AN: Better late than never, hopefully! It's been quite a week IRL.
Barb lovers, this chapter's for you!
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Barb shamelessly eavesdropped on "the boys" who seemed to think that the rest of them were deaf or something, or maybe they didn't care that they could be overheard. And actually, Barb was more than shameless. She was unapologetic. She felt they had a right to know what was going on.
The more she heard, the more she found herself wishing that these boys (okay, men) could have had different lives. As they researched in between Dean's naps as he recovered from the blood spell cast by actual Nazis who would come back from the dead if their bodies weren't burned, the Winchesters talked about what they could be hunting. (Like this was all normal, which Barb could barely wrap her brain around.) And they were relaxed, dropping more tidbits than they probably realized. Demons, curses, werewolves, shapeshifters...when they decided a ghost was the most likely suspect, Barb was actually relieved.
But far more than being afraid, Barb was ineffably sad. Even the snippets she heard revealed bits of what these boys had been through, since she'd seen them six years before, since she'd first met them...and even before. They'd been through almost unimaginable horrors and still got up every day to face more. Way back when they'd first met, when Barb's sons were just getting started in their adult lives, Barb had wished that the Winchester boys could have lives more like her sons. That they could get safe, normal jobs and find someone to settle down with. She'd sensed even back then that this was not what was in store for Sam and Dean.
But this? This was insane!
When Barb admitted she'd been listening and asked questions (that Lucifer?!), Sam gently deflected her until she asked what "the Cage" was. Then Dean looked up and said firmly, but not unkindly, "You don't want to know, Barb, and we're not telling you."
She'd have to mother them – not smother, because she had no illusions about how they'd tolerate that – while they were here, and pray for them every day, and be grateful that they had a real home now. Barb blinked a few times. She certainly wished there was more she could do. But…
Sometimes when Barb thought about Sam and Dean, she remembered a dog she had owned, way back before their youngest was even born. The pup had been wild, but Roger, her oldest, had fallen in love at first sight, and had declared its name was Digger, after a character in his favorite cartoon. So Barb and her husband had done their best to tame Digger. After a lot of patience and food bribes, Digger came to understand they meant him no harm. Eventually, he became friendly, protective even, and one of the smartest farm dogs they'd ever had. But Digger was never comfortable indoors and resisted all of their efforts to get him to come in during bad weather. He didn't even like being in the barn, much less the house, and was ansty and unsettled any time they brought him in. Friends had suggested putting him in a crate at night until he got used to it, but that seemed cruel. Eventually, they'd added a low roof off the side of the garage and put a nice big nest of cushions and blankets out there, and Digger was happy.
The Winchesters were a little bit like that dog. There was a wildness, or maybe a wariness, in them that wouldn't go away. It had been conditioned in them far too long for them to ever lose it entirely, Barb thought. And maybe they'd have felt as trapped by a "normal" life as Digger had felt inside the house. No matter how warm and inviting it was, it wasn't for them.
The thought was depressing. They seemed so alone.
Barb walked slowly to the kitchen to help Carolyn, who cooked and baked when she was nervous, and was hard at work working through the trauma of the night before with her own form of culinary therapy. Barb studied Sam and Dean as she walked. They were working on translating the old letters and book that Sam had showed up with earlier that morning, but Dean kept falling asleep, no matter that he'd slept for the second half of the night and much of the day. When Sam tried to bully him to bed, Dean claimed it was just the "freaking boring" work that made him doze off, but the weariness clinging to him was palpable.
Stretched across one side of the sectional, Dean would doze, then jerk awake and look around. For Sam, Barb had quickly realized. Finally, Sam walked over and without a word took away the papers Dean was looking at, rolled him onto his back, lifted his feet, sat down, and plunked the feet in his lap. "Sleep, man," he said, obviously trying to sound exasperated and not quite hitting it. "Or I swear by Bobby's homemade gin that I'll leave you alone with the Mighty Firth Sisters."
"You are such a prick," complained Dean, but he didn't move his feet. And that was that. Barb marveled at the import of this for a moment.
Dean was an alpha in every sense of the word. His edges had softened over the years, even as his implacable will had only hardened. He didn't back down from anyone or anything except by choice. He was and always would be the quintessential big brother, too, the one who'd popped Sam's shoulder into place with an off-color joke that did nothing to hide the worry in his eyes and who'd hovered behind Sam despite his own concussion. He would never stop looking out for Sam, much the same way Myra still clucked over the rest of the sisters when she felt they weren't caring for themselves adequately...except Dean did it to the thousandth degree. It was probably why he'd initially gone after the Thule alone. Sam had given Barb a very brief explanation about the "Men of Letters" from across the pond that Dean had thought he was facing, and why Dean had such a grudge against them.
Yet...Dean had called Sam when he needed help. He'd accepted that help, and Sam had provided it skillfully. Actually, Sam had done a lot of things while Dean had slept, and he'd acted with a confidence Barb had never seen from him before, not when he was on his own. Such confidence was bred and nurtured by the respect and encouragement of his hero, his big brother. Barb was sure of it.
And just now, Dean had allowed himself to be manhandled and cared for in a way Barb wouldn't have believed if she hadn't seen it. Sam had taken care of Dean very much the same way Dean often took care of Sam. Such faith could only come from the realization that Sam was there, all in, with him to watch his back and pester him and make him laugh and shoulder as much of the burden as he was allowed to.
They'd grown. They might have suffered – she knew they had – but they weren't as alone as she'd thought. They might not have a network like Barb's, which included sisters, brothers-in-law, sons, daughters-in-law, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, great-nieces and nephews, lifelong friends, and on and on. But perhaps the Winchesters made up for in depth what they lacked in breadth.
Oh, she hurt on their behalf to hear that they'd lost Bobby, the only parental figure they'd had for much of their lives. And she hoped there were others she didn't know about who looked in on and loved these boys. It seemed like there must be, given what extraordinary men they were. But either way, they had one thing that could anchor them like nothing else, and that was each other.
Sam caught Barb's eye and winked, and she noticed that Dean was not only sleeping, he had relaxed fully for the first time since waking that afternoon. Furthermore, Sam had managed to spread Judy's knit blanket over Dean, which he had refused before. (Judy couldn't read poolside like a normal person. No, she knitted, so she'd brought the blanket-to-be along on vacation. She'd finished the project just the day before.) Judy had covered the entire blanket with silhouettes of cats as a gift to Myra, who hated cats. Seeing the pink and purple monstrosity spread over Dean made Barb smile, as did the self-satisfaction on Sam's face.
Her heavy thoughts didn't leave though, even as she helped Carolyn clean up from her latest masterpiece, a pecan pie. (Lord only knew how much she was spending on the groceries, but at least the delivery kid was getting a ton of tips, since he had to keep coming back.) Carolyn had learned that pie was Dean's favorite thing in the world, and had decided that she would thank him by making every kind she knew how. She was still trying to figure out what she could do for Sam. (Barb would have to suggest veggie quiche.)
Clean-up was done and Dean was still sleeping, and the only Italian words Barb knew were grazie and mi scusi and más cerveza, por favor and the last might be Spanish, so she couldn't help with translation. She and her sisters had grilled everybody they could find about the murders and the history of the area. And Myra and Judy were playing Scrabble (yuck!), and Barb was damned if she'd do any cooking with Carolyn flitting around the kitchen like a hummingbird on a caffeine bender.
What Barb needed was a walk. She went and found her cutest sandals that were also nice to her feet because priorities and grabbed her tote bag with everything she couldn't live without. She'd always liked walking out her feelings. Many a day when her boys had been small and the walls had closed in, she'd dumped them all in a wagon or on a sled and walked until her legs ached or her heart fell better or the kids all fell asleep. She might be old(ish) now, but there was no reason to mess with a good system.
She was out the door in five minutes and began to breathe better immediately.
"That's a perfectly valid Scrabble word, you prude," Judy's voice carried out the door, making Barb smile. She was never refereeing a Scrabble match again.
Barb let her feet direct her and she began to think over what she'd overheard and what Sam and Dean had told her outright in answer to her questions. She might not be a Hunter, but she had read a lot of mysteries and wasn't half bad at putting the pieces together. She might as well give it a shot.
Let's see. An angry spirit was one that got stuck somehow, maybe because of tragic circumstances of their death or a major grudge or something. Barb wondered irreverently if her neighbor Mildred would stick around after death out of sheer spite for losing out to Barb every year for best salsa at the local fair. Barb grinned. Okay, focus.
The tragic young Camilla Basile certainly had a reason to be an angry spirit. Sam had lowered his voice when he told Dean that the victims' cuts seemed to have been made by a very sharp, very narrow blade like a stiletto (which Barb had thought was only a type of shoe), but Barb had overheard. She'd also heard that it was a common weapon for an Italian to carry back when the Basiles had lived there – which seemed to mean that Camilla had actually been murdered and was revisiting the crime on others. But if that were true, there must be something here that she'd been very attached to, since her remains and all of the family valuables had been sent back to Italy.
What could have been left behind? And how did it "travel" from place to place, to all of the locations where people had been killed? And while Barb was thinking about it, who would have killed the young woman? They were pretty much completely isolated, just the couple and their servants and the people who delivered goods. Why did the letters Sam had say Camilla had been killed by being trampled by a horse? Had the horse come later and whoever found Camilla just didn't realize that she'd been killed before she was trampled? Or was somebody covering for a murder? Was Camilla angry that her murderer had never been brought to justice?
What had Sam said as they all sat around the table eating? Something about a letter to Camilla from her mother. Barb stopped walking to close her eyes to picture the scene.
Dean was eating like starving man. He raved about Myra's chicken and mushrooms, took seconds and thirds of Barb's au gratin potatoes, inhaled Judy's green bean casserole,and ate one piece each of Carolyn's apple and cherry pie. (Hey, the sisters might have been a little competitive.) Sam was eating well, too. But he was also taking the time to pester Dean to "stop talking with your mouth full" and "please at least pretend to have some manners." But most of all, Sam was distracted.
Dean noticed, of course, and sent him a couple of glances that Barb didn't understand...until she realized what Sam was doing.
"Sam Winchester," Barb snapped. She was pleased that Sam's head popped up immediately. Her mom voice hadn't lost its touch. "No reading at the table."
Sam looked abashed and Dean snickered. Sam sent Dean a venomous glance, then looked at Barb through his lashes. "I'm sorry, Barb. I really want to figure this out before somebody else gets hurt or killed."
Barb would not cave. She never caved, and she wouldn't now, no matter how earnest Sam looked. Or how sincere he was in his concern. But damn the boy for being so sweet...and those eyes! Those were deadly! Barb looked away.
"Oh, Sam, we understand," said Carolyn. Barb was relieved, because if Carolyn hadn't given in, she would have.
"No." That was Dean. He pointed a fork full of pie at his brother. "Sam, you can give it a rest for a few minutes. You need to eat, and you'll think better if you relax for a few minutes."
"That is exactly what I was going to say," said Myra with a decisive nod. Dean looked smug, and Barb bit her tongue to keep from smiling. She knew that when her eldest sister used that tone, there was always a but. "You should definitely listen to Dean in this instance, since he actually took the time to empty his mouth before speaking."
Dean, bless him, blushed. "Damn, you're adorable!" snickered Judy. Barb exchanged amused glances with Sam as Myra scolded Judy for her language.
Sam set aside the musty old book with some reluctance, then Carolyn spoke up. "Why don't you tell us what you've learned? Maybe we can help." It was a good offer. Carolyn was a retired teacher, a vociferous reader, and a near genius. Actually, none of them were dummies.
"Okay, sure," said Sam, after a glance at Dean. They did that often, Barb realized. The Winchesters would visually check in with each other all the time. It was one of the first things she'd ever noticed about them. It was probably not even a conscious thing on their part. Just an automatic check to make sure they were in sync. It wasn't telepathy -- at least she didn't think it was -- but it was damn close.
"Well, I don't think the Basiles exactly had the love story that the Orizzonte Rosso's website implies." Sam shook his head. "I found a letter from Camilla's mother that tells her that she made her marriage vows before God and basically she has to live with it." He sighed sadly. "She said maybe Dante would change once they had children."
"I suppose divorce wasn't an option back then," scowled Dean, and Barb loved him for his protectiveness – not the first time she'd had that thought about him. "Nice to be stuck in a new country with an asshole husband and no family or anything around."
"Even if he abused her, the servants probably wouldn't dare interfere," said Sam with quiet anger. "And Camilla wouldn't exactly have a choice about marrying, or who she married – her father would make that decision."
"That must have been very lonesome," said Carolyn sadly. "And you think this poor, lonely girl is now a...spirit killing people?"
That was the big question, wasn't it? Sam and Dean had explained that lingering wasn't good for spirits – even ghosts that had been good people went crazy or something, even becoming murderous sometimes. And Camilla had certainly been dead long enough to have lost any reason and humanity. The thought made Barb incredibly sad. A young woman so far from home and family, her life cut brutally short. And if her spirit had been trapped for all these years, Sam and Dean would have to find out what was tethering her and...burn her. They couldn't tell Barb what that meant for the spirit; they simply didn't know.
Barb blew out a breath and let the details and worries all drift to the back of her mind and looked around instead, knowing that sometimes her subconscious would work on a problem if she didn't focus too heavily on it.
So Barb shook her head like she was shooing away a fly and looked around her. After all, she still was on vacation.
It truly was beautiful here, and not just the architecture and overly manicured flower landscaping. There was a wild life to the desert that felt very different from the verdant fecundity of the farm country of Iowa. The seguras were no less impressive than towering oaks, and the red sands as demonstrative of nature's grandeur as Cedar River where Barb had first learned to swim.
Barb found herself walking farther from the main, finished areas as twilight fell. Common sense told her that she really should turn around and head back and not go wandering around at night when there with a possible angry ghost on the loose, but she couldn't quite make herself do it. Because there was one thing that was exactly the same here as at home. The stars. Despite the light pollution at her back, Barb felt like she was in a dome of dark velvet decorated with diamonds.
She'd been lying on her back looking up at the stars when Harry had proposed. And when she'd told him they were going to be parents. The twins had almost been born under the stars when Barb's water had broken suddenly while she was out for a walk. Driving back from Harry's dad's funeral, they'd stopped and the whole family had shivered in the winter air for at least half an hour looking at the stars. Harry had taken Barb to the top of the biggest hill around under a starry sky after they'd gotten the news about Lulu passing away.
The stars saw it all.
Barb shivered, suddenly finding the night very chilly. Her breath misted in front of her, then stuttered in her chest as she sensed that someone was behind her. Her hands trembled just a little and she felt like an icy finger ran down her spine. She turned slowly.
Barb had caught a glimpse of a ghost once, just before Sam and Dean burned its bones, but it was nothing more than a flash of white. And many, many years earlier, Barb had plead with the reaper who'd come for her son's soul, though she hadn't realized that was who she was talking to until the Winchesters had figured it out and explained it. (Apparently, pregnant women could sometimes see things that other people could not, a fact which Barb didn't even try to understand.) But the former encounter had been nothing but a glimpse, and the latter had looked like just an ordinary old man in a suit, for all she could feel his otherness.
There was no doubt whatsoever that what Barb was seeing now was nothing from the natural world. It was a young woman, petite and pretty. She knelt on the ground with her skirts puddled around her and an airy shawl draped over her pinned-up hair. Her features were delicate, patrician, and young. Her gaze was focused on her hands, which were digging gently through the dirt. Though the starlight offered only meager illumination, Barb found she could see the details well, right down to the finger marks on the delicate skin of one wrist and a bruise on the bottom of her jaw.
And she was lightly glowing. The evening breeze didn't ruffle her hair or dress, and the rough wood that had probably once been the base of a wall was inside her knees instead of beneath them. She was humming a song that Barb recognized but couldn't name. The woman – barely more than a girl – was completely engrossed in her work, and oddly, was able to move the dirt around.
If not for the ethereal glow and slight transparency of the specter, it would have been a tranquil scene. As it was, Barb felt as cold inside as she was now on the outside. But Barb's mama hadn't raised a coward. She swallowed down the sick fear and clasped her hands tightly in front of herself. She doesn't look like she'd hurt anyone, Barb consoled herself. She didn't think about all of the times a serial killer's neighbors had gone on the news and said things like he seemed so nice or I never suspected a thing.
No, this was her chance to help prevent further deaths, to help Sam and Dean figure things out, and maybe even keep her annoying sisters safe. Buoyed by the thought, Barb delicately cleared her throat. "Camilla?"
The ghost seemed to notice her for the first time, looking up with a slight frown on her elfin face. "Ti conosco, signora?" she asked, her voice high-pitched and girlish.
"I'm sorry, honey. I don't speak Italian."
"I am afraid I do not recognize you, donna," said the girl, softly accented but speaking English easily enough. Her tone was impersonal but not rude.
"I know. My name is Barb." Barb licked her lips, unsure how to go on. Was it rude to ask a ghost if they knew they were dead? Would it make her angry? "Um...I don't mean to be rude, but I'm curious about what you're doing there."
Camilla glanced down at her hands and for just a second, her face showed sadness. Then she pulled on a patrician mask. "Scratching in the dirt like a common servant," she said with a touch of bitterness. It sounded like a quote, and Barb thought that Dante had hurt the girl with more than just his fists.
"I've seen your roses," said Barb gently. "They are beautiful. Are you gardening?"
The girl – woman – looked fully at Barb for the first time and smiled. She wasn't just beautiful. She was gorgeous. "You have seen my roses? I wanted something of my old home, but still something new for the place where my children will be born and grow up."
Barb winced. Camilla would never have the opportunity to have any children.
"At first, I thought this was a harsh and ugly place," the ghost continued thoughtfully. "I thought I could never be happy here, but then I took a walk one evening as the sun went down. There is much beauty here, too. I simply was not looking for it. At home, the hills are painted red in the spring with all the flowers. Here, the horizon is red at all times. My roses – they draw the line from there to here, as do I. As my children will." She dimpled shyly. "I should not tell such things to a stranger, but there is no one here for me to confide in, and I miss my mother so."
"It's okay, dear." Barb crouched with a little difficulty. She'd never imagined feeling maternal toward someone who was dead, but life was funny that way. "Look." She showed Camilla her bag. It was a woven bag with the fibers twisted into red roses all over one side. Barb traced one of the roses with a finger, and Camilla mirrored the motion. Barb noted that she had a bandage around her palm. This close to her, it was like standing next to an open freezer. "My sister made this for me," said Barb softly. "She was an artist."
"It is beautiful," said Camilla reverently. Then Barb's second sentence seemed to catch up to her. "Was?"
"Yes. She has passed away. I hope her spirit has moved on and isn't trapped here," said Barb carefully. She was wondering if she was an idiot to be so close to a ghost, especially one that might be ripping people to shreds. Still, Camilla had done nothing even remotely aggressive, and Barb simply couldn't believe that she was the killer.
Camilla pulled a small bag from the ground where she'd been digging. Though it was stained with dirt, Barb thought it might be made of silk. "She loved her art, did she not? My roses were my art." Barb noted the change to past tense but didn't comment on it. "I would come out here when my husband grew...agitated." Camilla fingered the bruises on her wrist absently. "You know, he once beat a jockey and horse both to death after they lost a race? He wasn't even angry about the money he'd lost in the bet, just the loss of face. He did not tell me until we were on the ship over, but he was sent away because he killed another nobleman, and his parents did not want him to have to go to trial." Camilla hugged the little bag to her chest. "Imagine. My father gave me to a murderer."
"Oh, sweetie." Barb's words were a bare whisper. "It isn't fair. I'm so sorry."
"I tried to be a good wife. My mother said it was my duty. Signora Mara said he would settle down after the baby came. But he was so jealous."
"What happened?" Barb had no idea who Mara was, but she didn't want to stop the story.
"He had too much to drink, and I fled out here after he fell asleep. My roses were finally blooming, and I found comfort in them. Have you ever seen red roses by moonlight?" Camilla lifted her pretty face up as if she were looking at the vision she spoke of, even though the moon was new and there were only ruins in front of her. "Dante woke, and found me gone, and thought I must be having an assignation."
Out of habit, Barb tried to lay a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder, but there was nothing to touch, just a cold that bit at her skin.
"He did not listen to reason," said Camilla, ghostly white tears shimmering on her cheeks. "I tried to tell him that we would be having a baby, and he must be careful, but he did not seem to hear me. Hewas like a demon. He drew his blade and cut and cut and cut. I lay there, and the hurt seemed to fade, and I could see my beautiful roses, with blood all across them.And then...I could see myself. I was confused. Then I was sad for our babe, who would never get a chance to live. I am dead, yes?"
Barb could barely swallow, barely whisper. "Yes."
"He buried the blade and forced his horse to trample me – over my body, over my roses. Then he wiped his hands on my dress and left. I've been trying to protect my seeds as I could not protect my child. I wanted to see both bloom here in the desert."
Barb's sadness turned to anger. Camilla's parents had married her off to a murderer and let him drag her to the other side of the world. Barb could only hope they simply hadn't known about Dante. Butyou couldn't denythey had ignored whatever Camillahad told them in her letters.Her husband had killed her and their unborn child in a fit of unjustified rage, then had casually buried the weapon, driven a horse over her, and cleaned off his bloody hands on her dress.Barb wanted to say how sorry she was, how evil Dante had been, but it all seemed so trite.
"You must be careful." Camilla leaned so close to Barb that the skin on her face tingled from the cold. "There is something evil here."
Barb opened her mouth to answer, but stopped as Camilla's eyes flew wide open and she disappeared, the bag she'd been holding falling softly to the ground. And Barb heard footsteps.
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AN: Digger was the name of the mole who was my favorite character on a cartoon called Shirt Tales approximately 1.284 million years ago when I was little.
All of the Italian comes from Google translate.Ti conosco, signora? means: do I know you, ma'am? Grazie is thank you, mi scusi is excuse me, and más cerveza, por favor more beer, please (in Spanish, not Italian).
Timelady66: LOL on you not wanting to admit a "mistake." Thank you for the kind words about Uncanny Valley! Man, I totally should've had the Thule driving a beamer. I admit, I have a thing for Audis, so that's probably why I thought of those first. I'm glad you liked the chapter. You are very encouraging!
bagelcat1: Of course I named them for you! I thought it was great you offered your maiden name. I'm sorry to hear that you are in pain after surgery and really hope that you recover fast and completely, with no more pain. I never thought about most of the music on the show being used during sad / scary / dramatic times, but you're absolutely right. I have to confess that the line about Dean worrying about Sam scarring after the daeva attack was 100% Janice! I had fun writing the droopy Dean and it's so lovely to know that you enjoy reading it. I imagined that Myra's cane would be a heavy wooden one. Nothing less for her, just like you said. You gave me some ideas for later. :-) Oh, and I appreciate your wonderful words about the older stuff too. Long distance (and hopefully not weird) hugs!!
Janice: Thank you, my friend! I almost wish I'd let the Thule stick around longer. And you know how I like to turn things on their heads once in a while to see how the characters act, like Dean getting hurt and Sam having to take charge for a few. And you're the one who encourages me to add the little every day moments and details like Dean enjoying his music, so you should take some credit too.
sfaulkenberry: Oh, that's right, you do love BAS (bad ass Sam). Glad to scratch the itch a little. *g* And the verbal eye candy too. Oh, and I'm stealing one of your lines (again!) for a later part of the story. I'm a thief like that. So, you think I'll be abusing Sam next? How...prescient...of you. And your "very much looking forward to it" made me giggle.
muffinroo: Happy to make your eyes twinkle! LOLOL! I would like to think I'm Dorothy...or maybe Sophia. You are absolutely giving me ideas for later in the story...we'll see. You just have too many great suggestions!
Iowa Kat: Thank you! I hope you aren't too disappointed in the monster in the end. I loved that Dean got a chance to tell Jody at least that he killed Hitler. I just LOVE that you relate to Barb. Myra's kind of a force of nature, isn't she? I have always said that some day I'll carry a cane, and I fully intend to be a menace with it! Happy to give you verbal eye candy. Thank you for your lovely words!
stedan: So happy to have you reading and interested! Thanks!
Shazza: I love to hear that you can picture the scenes in your head. Huh, you are so right about the Stein family. (Ideas explode in my head.) I hated their name though, because my maiden name ends in Stein and school kids used to call us all Frankenstein. LOL
Blondie: Crazy, cackling Judy feeling like she deserves a strip tease made me laugh so hard! So so happy that you liked that chapter. It was fun to write.
Kathy: I do have a habit of making the boys get along with locals. And I'm pleased that you liked it and always happy to get your comments. :-)
DearHart: Thank you!!!