding me, right?"

"It's got my prints—my ID…well, my fake ID. Anyway, we need to get it before someone else does. C'mon."

We made it to the auction house in record time. The three of us searched high and low for Uncle Dean's stupid wallet. We even looked in odd places like inside antique bird baths and underneath flower pots. There was no way we were going to miss that thing.

I was lifting up a box when a perky, little, "Hey guys," echoed behind us. I quickly put the thing down, hoping that Sarah wouldn't notice.

Of course we would run into her.

"Sarah," Dad said, not even masking the "aw shit" tone in his voice, "hi."

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh…uh…" Dad looked at Uncle Dean and me. I shrugged at him while Uncle Dean simply gave him the noiseless challenge to come up with something himself. "We're leaving town and, you know, we came to say goodbye."

Uncle Dean stood from leaning against an old fashioned table. "What are you talking about, Sam? We're sticking around for at least another day or two. Oh," Uncle Dean pulled out his "missing" wallet from his back pocket, "and here's that twenty I almost forgot to give you."

Dad gave him a confused look, Sarah laughed awkwardly and I was lost about this situation completely.

"Well, we'll leave you two crazy kids alone. We've got to do…something." Uncle Dean tugged at my sleeve to follow him. That's when I realized that "we" meant him and me.

When we were out of earshot of Dad and Sarah, I turned to Uncle Dean and cried, "Dude, you just totally Rick Roll'd Dad!"

"I did what?" Uncle Dean asked, pretending like he was interested in some sort of antique necklace.

"Pulled a Leo Bloom on him?" I tried, trying to come up with some sort of reference that maybe—just maybe—we both understand.

"Nope, still don't understand."

"Pulled a Draco Malfoy?"

He shook his head.

"A Murtagh?"

"What the hell is a Murtagh?"

"He's…never mind. You tricked Dad into coming here so that he would have to talk to Sarah again."

"Oh," Uncle Dean sighed, epiphany-style. "Yeah, I guess I did, didn't I."

I was about to say something else, but Dad breezed by us, looking shaken up. "We've got a huge-ass problem."

Dad continued towards the door. Uncle Dean and I looked at each other. "Uh…what just happened here?"

"I think Dad went Luke Skywalker on us," I muttered.

"Finally! A reference I actually understand!"

-SPN- -SPN- -SPN-

"I don't understand, I thought we burned the damn thing," I commented, after Dad explained to us why he left the auction house in a haste. Apparent, the ugly portrait that we burned was completely unscathed and was still in its original glory…if you could call it that.

"Hey, language," Dad warned, which simply went in one ear and out the other.

"We just need to figure out another way to get rid of it," Uncle Dean suggested. After a few beats of silence, he asked, "Any ideas?"

"Okay, alright…in almost all the lore about haunted paintings it's always the paintings subject that haunts them."

"Yeah, okay, so we need to find out information about that creepy-ass family in that creepy-ass painting."

"And I wonder why my daughter swears so much," Dad muttered.

-SPN- -SPN- -SPN-

At the library, there was this spastic librarian who threw dusty books on top of the table in front of us about Isaiah Merchant and his family. "I've got every scrap of every document I could find," he cried, opening up one of the books. "You guys crime buffs?" he asked, out of the blue.

Uncle Dean considered his words a moment before saying, "Kind of. Why you ask?"

"Well," the spastic librarian muttered, pulling out an old newspaper with the main headline talking about the Titanic sinking. He pointed to a sub-article on the side of a picture of the Titanic that said, "Father Slaughters Family, Kills Self."

To be honest, the Titanic sinking is more interesting. Of course, we aren't on a job about the Titanic. If we were, the only thing on my mind would be Leonardo DeCaprio and that song by Celine Dion.

"Yes, that sounds about right," Uncle Dean said.

"The family was killed?" Dad asked, the many wheels figuratively whirling in his head as he tried to piece the puzzle together that is that fugly painting.

"It seems that this Isaiah slits his kids' throats and then his wife's and then himself. A barber by trade—used a straight razor."

"Why did he do it?"

In sharp, choppy movements, the librarian flipped the newspaper around so he could read it. "Uh…people who knew him said that Isaiah was known for his stern and harsh temperament…controlled his family with an iron fist…wife, two sons, an adopted daughter…doo-doo-doo…ah, here we go! There were whispers that the wife was going to take the kids and leave…and, well, you know, in that day-and-age…anyway, old man Merchant—" he made a slicing motion with a finger and his neck and chuckled "—gave them all a shave."

Uncle Dean laughed along with him, Dad gave one of his infamous bitch-faces and I just stood there like an idiot.

"Does it say what happened to the bodies?" Uncle Dean asked.

"Just that they were all cremated."

Well, hell. That was not a good thing. If Isaiah Merchant was just buried, then we could salt-and-burn his ass. Now, it's making our job a million times harder now that we need to figure out another way to gank his ghost…or whatever it is.

"Anything else?" Dad asked, completely annoyed at this point—at the fact, at Uncle Dean and, probably at this point, the whole freaking world.

"Ah, yes," the spastic librarian said, digging through the pages of another book. "I have a picture of the family somewhere. Right—here it is."

It was the same as the painting that we tried to burn last night. However, Dad acted like he had seen a ghost—no pun intended. He even requested a copy of it. There was no doubt that he was seeing something that Uncle Dean and I were totally missing.

-SPN- -SPN- -SPN-

"I'm telling you man, I'm sure of it," Dad shouted as the three of us sat around the kitchenette with a copy of the painting between us. "In the painting, Isaiah is looking down and in this one, he is looking up. His position has changed, Dean."

"So, you think daddy dearest is trapped in the painting and his handing out Columbian neckties like he did with his family."

"Uh, yeah, it seems like it," Dad said, border lining on hysterical. "But if his bones are already dusted, how are we going to stop him?"

I was completely lost. I sat back in frustration, decided to let the professionals (well, as professional as they could possibly get) figure this out.

"Alright, well, if Isaiah's position changed maybe some other things in the painting changed as well. It could give us some clues."

"Like a Da Vinci Code deal?" Dad asked.

Uncle Dean gave him an incredulous look. "Okay, what is with you two and making references to things I don't understand?"

"Maybe you need to brush up on your pop culture," I suggested.

He just glared at me. "Anyway, we need to get back in there and see that painting. Which is a good thing, because it'll give you more time to crush on your girlfriend."

"Dude, enough already."

"What?"

"Ever since we got here, you've been trying to pin me up with Sarah. Back off, alright?"

"Well, you like her, don't you?"

His silence was answer enough for Uncle Dean. I began to panic. Memories of how I felt when I thought Dad had a crush on Meg flooded back and it took all of my willpower not to yell at him for forgetting about Mom.

"So, you like her. She likes you. You are both consenting adults."

"What's the point, Dean? We'll leave. We always leave."

"I'm not talking about marriage, Sam."

"No, I don't get it. Why do you care if I hook up?"

"Because maybe you won't be so cranky all the time."

My head moved back and forth like I was watching a tennis match. Dad was slowly getting angrier while Uncle Dean just lounged on the couch like what he was trying to do was a task from God himself.

Dad humorlessly laughed.

"No, I'm serious, Sam. It isn't just about hooking up, okay. I think that this Sarah girl could be good for you. And, I don't mean any disrespect, but I am sure that this is about Jessica, right?"

That was the straw that broke the camel's back. I wanted to run away from this. Everything seemed too close all of a sudden. The wildly designed walls were drawing closer and closer and even Dad, who used to be a good five feet away, seemed to be on top of me. My ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton, but I could still hear Uncle Dean's voice loud and clear.

"Now, I don't know what it's like to lose somebody like that," Uncle Dean began, "but…I think she would want you to be happy—God forbid have fun once in a while. Wouldn't she?"

Silence was trying to shove rocks down my throat. It was growing hard to breathe. I looked up at Dad. He was full of pent-up emotions to. It had been so easy so far: focus on a baddie—figure out what killed her. Once in a while, our sadness would show, but we were always able to mask it. Now, our feelings were out in the open for the world to see.

"Yeah, I know she would," Dad finally said, his words were a saw cutting through wood. It was the truth and it hurt like hell. "Yeah, you're right. Part of this is about Jessica. But…not the main part."

"What's it about?"

I looked at Dad, begging—pleading—for my psychic powers to kick in so I could understand his cryptic tongue. Of course, he remained silent, leaving us with riddles.

"Yeah, alright," Uncle Dean sighed. He leaned back onto the bed—chick-flick moment officially over. "But, we still need to see that painting which means you still need to call Sarah."

Dad slowly picked up his phone and dialed up Sarah's number. I walked over to the couch. It felt like my legs were jell-o as I tried walking on a boat in the middle of a hurricane. I'm surprised I made it the short distance it took to get to the couch.

How could he even think about talking to that bitch?

"Sarah! Hey, it's Sam….Hey, hi….Good, good. How about you….Good, good. Really good!"

"Smooth," Uncle Dean muttered.

"So, ah…so, listen. Me and my brother were thinking that maybe we could come back in and look at the painting again. I think we are interested in buying it." There was a long pause while Sarah said something to Dad. "What?" He abruptly stood up. "Who'd you sell it to?"

"Sarah, I need an address right now!" Dad groaned in frustration as he waited for Sarah to finish speaking. "This is important. Whoever owns that painting is in danger." Another impatient pause and then, "I don't have time to explain. Please, just…just give me the address.

"What's wrong, Sam?" Uncle Dean asked, standing cautiously from the bed.

Dad ignored Uncle Dean's question as he wrote down the address. "No, don't meet us there. We can handle this. Sarah? SARAH?" Dad looked at the screen on his phone. "Dammit, she hung up on me."

"What the hell is going on?" Uncle Dean practically shouted.

"Daniel sold that goddamn painting," Dad said, scrambling to get his coat. "I've got an address. Let's get their before—" He didn't finish his statement. He didn't need to.

In a matter of moments, we were breaking every traffic law in the state of New York trying to get to the address that Dad had gotten from Sarah. The entire drive down, Dad kept muttering to himself that Sarah better not show up.

After getting turned around twice, we finally found the house with the killer painting. Uncle Dean parked behind a Jeep with its lights on. Sarah hops out of the driver's seat.

"Sam, what is going on?" she asked.

So, I may not be a huge fan of her, but at least she's stubborn enough (or stupid enough) to disobey what Dad told her to do. Maybe she isn't so bad after all.

"I told you not to come," Dad shouted as the four of us ran towards the nice home. And boy was it nice with Greek-style columns and Masonic siding.

Uncle Dean tried the doorknob. It was locked. "Hey! Anybody home?"

"You said Evelyn could be in danger," Sarah said, accusatorily. "What kind of danger?"

"There is no way I can knock this open," Uncle Dean said. "I'm gonna have to pick it."

Dad growled in frustration as he ignored Sarah's question and walked across the front porch to a window with a light shining through it.

"What are you guys? Burglars?"

"Maybe you two should go wait in the car. It's for your own good."

"Like hell we are," Sarah and I said, simultaneously.

We walked cautiously into the house, as if afraid of waking anyone up. "Evelyn?" Dad called out. He waited for some sort of reply. None came.

We walked into the living room where we saw Evelyn sitting in a chair, looking as if she was studying the lamp intently. She was unmoving, which was far from a good sign.

"Evelyn?" Sarah called out this time. We walked farther into the living room. A clock on the wall ticked with every second. The portrait of Isaiah Merchant and his family hung lifelessly over the mantel.

"Evelyn…it's Sarah Blake." We were right next to Evelyn now. Her eyes were wide open, staring, unblinking. "You alright?" Sarah reached out to tap Evelyn's shoulder.

"SARAH NO!"

Slowly, Evelyn's head fell backwards. Sarah released an earsplitting scream. She backed away from Evelyn's body and Dad pulled her in as if that would help erase what Sarah just saw. The only thing that could be said in this moment was that we were too late.