Part I: The Burial of the Dead
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain
Chapter 1
Thankfully, Sam didn't say anything the next morning when Dean said he would go to PT with him. Bobby had stumbled through the door in the dark hours of the morning and was snoring on the couch as they hurried through breakfast and scrambled to make Sam's appointment.
Well, Dean scrambled. Sam was showered and dressed and downing his pills with a shot of black coffee before Dean was even halfway out of bed.
The pain had probably woken him up long before Bobby even came in. Lines of agony were becoming a normal part of Sammy's face.
"Dude, stop staring. We're gonna be late."
Dean shook himself and barreled through the door, following Sam down the ramp.
It's hard to step over the salt lines when you're in a wheelchair. The summer before, Dean and Bobby had mixed concrete with copious amounts of rock salt and used it to redo the front steps. Dad had stayed long enough to build the wooden frame for the ramp, which they'd filled it with an extra salty batch of concrete.
"Always been meaning to do this," Bobby had said, when it was finished. "Easier than redoing the salt lines every night."
No one had acknowledged the lie.
The sun hung uselessly in the sky, it's light glinting blindingly off of old car parts. Dean shivered in the South Dakota fall weather and held himself with tenuous restraint as Sam transferred himself from wheelchair to car, arms bearing his weight where his legs no longer could. He slowly took the wheelchair apart, carefully placing each piece in the space behind the driver's seat until the deconstructed wheelchair was safely inside. The wait was agonizing in more ways than one.
"You coming, or what?"
Dean got in.
The PT office wasn't far. Dean pretended he wasn't watching Sam use the hand controls.
So did Sam.
PT sucked.
By the time Sam had finished the prescribed torture, he was sweating and gasping. Dean went over to push the wheelchair.
"Leave it," Sam growled. It would have been more intimidating if he hadn't nearly fallen out of his chair trying to bat Dean away. Dean ignored him and pushed him down the hall to the locker room.
"Cheese," Bobby said, and then wrote it down. Cheese, ground beef, and he had some pasta in the cupboard. The boys loved lasagna. And if Dean was staying another day, he'd pick up a couple of steaks to grill.
The car pulled to a jerky stop in the yard. The door slammed, and Bobby knew they'd been fighting.
"What are we gonna do with those two idjits, Rumsfeld," Bobby muttered, more rhetorically than anything. Sam wheeled himself up the ramp, the scowl on his face more dangerous than any sawed-off Bobby had ever owned. Dean followed, probably more closely than was safe.
"C'mon, Sam. You gotta let people help you." Sam wheeled through the kitchen faster than he should have and caught himself on a chair. Frustrated, he pushed past it only to find the hallway blocked by a pile of books.
He punched the wall.
"Whoa, Sam. Hold up."
"Like you haven't been living with a wheelchair user for two years now, Bobby! If you have to be drunk all the time, least you could do is keep the floors clear!"
Bobby ignored everything but the tremble in Sam's hands. "That's what I'm tryin' to do. It's just takin' a little bit to get through it all, and you know that. Take a breath, son." Sam visibly steadied himself, clenching his jaw.
"You can't just take control, Dean. I didn't want your help and you didn't respect that."
"Yeah, but dude, you gotta put your pride aside sometimes. We got outta there like five times faster than you've ever- "
"Shut up! I don't care. I didn't want to get out faster. I wanted you to leave me alone!"
Now Dean was clenching his jaw, knuckles white over the back of the only kitchen chair that remained from the original set Karen had picked out.
There was silence for a moment. Then Bobby picked up the notepad and held it out.
"Sam, I need you to go to the grocery store and pick up a few things, or we'll be eating stale licorice and beer for dinner. No, Dean, that's not an acceptable dinner," and here Dean scoffed, but Bobby continued even more loudly, "And you can do the dishes."
"And what are you gonna do," Sam asked, and grabbed his wallet and keys, movements jerky with anger.
"I'm gonna sit down and have myself a cold one."
Dean snorted, some of his natural good humor making its way to the surface, then turned to the sink, rolled up his sleeves, and attacked the stack of dirty plates as if it were a Dahu. Sam left quietly, not so far gone as to slam the door, but Bobby could see him scowling his way down the ramp, just as fiercely as he had on his way up.
Bobby was a man of his word, so he did grab a cold beer out of the fridge. Rumsfeld was whining, so he left the beer on the table to let Dean know he'd be back in a moment. He let the dog out with a gruff, "G'on now," then stepped into the library (so dubbed by the boys) to pick up Sam's folder. He sighed. Hopefully, Sam's trip to the grocery store would both show Dean that his brother was truly capable, and tire Sam out enough to sooth his anger.
By the time he got back to the kitchen, Dean had made enough progress that he was now drying what he'd already washed to make more room in the dish rack. Bobby sat himself down and opened the folder. On the first page, in Sam's slanted, cramped handwriting, was written:
Malad City, Idaho
Population: 2,095
Established 1864
Welsh Latter Day Saints settlement - Welsh mythology? LDS mythology?
Vengeful spirits?
1832 – Original explorers sick b/c did not boil the beaver meat - town name malade: French, sick/bad mmm, beaver burgers (this last was in Dean's handwriting)
1910 – flood, Deep Creek Dam broke
1975 – earthquake
1996 – plane crash, ice on the wings
Below it, in Bobby's own handwriting:
Disappearances:
1. November 6, 1998 – Alice Johnson, 62
2. December 14, 1998 – Alan Dylan, 24 and Eva Olwen 22 – siblings
3. December 21, 1998 – Glenn Mabon, 37 and Laura Mabon 37 – husband and wife
4. January 3, 1999 – Rhys Stephens, 46
5. January 7, 1999 – Martin Price, 22 and Peter Reynolds, 21 – college friends
6. January 8, 1999 – George Williams, 50
7. February 23, 1999 – Meredith Jacobs, 28
8. April 2, 1999 – Glenda Jacobs, 32 – cousin of Meredith Jacobs
9. May 13, 1999 – Frank Ambrose, 39
10. May 27, 1999 – Emily Deryn, 39 and David Deryn, 7 – mother and son
11. June 20, 1999 – Gladys Williams, 37
Anything in common?
Notable people born in MC:
1. John Evans: Idaho State Senator, Governor of Idaho
2. Mabel Jones Gabbott: wrote LDS hymn books
3. Ralph R. Harding: politician
4. William Marion Jardine: U.S. Ambassador to Egypt
5. Sonia Johnson: writer/activist
6. Olive Davis Osmond: mother of the Osmonds (?) – music group
7. William J. Rutter: biochemist
8. Darwin Thomas: Idaho Supreme Court Justice
9. Jim Williams: bball coach at CSU
A year and a half of research and all they had were Sam's dreams, a couple of weather reports, and this unpromising history of a Mormon town.
"Anything new," Dean asked, elbow deep in soap.
"Same old," Bobby said.
Dean paused in his scrubbing to wipe his nose with his sleeve. "Anything from Dad?"
"Why don't you ask him yourself?"
"C'mon, Bobby," Dean said.
"Last I heard from him, he's passing through Idaho between hunts. But he hasn't found anything."
"Yeah, well, maybe if he was actually trying, he'd have found something. Or if he hadn't made us go with him in the first place–"
Bobby said nothing. Dean scrubbed viciously. Either there was a particularly stubborn spot of grease, or Bobby would need to send him out to replenish the wood pile before dinner. There was a clatter – Dean dropping the now overly clean pot on top of an overly full dish rack – and Bobby made a decision.
"We're not giving up, Dean," was all he said. Then, "It's gonna be a cold night. Sam'll be back soon and we'll cook dinner, but in the meantime, you can make yourself useful and get us some firewood." Dean mumbled that he'd already made himself useful, but he dried his hands and went into the hall closet to find some gloves.
Bobby waited until he heard the backdoor bang shut, then he booted up the computer and set himself to research the 1996 plane crash.
I'll make a small disclaimer that I do not have a beta reader, so while I hope the story is free of mistakes and plot holes, if you see something... say something!