After informing Dean to do his best not to lie, to at least not use another identity, Mildred exited the Impala. Dean nattered on about his usual to that. Asked her what she'd told the deputy, saying that lying was the point, no one wanted the truth. She rolled her eyes, hunching down to rest her arms on the open passenger window. He shouldn't be surprised. He knew how she handled any identity they came into a case with.
"What's the last card name?"
Any argument he wanted to say flittered away. "Burt. Burt Aframian."
Mildred blinked. "Could the two of you pick a more stand out last name? I am sorely tempted to make a bee joke…"
Sam snorted.
Reckless. She supposed it was their spot of fun. See what crazy names they could get away with and be referred to by. Dean's favorite aliases tended to be the band member names from his favorites.
Although, she had been explicitly told to not tell anyone how his use of Queen's lead singer went. It was perfection. Dean had been confused by the young girl's excitement of it, clearly not getting it, which then, of course, Mildred later patiently loaded up an episode for him. Somehow, he had forgotten that exact show, a discovery of her and Sam as kids in scrolling for things other than news before school. Joyously enough, he quickly remembered it as soon as Sailor Moon's catchy theme song began.
As far as Mildred knew, he had yet to use Mercury as an alias again.
"Good morning."
The older man manning the dingy front desk lifted his gaze up from the crossword he was working on. A comfortable and grumpy fellow. Comfortable in his style, a striped cardigan sweater over a striped button down patterned with tiny diamonds, causing Mildred to get the sense of a style picked from the 70s and kept. The clothes weren't old, which meant he went out of his way to find his comfort style. Therefore, the grumpy bit. The lines on his face and short grumble of a passing return greeting just cemented it.
Might as well get straight to the point with him.
"I was wondering if you could help me. My dad was staying here and he hasn't answered his phone the past few days."
Slipping her wallet out, she flipped to a picture she'd snapped of her Dad from a few years ago, cut to fit the wallet. The photo was him working at a desk, eyes looking up to the photographer, catching Mildred in the act of snapping a candid. The clerk raised an eyebrow at photograph, blinking once. Not confusion. Just taking it in.
"Could you tell me which room he was in? It'd be Burt Aframian. And then I'll be out of your hair, so you can get back to your crossword."
For a moment, the old clerk stood there. The old radio on the back shelf—was that from the 70s too?—twanged along a song Mildred couldn't place. Beside that was an old CB radio too. Looks as though this whole motel got going in the 70s and kept with it, not replacing unless necessary. This clerk was far more than likely the owner, and original owner, of the motel.
"Not a hard name to forget," he suddenly spoke. "I know what room he was staying in. Bought out a room for the whole month. Had him out in room number 10. Don't really see him much, but not at all the past three days. To the left when you exit. Hope you find him all right, miss."
A little surprised at how wordy and helpful he became after his underwhelming welcome, startled a smile from Mildred. "Thanks."
"Your welcome. Feel free to come back and get me if he don't answer. Name's Elmer. I gotta spare set of keys to all the rooms."
"Mildred. Will do, Elmer," Mildred called back as she left the office and headed to the left.
Counting the red painted doors as she went, feet steady as she moved to the one marked 10. Raising her hand up, Mildred did not knock. This was it. Dad's room. The place he should be at. Slowly, Mildred traced the gold digits screwed on the red door, fingers following the round curve of the zero.
She swallowed. It'd been a long time since she last saw or spoke to Dad. Sure. Dean was not wrong in his assessment of her being the one coming here if Dad was waiting inside. Rather than Sam. And Sam was not wrong in suggesting Dean be the one to come here and check it out. Not that they didn't all have issues with Dad, particularly in the realms of hunting and dealing with hunting, but Dean… Dean didn't think there were issues, having far fewer times of disliking how Dad raised them compared to her and Sam. And out of the three of them, Mildred believed Dean was probably his preferred kid to deal with, that if Dad were to trust or lean on any of them… It would be the oldest of them.
Which was fine. It was fine.
Curling up her hand, Mildred tapped on the door. Lightly. Then knocked louder.
No answer.
She stood there for about a minute, straining her ears for any noise from inside of the room. Then knocked three more in quick succession. Tested the knob. Locked. Not seeing anyone in her peripherals, she slid her wallet back out, pulling out thin rods to pick the lock open.
She was in.
No one was in the room.
Mildred stood there for a while, taking in the whole room, cataloging the paper covered walls and general mess in the back of her head, her eyes searching for any person. Went over to the bathroom door and toed it open. Peering inside got her the same result. No one. Only her.
That figured.
Dad was gone. Been gone a few days. Mildred eyed the half eaten burger, and, keeping her upper body drawn back, picked it up by the edges of its wrapper to drop into the trash. Gross. What? Did the thing come in here? With the lines of salt intact, Mildred doubted it. But with the burger left neatly in the middle of the wrapper and knowing how Dad was in the middle of something, he probably plain forgot about it, getting more wrapped up in what he was working on to care about the food sitting in the wrapper.
Moving around the general mess, actually, this was more than Dad's usual general mess. Mildred paused, taking it in. Was it more due to it just being him—no kids—here? Or for another reason? It looked more of a mess made in a hurry than it was a mess from an attack. Salt lines were still intact after all. Where had he been rushing to? She continued her path to the one wall, the line-up of papers clear and recognizable.
All of the missing men. A timeline. And, well. She had been leaning into the idea of ghost in her notions of what it could be. Constance Welch. The article told a sad story. A tragic accident and subsequent suicide. Kids dying, mother taking her life. And, to her eyes, it read very close to a woman in white. That is, if the husband, Joseph, had cheated on Constance. They'd have to talk to him, if he was still alive, to work that one out. Perhaps the other missing men's significant others left behind, see if they knew if they had been cheaters. And then, figure out where Constance was buried. So they could salt and burn her body. Put her to rest. Hopefully.
Eyes roving around the room, Mildred caught sight of a piece of paper marked 'Woman in White'. Looks like Dad noticed the possibility of that too. However. She made her way to the other side of the room, near the bed, squinting in confusion at the papers up.
Constance as a ghost, as a woman in white, worked from the information Mildred knew. A few of these up also worked as possibilities. If it was not Constance. But with her printed out article placed onto the side with all the victims… It appeared as though Dad had already sorted out that it was her behind this. So. Woman in white. Remaining active as of last night/this morning with all that activity on the bridge.
But why leave the other few possibilities, had it not been that, up on the wall? They'd been eliminated as possibilities with that. Dad would have removed them. Normally.
Her gaze snapped back at the leave in a hurry mess surrounding her.
And all the other papers tapped up on this side…
Many of them were marked in Dad's cursive, not print. Suggesting he'd been a bit rushed. And what was there, Mildred could possibly see it may have been possible of what was happening here. But not likely. Demons and witches. There were maybe three or four cases a year that Bobby or the Roadhouse even heard about either of those. Sirens, even less. Practically never. In creating her set, Bobby could only think of one case of a hunter running into one of them. She'd added sirens. But there was very little to that section.
The likely possibilities to missing men in Jericho were on the corner. But the mass of everything…else, surrounded the whole wall the motel bed's headboard was up against. Circled bits, underlined, strings across. There were demons, witches, possession, and… She stared. A cattle mutilation?
It was a small clipping. Date scribbled on was yesterday, Monday, October 31. But in 1983. From Lawrence. The one directly above was marked for the day before that, some issue with a bad crop, Dad's handwriting along the bottom spelled out 'crop failures'.
Her stomach swooped, sagging down as though a couple of stones had been dropped inside of her.
Swallowing, Mildred looked at the one above that, the day before the last. Electrical storms. There was one more, also was marked for the same day, October 29th, but from this year, not 1983. Frowning, Mildred took in the place for the electrical storm, then drew her eyes back up the line marked in red with 'MONDAY' to the cut out about…demons.
Saturday, the first sign. Sunday, the second. Monday, the third demonic omen.
Tuesday came and went, then Wednesday came and… That'd been the night Mom died in the fire.
Mouth dry, hanging open, she stared, mind blank.
What?
What. The. Hell.
Both Halloween this year and the year of her and Sam's birth year were on Monday. If Mildred looked, would both Halloweens bear the mark of the last omen? Cattle mutilations of some sort? Would the day before have ruined crops? And near the same… She swallowed. Dry and rough and painful. Near the same area Dad caught the first sign of it for this year?
Her stomach turned. Horribly. Twisting in and over on itself.
California. Palo Alto. Stanford.
Sam.
Collapsing, her rear crashed onto the bed, the open suitcase on it smacking into her back. All in danger… Sam was in danger! A demon. A demon!
That message. Freaking Dean out. Pushing him to see Sam, for the first time in two years. Drag him along for the EVP, for the Jericho case, away from Stanford.
Mildred bent sharply and suddenly at the waist, hair flying with, her head between her knees. Pressed her knees against her forehead. Tight. Applying pressure to focus. Breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe!
Move. Move!
She couldn't just sit here.
Mildred shot up, pacing. Her arm jerked up, snatching all the papers off the wall in a frenzy. Piled them into her hands, pressing them close to her chest, still breathing heavily.
What do they do?
Make sure Sam doesn't make it back up to Stanford in time? Did the demon follow him here with them? Should they go back? Set up additional protections? All these extra and additional pentagrams in Dad's motel room made way more sense now! Did Dad have the more elaborate one, meant to ward off any possessions to him? Dad was probably up in Palo Alto looking for the demon now!
No. No. Breathe, Mildred, she reminded herself.
Electrical storms happened without demon activity. It was just an electrical storm. That's it. The fact it took place near Sam on the same day 22 years apart was…was just coincidence. And…and anytime there was any demon, the omens were all at the same time, same day. Not…not spread out like this.
So, breathe, Mildred. Think. Breathe. Calm yourself. Breathe.
Same day. Not spread out. Same day. Not spread out.
Winded, Mildred fell back onto the bed, papers clutched under her crossed arms. And ended up sitting on something. Vague annoyance itched past the forced calm overtop her panic and worry. Tilting, she reached under her bottom, yanking the item out.
And Mildred paused before tossing it on the other side of the bed, recognizing the item. A very familiar item. A very familiar item that nearly never left Dad's side.
His journal.
Blankly, overwhelmed, she lifted her eyes up and away and off to the side. Wanting to look at nothing. However, Mildred found that not to be the case. There, tucked on the edge of the mirror, was a tattered old photograph.
Slowly, robotically, she stood. The next moment, she was there. Blinking a bit at finding herself suddenly there, she set the pile of papers onto the dresser. Dad's journal on top, weighing the pile down. Mildred's hand drifted up and plucked the ratty photo carefully out from its place.
Faded, tinted, extremely old; it was a photograph of them. A rare group shot. A family picture. Dad sat on the Impala, a smile on his face. Four-year-old Sam was held up on his lap. Both of them wore stocking caps and tanned coats. Sam importantly, and insistently according to Dean, wore a plaid red shirt under his outerwear. Dean sat beside Dad, on the Impala, his jacket in plaid and wearing a trucker style cap. His eight-year-old ears—'Nearly nine, Red'—were tinged red from the cold. And little her, in a mostly red puffy worn out coat, was tucked up on Dean's lap. On the side close to Dad, leaned back against both Dad and Dean. Her little arm was stretched back to grasp Sam's hand. And she was flashing a huge toothy grin at the camera. Her childhood curls in a state of frizz and being the only thing on her head to keep it warm.
The family photograph from before Mom died, taken a little after Mildred and Sam's birth, was prized. But it was a hidden and reserved prize. Tucked away. Not often pulled out. This family photo of them sitting on the Impala, this was Dad's favorite, the one he always placed out in the open of every motel and place they'd ever been to growing up.
He hadn't taken it with him. He had left the journal here.
Slowly, Mildred pulled her eyes off the beloved photograph, turning her focus onto the journal. And opened the clasp. She flipped through. Taking in the words and drawings and notes that were not nearly as familiar to her as the outside of the journal. There had only been very few times she'd been able to go through Dad's journal. The beginning was more of a journal. When Mom had first passed. The majority of it was notes from hunts. A few scattered personal notes throughout, but mostly hunts. The last page was starkly different.
'DEAN 39.1-109'
Large letters taking up a good portion of the page. Circled.
Journal left behind. For Dean. A message.
The next job? Where to meet up? If Dad made it out from dealing with the demon? The demon that showed up near Sam.
If it was a demon. Which the omens didn't fit right. So, it couldn't be. Did Dad know that? They'd never crossed paths with any demons all those years of traveling. As far as she knew. And from updates from Dean and general things said from the Roadhouse, it didn't seem as though Dad had crossed paths during Sam's time at college.
Dad thought it was a demon. Dad thought this was the thing that killed Mom. Dad thought he was going to find one in Palo Alto. And…and was being Dad. Tackling it on alone.
Passing on his prized journal to Dean, passing on the continuation of hunting paranormal out there… In case he did not make it?
Her cell phone was out without a thought, dialing up the number she'd called yesterday. Dad did not pick up. Good. He couldn't interrupt her, because she was saying it.
"Do you have any idea how much leaving your journal behind and instructing him to another hunt will hurt Dean? Oh, he'll do it, but the sheer knowledge of you thinking you expect your death and choose not to take it on together when you had a choice about it! A demon, Dad? Your idea about Mom's killer now, is that it was a demon? The omens are there, but demons only pop up a few times a year and the omens come together. Not on three separate days! All you went off of is one electrical storm! That's it! Then you took off! Do you have any idea what your voice message alone, before anything of me finding your journal and picture here, did to Dean? Do you?! He came for me, he came for Sam, we're all here together in Jericho to solve this and to find you! Something big starting, we're all in danger, on top of you acting strange, and all that time of dodging his calls after the two of you argued three weeks ago! He's—"
Mildred jerked to a halt. The tone had sounded, signaling the end of her voice message. Standing there, she held her cell phone out before her, staring at it until the screen darkened.
Her chest clenched.
She'd just said all that.
Oh, Dad was going to have something to say about her doing that.
Hand shaking, she flipped the phone closed, holding it tight.
Well. It was not as though they were on speaking terms. She had tried. Some time back. Not so much recently. Leaving letters or notes for him at the Roadhouse, for the few times he dropped in. Nothing back. She knew both Ellen and Bill had passed them on too. Called back the numbers Dean had called her from when she knew they were together. Hotel numbers, before cell phones improved and started being used more. If anyone picked up, it was Dean. Called the cell number Dad went by when he got one, no answer. Mildred didn't call or text him much. It was sporadic, sometimes it was months between her attempting to contact him that way.
This was likely to be not answered as well. Even if she had yelled in this one. Yelled at Dad. Oh, he was certainly going to have something to say about it if and when the next time they spoke.
Mildred attempted to buoy herself up about her yelling. It'd been on behalf of Dean.
The phone vibrated, ringing muffled from her tight grip. Squeaking, she nearly dropped the thing, but managed not to. Dean's voice pulsed from the speaker to her ear.
"Hey, Red. We found the guy's girlfriend—" Sam's snarky correction of 'Troy' sounded from the background. "—and her friend. Girlfriend—" Another correction, followed by a complaint came from Sam. "—tells us she'd been talking to him when he was on his way home. Before he got home, he ended the call, saying he'd call her back. Never did. And apparently, according to her friend, with all the cases of missing men out here, there's talk and a bit of a local legend about it. About a girl murdered out on the road, her ghost hitchhiking. And anyone who picks her up? Disappears. Except. Turns out with some digging around, there was a girl, but she wasn't murdered. She—"
"Committed suicide," Mildred finished up. "After her two kids drowned by 'accident'. Constance Welch."
There was a pause. "I can hear those quotation marks. Her? Her husband? Wait. Is Dad there?"
Mildred sighed, turning and sinking onto the end of the bed. "Was here. Left his research up on the walls too. She did. She's a woman in white. Nothing written about if he salted and burned her remains. So either he didn't have a chance to do it…or it didn't work."
That was still an option. That Dad had made that call to Dean, rushing off to finish up this, planning on getting up to Palo Alto…then became a victim himself. That wouldn't be ideal. That wouldn't be ideal. That was far, far from it. She shoved away the stray thought of Dad cheating on Mom. More likely a short lived thing years after. Instead, Mildred needed to know.
"Are you two still at the library?" She asked suddenly.
And this was on something easy to figure out. Unlike Dad and his actions, attempting to figure out what his thought process and reasoning was. Reckless. This mess in the room. Whatever Dad decided, it had reckless all over it.
"Er, just exited. Why?"
"It's fine, you can use a paper map anyway. Where is 39.1 and -109? Colorado, right? Maybe Utah."
"I think so. Gimmie a sec, Red. Sam! Grab the map. Colorado's."
Rustling sounded on the other end of the phone connection. A few seconds later, Dean confirmed. "Yeah. It's Colorado. Close to Grand Junction. Blackwater Ridge. What's with the coordinates, Red?"
"Dad left a note for you. Just your name and that. Probably found a case for you?"
Mildred was decidedly not going to inform Dean exactly where that note had been found. Dad was either here or in Palo Alto. Either way, the man was going to get his journal back.
She winced. Yeah. Guess she had chosen to hear Dad's reaction to that voice message with this decision.
Because Dad was probably wrong—she should call Bobby to check if she was remembering timing of demonic omens correctly—and she wasn't going to let Dean find out what the man did. Not if she could help it. Because Dean would try his best to step fully into Dad's shoes and carry about in hunting with the journal passed on to him. Even if he'd definitely feel that emotional impact behind Dad's actions. For the passing and meaning of it would eat Dean from the inside. Mildred was going to make sure Dad was found and shove the journal into his chest.
Er, well, perhaps shove was an overstatement.
"Huh. Well. Since it's between here and Bobby's, feel up to tagging along after we deal with Constance?"
In the background, Sam was going off.
"Of course I'll help."
"Red agreed. Her own free will. Suck it up college boy."
"Pick me up. It's getting later in the day. I'll join you two to question Joseph Welch. Then dig up her grave tonight or otherwise to deal with her."
Mildred could tell it wasn't as bright in the room from when she entered and her thick silver Fossil ticking just past 4 o'clock. It was long shadows now, but sunset would be coming up in about an hour. Placing Dean and Sam in a danger she was not in. Even if Dean didn't cheat, just had loads of one-night-stands. And Sam would never with Jessica. Still. Men. More on target for Constance than Mildred.
"We'll swing by and pick you up."
Hurriedly, she dashed about the room, cleaning up the remains of the mess. Made up the bed, organized things into the suitcase and slide it under the bed, dashed through the bathroom to neatly line up the items scattered about. Came back into the room to straighten up both the shelf and desk areas. Then moved to the item she'd laid carefully out on the bed, picking it up to give it a deft shake before hanging it up.
Dean's leather jacket.
It had been Dad's jacket, but that had not been true for many years. Dad had given it to Dean when Dean entered high school. Mildred was halfway through wondering why Dad had it back in his possession (kind of possession) before it clicked. Dean had not worn it during the case in New Orleans three weeks ago. She had not thought much of it then with the temperature being significantly higher than Sioux Falls.
Weirdness rattling him with Dad, Dean had parted with his jacket. Dean had gave the leather jacket to Dad while they were apart. For safe keeping. For an unspoken promise for Dad to return it to him.
Not like this, Mildred thought sourly.
But it was better than the journal. Or the old family photo. Or the whole demon conception that had been one whole wall.
Ah. There was the Impala outside now.
Tugging the curtains closed, Mildred headed back over to the dresser, mindfully stepping over the salt lines she'd left intact. There was no way she was leaving this in the room. They'd need to return at some point. And being in Jericho was not all about Constance. The other part, the larger part, was them being there for Dad. Mildred was willing to give up the demon research, sending them back to Palo Alto to find Dad, but not the journal and photo. First came Constance.
Tucking the picture into the journal, Mildred slid that and the demon research under her arm pit. There. Make her way out the Impala just right and Dean would be clueless. As usual. Sam might notice. He'd seen her do it enough times after all, usually watched her shift things under jackets, in on it and walking on the side she'd stashed whatever on. On the other side of it, he might notice. His chances were defiantly much higher than Dean noticing. But he for sure would not say anything.
And, keeping her eyes forward, keeping Dean and Sam in her peripheral, Mildred slid the items out from underneath her jacket and secreted them away into her bag in the backseat. Dean drove onward to Joseph Welch's address, oblivious. Sam shifted his arm, propping his elbow up on the window ledge, and waggled two fingers under the crook of his ear. I see you, I saw that.
"So," Sam spoke up into the silence. Mildred was not worried. Distraction. "Are either of you two squicked out on the possibly Dad has—"
"Gotten lucky?" Dean interrupted. He grinned over at Sam. "Got laid? Has—"
"Dean!"
Dean cackled. "Prude," he teased Sam.
"Cheated on Mom."
Any humor on Dean's face fell. "Never. But you know spirits sometimes. They don't always see things the same. This recent guy, Troy, he was dating. Boyfriend, girlfriend, haven't set anything in stone for long lasting. Not married, fully committed, just dating. And I know at least one of the articles of missing men mentioned no one. No wife left behind or loved one or girlfriend mentioned. Wouldn't be surprised if she is willing to take any guy who's been with more than one girl."
Dean's face split into a broad smile aimed at Sam again.
Mildred cut him off before he could make a crack.
"Guess that means you're screwed. From screwing. Hm. Kind of sounds poetic? Better leave this in Sam and I's capable hands."
Sam snorted, laughing into his palm, elbow sliding off the windowsill.
And Dean snorted too. "Jokes on you two chuckleheads. Making love is a beautiful part of life to partake in. And—"
Mildred hummed. High in the throat. Melody clear.
"And I still know where you sleep, Red!"
"Gunna steal my blanket?" She taunted.
His mouth pursed, nose flaring as he sucked in a breath. "Yes!" He barked back. "Yes, I will! I'll take off with it, never to return to Bobby's place, never to be used by you again. It'll serve you right!"
Laughter puffed out of Sam's mouth. "Really? Blanket thievery? That's the threat you're going with Dean?"
"Have you seen Red with it?"
"Er, good point," Sam conceded. "But uh, Jess and I bought that particular one for her. Birthday gift from this year, twenty-two. You probably need to come up with something other than taking that blanket."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he muttered.
In unison, Mildred and Sam shook their heads at him. Neither had believed his poor threat anyway. And neither one cluing Dean into the fact Mildred had a backup blanket that was exactly the same as this one. Jessica had wanted to be cute about it. The turning twenty-two. And the blankets had been on sale. So Mildred had a duplicate one in keep at their place. To use during her visits to Stanford.
Hands turning the steering wheel, Dean turned his head, shooting them both a look. "Acts up, itches. We're getting close to where Constance's husband's at now."
"All right. Alvin out," Mildred chirped back.
"No more chipmunk?" Dean asked hopefully.
"I said Alvin out."
"Excellent."
Amused, Sam paused in getting out after Dean parked. "Dude. You know there's two other chipmunks, right?"
"Damnit, Sammy! Let me have the win! And of course I know. Because I'm definitely the cute one in green, making you all green in envy. So put a cork in it, Simon."
Wrong:
The coordinates to Blackwater Ridge in the show were incorrect. I changed them here. Therefore, coordinates listed here are wrong in Supernatural show canon. But hey, I also made up Walden Motel as the name of that in Jericho. Jericho, California. Here, let me go stare at a map and search online for any real town details I can potentially use for fun. Yeah, no can do, not really apparently. This is all a combobulation of right and wrong and I made some of this shit up. But 39.1, -109 is correct for Blackwater Ridge. The other one takes them to Arizona.
Not wrong:
Yes. That was on purpose. Ellen and Bill.