AN: Small casefic. I didn't make up the kind of spirit, but I played with what it did and how to gank it. For the first time ever, I put someone I know into a story. Hemingway is based on Oz, my 23-pound Russian Blue. When he sits on your lap, your feet go numb. LOL
Scealai: I feel like I should apologize to you and your pup, but I am very glad that you are happy and eager to read the latest installment! I love seeing your reviews, but life is busy and I get it. Thanks for commenting!
Shazza19: I like the Winchesters patching each other up too. And I like to think that John was fully cognizant of the special relationship his boys had. Thanks for your thoughts!
scootersmom: Aw, thank you so much! Flashbacks are my favorite thing to write.
Kathy: No worries! It's a lot to read! I knew you'd like the Weechesters. *grin*
The prompt options are: Chronic Pain / Hypothermia / Infection. This is set right after season 7, episode 14, Plucky Pennywhistle's Magical Menagerie. And I sent the boys to coastal Maine just for Lena, though I made up the towns.
It was a 25-hour drive from Wichita, Kansas to Trent, Maine. That was enough time for Dean to put salt in Sam's coffee, Sam to hang the Impala's keys from a motel room sprinkler head that Dean couldn't reach, Dean to put every towel outside while Sam was in the shower, and Sam to hide Dean's brand new slinky. The last crossed the line, in Dean's opinion. Sam seemed to agree. The next day, Sam picked up a giant cinnamon roll and a lint roller, and while Dean ate the former, Sam used the latter to get the last of the glitter off the Impala's upholstery.
Dean took it for the good will gesture it was, and walked down the road to pick up a trenta caramal macchiato with an extra shot of espresso and let Sam drive and play his crappy music for the first shift of the day while Dean played with his slinky in the passenger seat.
It was nearly nine o' clock in the evening and Dean was back in the driver's seat when they passed a sign that said Trent, 20 miles. Dean turned down the music. "Give me the lowdown again."
It was a common part of their process. Before they started the active part of a case, one of them would summarize what they knew so far, usually Sam. It helped them get a grasp on what they knew and figure out their strategy to learn what they still needed to know.
"Trent is this tiny little town that has only two things: tourists and fishing. When it's not tourist season, which it isn't, there's like 3,000 people in the whole place. So three murders…well, the last recorded murder I could find was 11 years ago, and it was a drunk tourist shooting his wife."
Dean tapped one finger, one of the signs he was thinking. "They died weird too, right?"
"Yeah. They had long scratches on their arms and hands, but the cause of death was hypothermia. But the weather's been in the 50's and they weren't missing long enough to freeze to death."
"Defensive wounds, but no other injuries?" Dean rubbed his stomach. They hadn't eaten since lunch.
Sam glanced at the papers on his lap. "Nope. At least none in the preliminary reports I found. Bodies are in Fairfield, about 30 miles up the coast, because there's no coroner in Trent."
"The dead are all men, right? Any other connections?"
"Too many. Small town."
"All right. Well, let's grab a room and find something to eat."
"About that. There aren't any motels anywhere near here, so I made different arrangements. I found an older lady with a big house. She lives solely on the main floor and rents out the top two floors. Nobody rents this time of year, so she charged us like a quarter what she'd normally get. It's not much more than what we normally pay for a motel."
Dean complained a little, mostly because Sam hadn't checked with him first, but he knew it made sense to stay in town.
"It's right in the middle of where all the dead guys live. And she'll provide homecooked breakfast."
"Breakfast…?"
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
They had to beg the owner of the only diner that was still open to give them some food to go, and it was nearly ten by the time they approached the big, three-story house built into a hill looking down over a wide, wind-swept beach. The owner, Mrs. Cage, had left the keys in the mailbox, and they bypassed the main floor, which was mostly encased by the hill, and climbed the steps to the second floor. On the ocean side, the second floor opened to a window-enclosed porch the length of the house that offered an incredible view of the ocean.
The second and third floors were all theirs, giving them more space than many homes, even though the third floor was only a three-quarters floor. It consisted entirely of a massive bedroom and bathroom, and Dean claimed it immediately. Sam admired the open floor plan, huge kitchen, and white clapboard furniture before gladly taking the main floor bedroom. It was quite possibly the nicest and certainly the biggest place they'd ever stayed. Maybe this case would take a while.
"Ice demon?" Dean was asking. "Woman in white? Spirit? Any thoughts?"
"Ice demons freeze their victims all the way through. Women in white take the victims' bodies. I've never heard of a spirit that could do this, but who knows? I need to learn more and –"
" – research." Dean rolled his eyes, but there was affection in the gesture. "Don't stay up too late, Professor."
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Morning brought Mrs. Cage, a fit-looking 60-something with her long white hair in a messy twist, bringing up thin pancakes curled around strawberries and cream and the most heavenly coffee Sam had ever tasted. She refused their help, claiming the work kept her young, and fried up a pan of bacon when Dean couldn't stop raving about the food. And she happily joined them when they were done eating, giving them a chance to ask her about the deaths.
"So you knew all the" achoo "victims?" Dean asked.
"We all know each other, honey," said Mrs. Cage, who told them to call her Iris. "It's a small town, and most of us are lifers."
"Is there anything unusual" achoo "that ties these three men together?"
Something nudged Sam's ankle and he suddenly realized why Dean was sneezing. He really hoped there were antihistamines in the first aid kit.
"Four men," Iris was correctly sadly. "Bill Ferris was found on the beach this morning."
"Were they all found on the beach?" Sam wanted to know, as he reached down and scratched the head of the gray cat that was begging for his attention.
"Yes, every one. I'm sorry about Hemingway. He forgets that he's a cat and is supposed to be standoffish."
"It's no problem for me," replied Sam as the largest cat he'd ever seen jumped up next to him and laid across his lap with surprising delicacy. "But Dean –"
Dean sneezed twice, hard. "I'm not sure" achoo "we can stay here."
Iris frowned thoughtfully. "I'm sorry I forgot to mention my cats. I also own the house just to the south." She pointed to a slightly smaller house 50 yards farther up the bluff. "There's a family of long-term renters, but there's a separate apartment under the garage that you could use. But it's tiny. One bedroom and a bath. Too small for both of you. I'd let you stay there for free if you want, agent, and your partner could stay here, as long as Jen Carpenter and her son Jake don't mind."
"Uh – " Sam started.
Dean interrupted. "I'll take it."
"But we'll pay you," Sam quickly added. He had to hide his surprise that Dean was willing to give him this much distance. He'd been (very understandably) worried about Sam's visions of Lucifer and mental stability, so even though they didn't have a lot of options for where and how to stay, it felt like a sign of trust for Dean to sleep somewhere else.
Iris shook her head. "No, no. Just find who is killing our men. That's certainly payment enough."
Dean couldn't get out of there fast enough. Iris had confirmed that the renters were fine with him staying, and admitted that their husband and father, Derek, had been the first victim. Dean headed to Fairfield to talk to the cops and see whatever bodies were still in the morgue. Sam was going to walk the length of the bluff to talk to as many of the victims' families as he could while Dean was gone. Iris had offered Sam the use of her golf cart, but he wasn't sure he was ready for that indignity.
Soon, he found himself on the beach, shivering in the wind off the ocean. It was probably 20 degrees warmer 10 miles inland, but it was somehow invigorating to get smacked in the face with the cold, salty breeze. Ignoring Lucifer, who was bodysurfing, Sam noticed a man – no, a tall kid – walking slowly along the beach to the south, his right. Sam shoved his hair out of his face and saw that the kid was using a metal detector. He made his way that direction, making sure the boy noticed him.
The kid shoved the headphones off to hang around his neck, and Sam noticed the freckled face was younger than he'd expected. The boy stood nearly 6 feet, but he couldn't be more than 14.
"Hey, I'm Sam. I'm staying at Mrs. Cage's place." He stuck out his hand.
The boy shook firmly enough, but didn't meet Sam's eyes. "Jake. Your partner's gonna stay at the apartment by us, right?"
"That's right." Sam rubbed his hands together and wished he'd been smart enough to grab gloves. "No school today?"
Jake's eyes were never still, darting over Sam, up at his house, at Iris' house, at the ground, but his expression was open. "I do school online because the high school is too crowded for me, too many sounds and smells. I have a schedule, and I take my break on the beach every morning." His expression lightened for a second. "I'm allowed to work ahead, and I hope I can finish high school next year. My parents say…"
He faltered and Sam winced. Jake's dad Chris had been the first victim. "I'm sorry about your dad, Jake. Do you think you can tell me about that day? My partner and I are trying to stop it from happening any more."
"I don't like to think about it." Jake's eyes darted around even faster. "But that won't make it less real." He paused and Sam waited patiently. "It's not logical." He scowled as if that offended him. "Mom was upstairs. Dad and I were watching a documentary about flags and standards, even though he thinks, er thought, they're boring. I like them, so he pretended to, you know? And we saw this lady standing in the water, like up to her knees. Dad went down to the beach to help her but told me to stay at the house. He went to her, even went into the water. Then, he kind of staggered backwards, and he came out of the water and fell. I called for Mom and she went to him while I called 911."
Jake had done his recitation in a rush, and Sam felt a wash of pity. Chris Carpenter had been a good enough dad to pretend to like something his son liked so they could spend time together, and something had killed him while his teenage son watched.
"Sam, I looked back at the water right after Dad fell, and the lady was just gone." He finally looked in Sam's eyes. "There's nowhere to go, and it was the night after the full moon. I should have seen her walking away, unless she dove under the water."
"Sounds like it was pretty bright with the moon out like that. Can you describe the woman to me?"
"Are you going to believe me if I do? Even though I told you she disappeared?"
"Why wouldn't I?" Sam asked honestly.
"Because I'm an antisocial, autistic teenage boy who was traumatized by seeing his father die." Jake said it as if reciting it by memory. There was bitterness and resignation in his tone.
"Jake, look at me." Sam waited until the teen did. "You are an intelligent, detail-oriented young man who wants your father's killer caught. I can't think of a better witness."
Blue eyes stared into hazel while Jake seemed to weigh Sam's sincerity. Sam ached for the kid all the more. He knew what it was like to be the kid who stood out, the one with book smarts but few friends. He had no doubt some well-meaning adult had said the words Jake parroted right in front of the boy.
Apparently decided, Jake held his hand out about five feet about the ground. "She was small, only about this tall. I could tell when my dad was next to her. Her skin was dark, but not as dark as an African American. I think her hair was dark too. She had an old, flowy dress on."
"Wow, Jake. That's really great. Thank you."
"I have to go in now," said the teen. "But thanks for listening. I hope you catch her." He turned to go, then stopped and tilted his head. "Thank you for not treating me like I'm an idiot. My mother says the way a man treats people who can't do anything about it says a lot about his character."
Sam couldn't help but smile. "And what did she say about whoever said you were too traumatized to know what you saw?"
Jake smiled too, just a little. "She told the sheriff if he wasn't smart enough to listen to the only eyewitness he should go back to town and write some tourists some parking tickets."
Sam decided he really liked the Carpenter family, and he really wanted to catch whatever had killed Chris.
Jen Carpenter was sad but kind, and couldn't add anything to her son's story. She hadn't seen the woman but had absolute faith in her son.
The other families Sam found at home weren't any help either. Nobody had seen anything or knew why the patriarch of the family (and in one case, the adult son) had gone down to the beach at night. They also didn't recognize the description of the woman Jake had seen.
Dean picked up Sam in the early evening and they went to main street Trent for food and to talk over what they'd learned.
"Couple things about the bodies," Dean was saying as he inhaled his clam chowder. "First, all but one had wet feet, like they'd stepped into the water, though they were all found on land. And those scratches, they were already infected, even though they happened at most minutes before death."
"That's…well, normally, that's impossible." Sam pushed his food around while he thought. "I'm sure it means something." He told Dean about what Jake had seen. He was the only witness that had seen anyone. Bill Ferris had called 911, reporting that there was a woman in distress in the water, but they couldn't question him, since he was dead by the time help arrived.
They talked as long as they could without getting too much stink eye from their waitress, then reluctantly headed back for their separate rooms. Dean was more than a little annoyed – his tiny studio didn't have so much as a couch to sit on, and Sam had a whole spacious home to himself. Sam was not shy about rubbing it in, either, especially when Dean whined on the drive back.
"I think I'm going to do my research on the porch, watching the ocean," Sam teased.
Dean reached over to the passenger seat and swatted the back of Sam's head. "You're covered in cat hair," he complained.
"Well, I told Iris I didn't mind if she let the cats wander upstairs. Kismet likes to sit on my lap while I'm on the couch. And Fitzgerald slept on my feet last night." He smiled smugly. "It was cozy." And it had been. He'd thought he'd have a lousy night's sleep like usual, but it had been miraculously dream free.
"Cats are weird and neurotic. No wonder they're drawn to you."
Sam just grinned as he got out of the Impala.
It wasn't long after Dean dropped him off before he found information in the town history that gave him a clue as to what they were dealing with. He quickly dialed Dean. "Hey, Dean, I think I found our spirit. And it does seem to be a spirit. In 1901, a wealthy British family named Greystone moved here. The dad and servants came first to build the house and get everything ready. Mom and kids followed on the next ship. By the time they got here, a young servant girl, a native of India, was pregnant. The assumption was it was the boss' baby."
Dean groaned. He knew who came out on the short end in these situations. "And the poor girl disappeared, right?"
"How exactly it happened, there's a lot of speculation and rumors, but she ended up in the water, drowned before the baby was ever born. With a few days, Greystone was dead."
Dean swore for a few moments, and Sam let him, agreeing with everything he said. It was a sickening story, and way too common. A powerful man took advantage of a young girl, and she died for his sins. It was hard to blame her for wanting a little payback.
When Dean trailed off, Sam continued. "We need to figure out what woke her up now." He thought of Jake digging up any metal he could find on the beach. "I think I know who to ask."
"Good job, geekster."
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Sam jolted awake so suddenly, Fitzgerald leaped off the bed. His phone rang insistently, letting him know what had broken his sleep. "Yeah?"
"Sam, she's on the beach. Meet me there in 10." Click.
Sam was outside, dressed and geared up, in five minutes, but Dean was already waiting for him. He pointed down to the beach, and Sam could just make out a small, feminine shape in the water. She was as Jake described, and her clothes and hair were unaffected by the stiff wind.
"Let's see if we can talk before we shoot," pleaded Sam. Both brothers carried shotguns loaded with rock salt.
"Yeah. It's possible she'll tell us where she's buried." Dean gave Sam a cocky grin. "Cuz spirits are so helpful when it comes to telling us how to gank 'em." Sam rolled his eyes but didn't respond, following his brother down to the beach. The spirit of the unnamed girl watched them silently until they were at the edge of the water. Now they could clearly see her pregnant belly.
"We want to talk," called Sam. "We know what happened to you, but the man who hurt you is dead. Now you're just hurting innocent men."
"Men are not innocent!" she wailed suddenly.
That fast, she was in front of Sam. She raised a clawed hand, then recoiled. She blinked out of sight again, avoiding the shot of rock salt Sam sent at her. She appeared in front of Dean this time, and he wasted no time in shooting her.
It did nothing, but distract her, and she approached Sam again. Dean pushed Sam out of the way and cried out as claws raked his arm. Sam shot the spirit with just as little affect as Dean's shot.
The spirit lifted a hand yet again, and Sam stepped in front of her. The woman hissed at Sam and recoiled. She acted like she'd strike him, then flinched back again. She blinked behind him to take another shot at Dean, who ducked this time. His sleeve was already wet with blood. "Sam, let's get out of here! We have to figure out how to fight her!"
The hustled up the beach, and the spirit only gave chase for a few feet, then she was gone. Allergies were the least of their worries, so Sam hustled Dean into Iris' house and sat him at the table. Dean was shivering hard, his lips practically blue, but the injury was their most pressing concern. He had his jacket and top shirt off by the time Sam was back with towels and the first aid kit. The scratches were long and bleeding freely, but they weren't deep. Still, Sam couldn't help but remember that the other men who'd been attacked were infected almost immediately. With that in mind, he upended the bottle of peroxide over Dean's arm, pinning his wrist when he jumped.
"Son of a bitch, Sam! Warn a guy!"
"We need to scrub this out, Dean." Sam ignored his brother's protests. He began to wipe it firmly, making Dean grit his teeth.
"You need to work on your bedside manner, dude."
"Sorry, Dean, but we have to do this. We have to prevent infection so we can figure out how to fight her."
"Why wouldn't she attack you? Maybe with the hair, she thought you were a girl," snarked Dean to distract himself from what in his opinion was overly aggressive first aid.
"Maybe it's like yellow fever and she only goes after assholes," responded Sam automatically, rough affection and worry under the words.
"Could be she's – careful, dammit – could be she picks one guy and can't hurt anyone else until he's dead."
It was a good theory, and Sam considered it as he worked. He finished wiping the blood off Dean's arm and began to apply butterfly bandages. "Or maybe it's just kismet…" his voice trailed away and his movements stilled for a second. "Maybe it is Kismet. Cats can repel some kinds of spirits. I have to do some research." He frowned at the wounds, already darkening. "After I clean these again."
But it was no use. Within the hour, Dean was delirious.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Dean floated on a cloud of pain. Or maybe he was sinking under the water. A boiling ocean. His mind couldn't hold onto a thought, and he was sure something was sitting on his chest. There was something cold and wet against his face and he grimaced, wanting it gone. He would push it away, but there were weights on his arms too.
"I know you don't like it. But your fever keeps going up," said a voice he should know. He thought he answered, but if he did, he couldn't hear it. "…have known the rock salt wouldn't work. I mean, she appeared in the ocean. In salt water. I'm sorry. It's my fault you got hurt."
Dean wanted to erase that tone. It raised his hackles to hear it, somehow. He struggled to make his lips work, to say something, but only gibberish. The cold water was on his face, then his neck, and it felt amazing. "Thanks," he breathed, the brain-to-mouth connection abruptly working.
"Dean? Dean, or you awake?" asked the voice. But that was apparently all the energy Dean had, because he slipped under the ocean again.
Time stretched and bobbed like a snake charmer's cobra. Dean was certain his head floated off the rest of his body, but he didn't really mind, because his arm had been on fire and his chest was being crushed, so leaving them behind was kind of a relief.
Sometimes, he thought he drank something, but it was a distant feeling. Sometimes, he thought he was turned or moved around, but he couldn't do anything about it. Twice, he was grabbed in a vise of pain so severe he was certain that he would die. Sorry, he thought, but he didn't know who he was talking to. He knew he should stay, he knew there was work to do, and he knew somebody needed him, but he was trapped deep within himself and couldn't escape.
There was one thing he could hold onto. He couldn't always hear it, but whenever he thought he couldn't hold on any more, it was there.
"…Jake gave me the necklace he found. It was probably the only thing she had from her homeland."
Why was the voice so sad and hoarse?
"Her name was Sumitra. She was just a kid. Her spirit was a churel, which can be created when a pregnant woman suffers a violent death. Jake actually helped me figure out where she's buried – smart kid. I buried her necklace there, sprinkled mustard seeds over it, and said a blessing to release her spirit."
The voice was choking, exhausted. Dean felt like he needed to scold…someone…to get some rest. He had to open his eyes so they stopped worrying.
"I thought…I thought you'd get better then." Now the voice was really choked up. It dropped so low he could hardly hear it. "I can't do it without you, man. I can't figure out how to fight the Leviathans and…and my own mind alone. Come back, please Dean."
Dean could do many things, but he could not resist that voice, thick with tears and loneliness. With an act of sheer will that had him silently screaming with effort, he pried his 1000-pound eyelids up. "Heya, Sammy."
His voice sounded like he'd smoked a pack a day for 30 years, but it had its intended affect. Actually, it had the affect of making Sam jump to his feet, tip over his chair and stagger into the wall, which was worth weeks of mockery. It was fantastic.
"Dean? Are you really awake?"
"No, 'm sleepin' with m' eyes open." Dean looked lazily around. His arm was propped up on a pillow, bandaged from elbow to wrist. It felt heavy and hot. And there was one of those things that sticks in your nose giving him oxygen. He also had an IV in his good arm. "Why am in the hosp'l? Do I have a cath'ter?" He tried to sound incredulous, but mostly sounded out of breath.
Sam was still staring at him like he'd spouted tentacles, but he brought a straw to Dean's mouth and offered him water. Don't tell beer, but it was the best thing Dean had ever tasted.
"Dean, it's Saturday."
"So?" Dean scowled when the water was taken away. He wanted more.
"The spirit attacked you on Sunday. The infection got into your blood. Your arms swelled up so much they did surgery to relieve the pressure. They were worried about necrotic tissue, and you wouldn't wake up…"
"You put her to res' with…mustard?" The memory was fuzzy as a new pair of bunny slippers, but Dean asked anyway.
"You remember me telling you that?" Sam was amazed. He'd righted his chair and dropped back into it like he couldn't stand up any longer. It was possible. He'd looked like shit for weeks now, with Luci playing with his marbles, and he looked 100 times worse now.
"Kinda. You ne'er shu' up." He smiled at his kid brother, exhausted already, but knowing Sam needed to see it.
"Well, you talk when I'm hurt, and it…I mean, it's annoying. It makes me want to wake up just to tell you to shut up."
"You know you love it. When can I get out o' here?" Dean was already falling back asleep, but he stayed awake long enough to see Sam give him a wide, watery smile. It was sappy, and full of relief, and the kind of smile Dean would normally pretend to hate. Instead, he just squeezed the hand that had found his and drifted off, hoping Sam would sleep too.