Reluctantly I look up at the portrait. She's back inside, but the sarcastic look on her face has been replaced with one of pure hatred.
I yelp and rush out of the room down to the kitchen wearing the pjs on I threw on last night
"The picture…the portrait, it's changed", I gush, rushing into the kitchen, hopping up and down. "Damn, this is so creepy."
"Hey, relax…how do you make coffee with this damn thing?", he asks, jiggling my Nespresso. Then he turns…and stares.
"Hands off the machinery", I comment and he steps back. I get him a cup and process the aluminum bullet.
"I don't like my coffee bubbly", he complains.
"It's not bubbles, it's foam."
"I don't like fancy coffee store coffee, or milk, or cream…"
"There's no milk in it", I correct, "It uses the temperature of the water to create foam. You know what, nevermind, just drink it."
He turns up his nose, but takes a sip. Somewhat satisfied, he gives his cup one last dirty look and sits down at the kitchen table.
"She's just the tip of the iceberg", I tell him, "There are six ghosts I've seen with my own eyes, and who knows how many more, not counting the enchantment demon."
"Tell me about the ghosts you've seen so far", he instructs.
"Louisa, whom you just saw. The portrait was painted when she was young; she was the wife of the original owner. She usually whispers in my ear at night and just tells me to leave. I've never seen her attack someone before. Her husband is here too, Mr. Elm, no I'm not kidding. They were a prominent family in the Victorian era, and there are still plenty of Elms around here. That's why every street in this city is something elm. Yellow Elm. Green Elm. Leafy Elm. Not terribly creative. I think he's the one who gave me a shove. There's another elderly man who won't identify himself. A girl in her late teens who claims to have committed suicide when she wasn't allowed to marry the man she loved. And two little kids, one of each."
"Whoa. The young woman and kids will move on if they're shown how. The unidentified elderly man, I don't know. The Elms will probably need an exorcism. As far as they're concerned, this is their home and they're not leaving by request", he answers.
"I hope we can start moving them on fast", I add, shivering. "I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here."
I see him stand straighter.
"I'll call a medium I know around here; she's in Dayton. She's a physical medium so she should be able to move on as many as possible and can tell us how much trouble the rest will be. I've tried…loosening up a little bit. If the ghosts aren't angry, bitter spirits, I try to get them to choose to move on. But if it doesn't work, I'm gonna light this place up", he says.
"What do you mean?", I ask, wrinkling my forehead.
"Have you ever seen a ghost dissolve into ash and fire?"
"Uh, no", I comment, "I didn't even think they existed until I moved in here."
"Oh yeah, that's right…well, it's a sight. Very unpleasant for the dead guy, but I'll do what I have to do to get them out of here. I promise you I won't leave until you can live here alone safely", he says. I don't know that this house will ever feel safe.
"Thank you."
"What about the demon?", he asks. I'm amazed he took this long to bring it up.
"I honestly think you're the biggest draw for the demon. He came out during construction on the house to bring you back, and he appeared once for me, and did nothing but talk about you entire time. He's obsessed with the Winchesters", I say, and he's giving me a look.
"That's because it knows we're gonna kill it", he growls.
"You encountered it in the back garden. The builders were putting up a wall to surround it, and there was a spare bolt. That's how you…got injured. I tore it down when I moved in though."
"I died for a wall surrounding a garden that got torn down anyway." He shakes his head.
"I'm so sorry", is all I can say. "Let's talk about how to handle all this."
"This will be easier with my brother around. There's a lot of ghosts on this property, like, a lot", he comments.
"Makes sense. Can I make you some breakfast?", I ask. I wouldn't ask anyone else. Anyone else would get a bowl and pointed to the cereal selection.
"Only if you're making it for yourself", he says.
I'm frying bacon and shattering eggs into the grease within minutes. "Well you know how to cook an egg", he says. I yawn and rub my eyes.
"Hey, sit down, let me", he insists, inches away. He's in jeans and a short sleeve tshirt and it's still not warm in here.
I go out to the living room, stoke up the fire, and come back with a grandpa cardigan I found in the closet.
I come up behind him and catch a whiff of his scent—bacon grease, sweat, a sweet tobacco scented cologne.
"You have to be freezing", I offer, holding up the sweater for him to put his arms through.
"Whose is this?", he asks, but accepts the warmth, "Don't tell me it's a ghost's."
"Probably", I comment, shrugging. He puts it on anyway and slops eggs and bacon in each dish. He sits down with his plate.
"Mmmm, mmmm", he moans, digging in, "Those eggs in bacon grease are the best. My mom used to make them that way."
Watching him eat is delightful. He tries to go slow, but ends up shoveling in two eggs and a few pieces of bacon in just a couple bites.
"You like your food. Did you always eat like this?", I ask.
"Oh yeah", he comments, mouth full. "It's only started to show in the last year." He pats his tummy and I swear I'm soaked.
"Were you a chubby kid?", I ask. I don't want to make him uncomfortable, but his body is my favorite subject.
"Yeah, my parents called me "their little piglet" for about 4 years…."
"Oh my gosh, that's…"
"Humiliating, but after our mother died, everything changed overnight. I was daddy's little soldier. Being a chubby baby didn't work with that. Sam went to live with an aunt and go to school and I stayed with our father. I was on short rations and even shorter sleep. I've been hunting ever since", he says.
"Sounds like you need to take a break and let someone take care of you for a change", I point out.
"My job is to take care of Sam", he reminds me. "I'm the older brother."
That sentiment is deep down in his bones, and it could take forever to dislodge it.
"Okay, but that doesn't mean someone can't take care of you", I mention.
He shakes his head "no."
"I wouldn't wish that job on my worst enemy.", he says, "It's too late for me, but I'll use my dying breath to make sure Sam gets his happiness."
"I know. You say that a lot", I add, "It's not too late for you, Dean."
He sighs. "I'm set in my ways now. No woman could tolerate me. And I'd get bored. And the things I've done…I'm a murderer, Brianna. It's just…not possible."
"Anything is possible", I answer.
"I'm not gonna change now for anyone", he insists, "I wanna do what I wanna do. And…no woman would want me."
"The last part I don't understand", I comment.
"I'm a killer. I've done at least as much bad as good, Brianna. I'm not going to tell you the good, bad and the ugly of my life. But…I don't deserve happiness. Used to be, I wanted to have sex, I'd go out, find a pretty girl, and have sex, but I never wanted anything permanent. But now it's not so easy as to just sit on a barstool and take my choice, and I haven't wanted that for a long time anyway. It's not fulfilling. It's been years honestly", he says.
"Years?! I don't believe you", I comment.
"Ha. Well, believe it. I sowed my oats and everybody else's too. But I'm sick of it now", he says.
"Sick of women?"
He raises his eyebrows. "Chuck strike me dead I'm ever sick of women", he says.
"Who's Chuck?"
"Uh, nevermind", he says with a laugh, "But no, I'm definitely never sick of women. But, it's just not worth it to be with a new one every night. Too much work. And to be with the same one every night is even more work."
"How?"
"She'd expect things", he says, stuffing bacon into his mouth.
"Like fidelity?", I say and know I sound too angry.
"Like giving up hunting. Like money I don't have. Like…I know I'm not huge, but women have the same expectations body wise as men these days, in fact, they're worse. I'm not Brad Pitt", he says, turning pink.
I crack up laughing and he glares at me.
"You find that funny?"
"Yes! You're…perfect", I stutter. Shit, I want to hide under the table.
"Honey, other than hunting, I'm a car mechanic getting closer to "obese" every day", he says, pushing the food between his plush lips. "Sound perfect to you?"
"Dean, you're good. You're kind and generous and yes, I'm sure you did some terrible things trying to make something right, but you would never hurt anyone for any reason except that you had no other choice. You drove thousands of miles to help me, someone you don't even know. We both know you're not going to charge me, even though you should. You'll just go back to your hovel and your fish. You don't see that you have served everyone on this planet until it literally killed you. You take care of everyone!"
Dead silence. He's just staring at me with his mouth falling open.
"I have to find Sam." He insists and walks away.