AN: I had a lot of trouble getting the last chapter to post. Here's hoping for better luck with this one!
Thanks to Janice for all her help and beta work!
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Ever since Sam read the Greek paragraph in the back of the journal from the Houghton Mansion, he'd felt like he and Dean were on the edge of something huge. Like just one more breath, one more clue, one more something and they'd run smack into it, whatever it was. It had felt like they were rushing headlong as they read Florence Houghton Gallup's letters and investigated the yew trees and all of it, but now that they were a whisker away from whatever waited at the end of their quest, they were frozen in time.
It was frustrating, frightening, and exhausting. Sam knew that soldiers in a combat zone could learn to live in a constant state of heightened awareness and that some day he'd probably be able to do the same. At this stage, though, it just felt like he was cultivating an ulcer farm.
Even starting a new school had barely registered on Sam's stress meter, drowned like a puddle when the tide came in.
North Adams High was a nice school, he noted distractedly. And between his utter lack of nerves when he was introduced and the fact that the three girls he'd already met had a certain amount of cachet with the student body, Sam slid into a role of more popularity than he was used to. For once, new seemed to equal interesting or even exotic instead of weird. It was something Dean had accomplished with regularity when he was still in school but Sam hadn't achieved since maybe 2nd grade.
He enjoyed it, he really did. Like he enjoyed a cafeteria that actually served vegetables and hallways that didn't smell overwhelmingly like sweat and desperation. He was invited to watch the Friday night basketball game by a small group of friends that seemed like a strange combination of both smart and fairly popular. Sandy – who'd called Sam over at the pizza place – smiled every time she saw him.
But.
Sam's mind was still like 80% occupied by what he internally thought of as The Mystery of the Monster Egg in North Adams (which made him think of the Hardy Boys books he'd loved so much not that many years before).
Monday Dean had picked Sam up from school and shoved two books at him – both Greek to English dictionaries, one modern Greek and one Attic (ancient) Greek. Sam wasn't really surprised that his brother knew the difference or that Dean wanted him to do the translating. Because while Dean could get any car and almost anything else mechanical to "talk to" him about how it worked and what parts of it needed repair, Sam could climb into a language and start to get a feel for its nuances in a very short period of time. "That's we call complimentary skill sets, boys," Bobby had said more than once, always determined to get them to see their own value.
The translation had taken precedence over homework, and after some work and a brief study of ancient Greek syntax, Sam was pretty sure that he had a reasonable facsimile of the original meaning. He looked over the words once more, then called over Dean, who was frying up some potatoes at the stove to go with the chicken that was cooking at the reassembled oven.
"Okay," Sam said, feeling nervous given what had happened when he'd sounded these words out in their original form. "This is pretty close to what it means." He could feel Dean's attention but didn't look up, focusing to get it exactly right.
"From Peisander's oracle: In the land of the Pig Mountains, sybils will leave their burden to stone workers. And the creature of many hungers will be born beneath the blackest moon and hide beneath the gray peak. Young Herakles will be drawn, but unless they arise to rain down iron and blood, the dragon shall lay waste from the mount to the foreshore."
Just like before, Sam's skin suddenly felt like a shower of sand was falling onto it and something twitched in his breastbone. Behind him, Dean made a tiny sound like a glottal stop, letting Sam knew that he'd felt it too. There was definitely power in those words no matter what language they were spoken in.
Sam's adrenaline shot through the roof. Dean had been sure that Sam hadn't inadvertently performed some spell the first time he'd read it, since most spells required skill and intent and a physical component beyond words alone. And for all Sam was supposed to be the information guy, Dean knew his supernatural stuff.
"Doesn't feel like a spell," Dean breathed after a charged moment. "A...prophecy?" He clearly didn't like the word.
"I guess?" Sam could feel the weight of the words, the importance. But they sounded like information rather than action. "That's what oracles do." He shifted his shoulders as if a heavy weight had settled on them. "I think Peisander was a poet in ancient Greece, but who knows if this means that same guy?"
Dean screwed up his face in distaste and went back to the food. Sam pushed his work aside, as disquieted as his brother. This is why we're here, he thought, but had no referent for the idea.
And then...nothing happened.
Sam went to school. Dean went to work. They ate a lot of pizza and put the bare minimum of time into keeping their temporary home clean. Dean risked hypothermia to change the car's oil once the snow mostly melted, and Sam wrestled with trigonometric equations and breezed through perfect versus pluperfect tenses in Latin and discovered the colorful world of Christopher Marlowe. The real-life implications of the latter's exploration of predetermination didn't escape Sam as he and Dean avoided telling Dad anything about anything when he called again.
The tension stretched, and at night Sam dreamed of teetering on the edge of the Grand Canyon waiting to see if he'd fall and fighting the l'appel du vide that urged him to just jump in. "I don't know how," he thought after he woke. "I don't know where to go or what to look at next. Nothing is happening in North Adams."
With nothing else to go on, Sam studied the oracle or prophesy or whatever it was, though he didn't say it aloud again. While he was reasonably sure it hadn't actually come from the 7th century Greek author, the words had a feeling of significance.
It was frighteningly easy to fit the words to their current circumstances. Since Berkshire was a breed of pigs, the Berkshires could easily be "pig mountains." "Sybils" could be witches, and from there it was a direct line to the Freemasons buying the house with the egg hidden inside – witches leaving their "burden" to "stone workers." Of course, the "blackest moon" was the New Moon of a February without full moons, the study of which had led Sam to this entire can of worms. And it had been Dean who'd pointed out, almost sulkily, that the tallest of the Berkshire Mountains, and the one that practically cast its shadow over North Adams, was called Mount Greylock. The "grey peak," of course.
Beyond that, Sam had no idea what a "creature of many hungers" could be and hoped desperately that the word "dragon" wasn't literal (although he suspected that Dean was sort of hoping that it was). Also, "lay[ing] waste from the mount to the foreshore" sounded like something they really, really wanted to avoid.
Herakles (another name for Hercules) being "drawn" and "rain[ing] down iron and blood" made no sense at all...unless it just meant a hero needed to open a can of whoop-ass on the monster to stop it. The iron and blood could be components of a weapon or spell that might work against whatever it was, but it was far too vague to make it useful. Again...he doubted Herakles meant some literal demigod, but in their line of work, assumptions got people dead, as Bobby was wont to say.
And then Dad ended up back in the hospital. "It's called osteomyelitis," Pastor Jim explained calmly over the phone. "There's an infection in the bone, which sounds bad, but can be treated and fixed with antibiotics. Your father needs to stay in the hospital for a few days so they can be administered intravenously. He's asleep just now because of the pain medications he's been given." A hint of impatience snuck into the cleric's voice. "It could have been treated orally if caught earlier, but he didn't tell me that his pain was increasing."
The impatience was more reassuring than the words themselves, since Jim wouldn't have allowed himself to feel (much less display) irritation if Dad's life were truly in danger. Still, it was one more impediment to Sam and Dean letting someone know everything they'd learned and experienced. At least that's what they told themselves, despite the fact that they could have easily imparted the information they did have to the pastor.
There was a feeling of inevitability now, like that moment your heel slips forward and you know that there's nothing in the world that can stop you from falling.
And then...yet more nothing. The days plodded on.
Sam and Sandy watched another high school basketball game in the middle of about a hundred other students while Dean lurked in the gym doorway and pretended not to notice all of the girls (and women) checking him out. He hadn't said much about it, but, while he was happy to see his brother having fun with friends, he'd been reluctant to leave Sam on his own for long.
Sam was pretty sure that Dean felt the same sense of impending destiny or something that he did, but of course, they didn't talk about it. What was there to say, anyway? Hey, is it just me, or does it feel like we're in the end of Thelma and Louise and I have no idea how to turn this thing around? Or maybe So what do you think – are we gonna end up pancakes or heroes?
Still, ordinary life crawled on. Dad was out of the hospital but confined to bed and pissed about it. Caleb answered their call but didn't have time to talk. Mrs. Gill, the literature teacher, told Sam he had "unusual maturity and insight" and asked about his plans for the future. Sally found him every break, and they held hands under the cafeteria table a few times. March Madness started and their TV actually got a couple of the games, so they cheered Kansas on to an easy win over some mid-major team.
Sam and Dean drove out to and all around the Houghton Mansion twice, confirming that any trail their quarry might have left was long gone. There was nothing new to see, nor was there any evidence that anything had been done about the damage after the tarp was put up. Sam wanted to go inside because the lack of an egg shell bothered him, but Dean wouldn't let him. "If it was there, we would've seen it already. And it doesn't need some big explanation. Maybe it ate the shell like a bird. Or it's stupid monster physics and it dissolved or something," he said.
They tromped around the cemetery too but didn't find anything except for a neat stack of cut wood instead of fallen trees, the trunks cleaned up but left, at least for the moment.
Then the town began to buzz that crazy motor-biker Quinn had disappeared. Then two hunters, small h who were going after a suspected bobcat or coyote. Suspected because pets were going missing too, something nobody had bothered to mention to the Winchesters.
The morning after they learned about the hunters, the back of Sam's neck prickled when he was walking into school. He stepped slightly to the side of the flow of people and knelt to tie his shoe, looking at the reflection in the window in front of him for anyone who looked out of place, but he couldn't see anything. He stood and held the door open for one of Sally's friends and took the opportunity to look around a little more, but again came up empty. The feeling was back after school, and Sam had rarely been so grateful to see the Impala waiting. Dean hadn't worked that day and his hands were black, telling Sam that he'd been torturing the oven again. Dean said it heated unevenly. Sam thought it was just old and Dean was bored and uneasy.
"Hey, Dean…"
"I feel it," Dean answered quietly. "Let's take a little drive around, maybe run an errand or two, and see what happens."
What happened was more nothing. The feeling of being watched was gone, so they eventually went back to the house well after dark (though not until after Dean canceled his date with the lady who worked at a little cafe downtown). Sam found himself grateful that there was no school until Monday for some kind of teacher's working days. He doubted he would sleep, and, damn it, something had to happen soon.
As Sam had suspected, the metal tray that made up the bottom of the oven was lying across the sink with the screws that held it in place on the counter.
"I guess I'm gonna get some pizza," Dean sighed, like he'd forgotten his project. "But first I'm calling Caleb."
He actually called in their pizza order first. All he had to say was, "Hey, Henry," and the eponymous owner of the pizza place they loved said to show up in twenty minutes and he'd have their usual ready to go.
If Sam hadn't been so antsy, still almost feeling the cobweb-brush of sensation that someone hidden was watching, he might have started to wonder what it would be like if they ever just stopped and stayed some place like this long enough be known and recognized. Long enough that it would be worth saying yes when Sally shyly asked if he'd like to come over for dinner because her parents would like to meet him and yes when Coach Calhoun asked if he'd ever thought about trying out for basketball.
Now, though, Sam was more concerned with the stress of that feeling of being on his tiptoes at the very edge of a precipice and the growing certainty that turning back wasn't an option anymore.
Sam shook himself out of his jittery musings as Dean dialed Caleb next.
"There's maybe three people I ever call back, but, hey, leave a message if you want," drawled Caleb's voicemail recording, making Dean scowl. He dialed Bobby next.
It rang twice, then, "It's Bobby. No message, no callback, so get to it."
This time, Dean spoke. "Bobby, it's Dean. Sam and I are in North Adams, and I assume that means something to you. Call me." Dean scowled harder. He geared up a whole lot more than he normally would for a pizza run and leaned the shotgun against the wall next to the table.
"I'll be right back," he promised after checking the salt lines and the locks on the windows for the second time.
Sam waved him off. He had Albert's ledger and all his notes about it in front of him. He wanted to look over the translation because there were some words that didn't have a direct counterpart in English and he wanted to see if he could improve on what he'd come up with.
He'd given up on stómata, (which might be mouths or stomachs rather than hungers, but he just couldn't be sure), and was reconsidering megathario, which he had as dragon but might literally mean a now-extinct giant sloth (which admittedly would be a heck of a lot easier to kill than some supernatural creature). He was trying to determine if a simple monster would work better when his inner clock clicked on and he realized that Dean had been gone a lot longer than the 3-mile round trip would have warranted, even if Henry hadn't been quite ready.
Sam's stomach tightened and he cursed all of those living room windows. He moved to the kitchen, which only had one little window and shared a wall with the front door. He called Dean's phone, hung up and immediately called again when he got voicemail. Then he tried the pizzeria.
"He's been and gone, Sam," Henry said, sounding busy. "Maybe got distracted by a pretty face, eh?"
Sam was about to answer when the phone line went dead – no dial tone, no nothing. The lights followed a second later. Sam's heart rate immediately tripled. A monster with the intelligence to ferret them out as Hunters, watch them unseen, target them separately, then take out the phone and power lines? It was not what Sam had been expecting. He'd been picturing something big and scary – Smaug or the abominable snowman, maybe – ambushing people in the woods, not something clever (and small) enough to ambush him inside.
This passed through Sam's mind in an instant. He had just one minute to make a choice because someone was coming in...all the actions pointed to an imminent breach. He could get to the shotgun or…acting on an instinct he couldn't have explained, Sam grabbed the book from the Houghton Mansion and his notes on it in one swoop, popped open the open and dumped them inside, then laid the metal sheet back in place, closed the oven, and swept the screws into the sink drain. There was nothing he could do about the wall covered with their research, but the information that nobody else would have was out of sight.
Sam made the two giant steps back to the shotgun just as the front door burst open and there was a crash against the back door, though the heavy chair blocking the latter didn't budge.
"Don't move, kid," snapped a voice, but Sam had never been good at taking orders despite Dad's best efforts.
Sam ignored the dictum and let his momentum carry him down to the floor, rotating the barrel of the gun in the general direction of the door. He fired indiscriminately, knowing that the underside of the table would catch some of his shot. He was mostly blind from the sudden darkness, but shotguns don't require a lot of accuracy. Besides, whoever was still beating on the back door would eventually make it through. One-on-one is always better than one-on-two.
He needed to remember everything Dad and Dean had taught him. (Oh shit, Dean. What had happened to Dean?!)
The guy at the front door cried out, then his gun fired (and what kind of monster uses a gun?), the round thunking into the wall not very high above Sam's head. That probably should have sent Sam into a panic, but he was already so scared that he just took in the details distantly, almost clinically. He noted the trajectory and the fact that he obviously hadn't incapacitated his opponent.
Sam's own shot had helpfully knocked the table forward, giving him a makeshift hiding place. He risked a peek – around the side, not over the top. The door was hanging open, but the guy who'd shot at him was out of sight. (Shit, shit, shit. Somebody was shooting at Sam and only something terrible would keep Dean from running to his defense.)
Sam tried mostly unsuccessfully to slow his breathing and steady his hands. He was going to die, and he was never even going to know what had happened to his brother.
Sit rep. That's what he needed to do.
Weapons: Sam had the shotgun and one remaining shot. All other rounds were in the bedroom – which he'd have to cross in front of the door to get to – and the trunk of the Impala. He had a short-bladed knife at his ankle and that was it. He didn't know how many opponents he was facing or what they were. The voice sounded human, but that still left an awful lot of options. The fact that there were multiple attackers would confuse him once he had time to think about it because Al's writing clearly said egg, singular. Unless there'd been other eggs held other places...but that was a consideration for later.
Sam wanted Dean more than he wanted air, but he didn't have time for that thought either.
Sam quickly finished his assessment. The windows were old and heavy and painted shut. There was someone at each door. The house didn't have a basement or second floor. The only real possibility to get out was the kitchen window. Sam could fit through it, but he would probably only have seconds before front door guy heard him and came around the corner. The closest house that direction was a quarter of a mile away or so.
"Put the gun down, kid," the voice came again, and Sam listened hard this time. His heart was almost deafening in his ears, but he strained to pay attention anyway. Sounded like...just a guy. No real obvious accent, not quite midwestern, but not obvious enough for Sam to identify beyond that. The voice was a gruff baritone and there was condescension, a hint of anger or pain, and a clear expectation that he'd be obeyed.
"You're surrounded and we will shoot you if we have to. Give it up." He never looked around the door or gave Sam another target. He'd seemed to know Sam was young, which made sense if he or a cohort of his had been watching Sam earlier. It also seemed that he'd expected to just walk in with a gun and control the situation. To be fair, that would work with most people, not just teenagers, but he had obviously not banked on a trained Hunter who was also a Winchester. He was definitely respecting Sam – or at least the shotgun – now.
"If you come in, the next shot goes in your face," Sam called back, wishing he didn't sound so young. He might have only one shot left, but they had no way to know that. Besides, he'd learned bravado from the best. He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes onto his sleeve, but his voice didn't betray him. "Or just hang around for the cops to get here. I was on the phone with 'em when you cut the line. My neighbors are probably calling them too, thanks to the gunshots." The only neighbor they had didn't hear anything, but it sounded good.
Sam had been delaying to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark and to try to magically figure out a way out of this. But it suddenly occurred to him that the other guy was delaying too. That meant they were going to –
The closest living room window exploded, shot, and a booted foot started to kick the broken glass out of the way. Sam truly panicked for the first time and fired his last shot back through the window, blasting it wide. Front door guy ran in, pointing his piece at Sam and yelling at him to drop the shotgun and somebody else stepped through the window. Sam dove at the second because two ways to prevent someone from using a gun on you were: get too close to their ally so they can't risk a shot and grab their shooting hand.
Hitting the newest guy across the wrist with the now-useless shotgun didn't make him drop his gun, but it did stop him from aiming it at Sam for the moment. Then Sam was on him. The guy smelled like unfiltered cigarettes and wore a Carhart coat and honest-to-goodness ushanka, ear flaps and all. He had height and weight on Sam, but Sam was used to those odds; he sparred against worse nearly every day.
Sam dropped his shotgun and grabbed Carhart's wrist to keep the gun pointed anywhere but at himself. The guy tried to turn (and, damn, he seemed so human!) and Sam swept his feet, letting himself fall on top of the guy elbow first.
That at least dislodged the gun but then hands were on his shoulders hauling him up. Sam grabbed two fistfuls of camo coat and shoved but couldn't break the guy's hold.
Desperate, Sam bent his knees as far as they would go and heaved up. He and his newest attacker fell backwards through the ruin of the window. They landed on their sides in the slushy, half-frozen mud still locked together.
Sam couldn't see a thing. He threw an elbow and took a glancing blow to the sternum in return. He squirmed and brought his knee up sharply, which earned him a bitten-off curse, but he was finally loose. He just had to run.
As Sam scrambled away, somebody kicked the back of his knee and reached to get him in a headlock. But Sam had been taught that there's no such thing as fighting dirty, especially when you're outnumbered or overmatched. He bit the hand as hard as he could. When it was withdrawn, he scrambled forward again on hands and feet thinking nothing more than get away.
A hand closed bruisingly on his ankle, pitching Sam forward. He caught motion out of the corner of his eye and twisted instinctively away from the kick that was aimed toward his head. But he was already falling forward and he just couldn't move fast enough. He had just enough time to think, I hope Dean's okay, and, shit, this is gonna hur –
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AN: Er. Sorry?
Christopher Marlowe was a contemporary of William Shakespeare. He wrote, among other things, Dr. Faustus, which seems to imply that certain things in our lives are preset and unavoidable. Destiny, if you will.
Peisander wrote epic Greek poetry in the 7th century. We don't know a lot about him, but he was so respected in his time that statues were erected to him.
Smaug is the dragon in JRR Tolkein's The Hobbit.
All Greek comes from Google translate, which means it's actually modern Greek because Google doesn't have the option for ancient (Attic) Greek.
muffinroo: The 'you got some 'spainin' to do' cracked me up! Oh, yes, the boys are in it deep. Did you doubt that they would be? So I guess the main question is what's the biggest danger: the unknown monster, whoever just jumped Sam, or John once he find out how long Sam and Dean knew something was going on and didn't tell him?
bagelcat1: I may have Googled the Taco Bell menu from 1999! I'm not even kidding. Also, I was supposed to take out the government cheese reference because it's too esoteric but I forgot. You can find it at some discount grocery stores and Dutch grandmothers like to buy it because it's so cheap. The plastic it comes in would probably taste better than the "cheese" itself. I also fall into research black holes. This past weekend my dad and I got caught up in looking at information about a local semi-professional basketball league from the 60's and 70's that I'd never heard of. (He and I are massive basketball fans and I guess he used to attend these.) Anyway, Sam probably doesn't even realize his situation ethics at this point in his life, you know? And I smiled to write that the idea of demons and witchcraft was scary to them just because it was so different late in the show. Thanks for all your nice words!
Colby's girl: Thank you! In my first version of last chapter, I didn't have nearly enough of Dean's worry for Sam in it and I had to go back to emphasize it more because like you I feel it's an extremely important facet of Dean's character, even as a cocky 20-year-old. It was very fun to write for Al because I have a tendency to get too flowery and he gave me a reasonable excuse! The archaic feel didn't come easily, so it's especially nice to hear that it worked for you. I hope you didn't get too much snow and nastiness. We so rarely dodge those storms that we were almost giddy about it. LOL There isn't much worse than the feeling of your car losing traction. It must have been so terrifying to spin all the way around like that on the highway! Almost exactly 2 years ago, I drove home from a miniature vacation almost 200 miles through what was later termed a blizzard. Not long after we went through Grand Rapids, they closed all the highways. (I never claimed to be smart...but hey, we survived.)
Long Live BRUCAS: Once I wrote the previous chapter, I had the insane desire to quote Sherlock Holmes like a bit dork and say, 'now the game is afoot.' Hehe. And now they're really in it deep!
sylvia37: No answers yet...but soon!
Christine: Oh, thank you! It's a different kind of challenge to write a mystery because there's a constant question of if you're revealing too much or too little information. I'm so glad you're enjoying it!
Timelady66: Thank you! That is very nice to hear since I try very hard to paint a picture without getting bogged down in details. So, the other night when I couldn't sleep, I decided what I think about what could have caused Martin to check himself into the hospital. I don't know when or if it will get to the page, but it could happen since I have the basic outline in my brain now! Thanks for the idea.
Shazza19: I'm glad you are reading! The weather isn't too bad here but I sure wish it were summer! So you asked for some hurt boys, huh? Looks like that might be in the cards...
stedan: You're welcome/I'm sorry! Heh. Most of your questions haven't been answered yet, but they're really good questions. But, no, I would NEVER hurt the guys. (Yeah, right.)
Kathy: Thank you! I wrote a little more about John the lie detector again, although I don't think it's in this chapter. (I don't write everything exactly in order.) I wanted to show that the boys were pretty close with Caleb which is why I had the back and forth stuff with Sam over the phone -- glad you liked it! One of my big goals with this fic is to show the boys as a team, so you have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you talk about seeing that in action. My only hint about the monster is that it's something I've wanted to write about forever...which I know doesn't actually tell you anything!
radpineapple: You're awesome! Yay that you liked all the background stuff! I tend to worry that people will get sick of that stuff, ya know? I promise that you'll get to see some badass Winchesters pretty soon. I'm afraid that I don't know what SCP is...? So happy to have you reading!
Lena: Hi! *waves like a crazy person* Yes, you make me blush. You didn think the conversation with Caleb was overkill, huh? That makes me happy! And, uh, yeah I don't think John and Bobby will be real happy with the boys... And you are one of the people who has always encouraged me to remember how smart Dean is.