We had stopped at a petrol station in Kentucky, forced to a halt in our journey to Pennsylvania by roadworks causing closures. Sam and I had a map out, leaning over the bonnet of the car, taking turns to point out possible routes and debating the pros and cons of each. Dean had filled the tank and paid, but was now wandering away to answer his phone, I wasn't paying him much attention.
"Alright, Cassie, we'll come check it out." Or at least, I wasn't until I heard that.
I straightened, staring over my shoulder at my older brother. We hadn't spoken Cassie's name since leaving Ohio, and now she was phoning him? She'd better have a damn good reason, because if that bitch thinks that she can just play around with Dean's heart again, she's got another thing coming!
"Okay." Sam stood up with the map in his hand, still peering at it. "I think we've found a way we can bypass that construction just east of here. We might even make Pennsylvania faster than we thought."
Dean lowered the phone from his ear, looking at it in thought. "Yeah. Problem is; we're not going to Pennsylvania."
"We what?" Sam looked blankly between the two of us.
"I just got a call from an, uh, old friend. Her father was killed last night, think it might be our kind of thing." Dean avoided my eyes as he returned to the car.
"What?" Sam asked, echoing my own thoughts. Her father had died? I'd never met the man, and I was sorry for her loss, but it still didn't explain why she was calling us.
"Yeah. Believe me; she never would've called, never, if she didn't need us." Dean opened the driver's door and looked at Sam across the top of the car, still avoiding looking at me. "Come on, are you coming or not?"
I was sitting at the table in the motel room. My head bent over a lore book, trying to find whatever it was that we were hunting. Dad was out interviewing witnesses and Dean was outside the motel room, making a phone call. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, leaning against the Impala.
The car was far enough away, and Dean had shut the motel room door behind him, that I couldn't hear what the person on the other end was saying, but I still heard Dean just fine. I'm not sure that my family really understand just how much better than human my hearing is; I overhear lots of things that I wasn't really meant to.
Dean's voice had a smile in it, and I could picture it in my head, though my view through the window wasn't clear enough without turning my head to be able to make it out. It was nice to think of Dean smiling, it's been a rare enough thing since Sammy left for college last year.
That was what had diverted my attention from the lore book in front of me. If something was making my brother smile again, I wanted to know what it was.
He hung up and returned to the room. I wiped the smile off my face and did my best to pretend that I hadn't heard anything.
"Hey, I'm going out for a bit. Don't wait up." He grabbed his leather jacket from the bed and shrugged into it.
"What should I tell Dad if he asks where you are?"
"Tell him I'm following up with one of the witnesses."
"All night?" I smirked at him. "How very dedicated of you."
Dean blushed, his mouth opened and closed again before he found words. "Shut up."
"Have fun." I called after him as he left, "Don't forget to use protection!" He slammed the door behind him.
Teasing my brothers is always fun, watching their ears turn red as the embarrassment grew, but I hadn't been able to tease Dean like this for a while, he'd been too hurt by Sam's departure. Which reminds me; I must call Sam soon.
We drove for a while without talking; Dean had immediately turned the music up too loud for that. We were cruising through the country side, a lake out one side, when the tape ended and Sam turned it down before turning to face Dean.
"By old friend you mean...?"
"A friend that's not new."
"Oh, yeah, thanks." Sam snorted. "So what's her name?"
"Cassie."
"Cassie, huh? You never mentioned her…" He drifted off, clearly waiting for Dean to fill in the blanks.
"Didn't I?" There was a pause while Dean tried to avoid saying any more, and Sam sat and stared at him. "Yeah, we went out."
"You mean you dated somebody? For more than one night?" Sam questioned, in not unreasonable surprise.
"Am I speaking a language you're not getting here? We were working a job in Ohio, she was finishing up college. We went out for a couple of weeks." Dean's standard defense of sarcasm and attack had kicked in as a response to losing control of the situation and sharing too much with our nosy little brother.
"And...?" Sam prompted. When all the answer he got was a shrug he sighed and continued on. "Look, it's terrible about her dad, but it kinda sounds like a standard car accident. I'm not seeing how it fits with what we do. Which by the way, how does she know what we do?"
Again, Dean didn't answer, but the look on his face must have been answer enough. "You told her. You told her the secret! Our big family rule number one. We do what we do and we shut up about it. For a year and a half I do nothing but lie to Jessica, and you go out with this chick in Ohio a couple of times and you tell her everything?"
Dean stayed silent, staring straight ahead.
"Dean!"
Okay, that's enough. "Sam!"
"Yeah. Looks like." Dean spoke at almost the same time as me, and Sam looked back and forth between us.
Dean, clearly done with the conversation, pressed his foot down on the accelerator, getting an answering growl from Baby's engine. I tried to silently communicate to Sam that he needed to drop it, now. I must have succeeded, because Sam did shut up. Although the bitchface made it quite clear that he wasn't happy.
Dad returned to the room, now fairly certain that we were hunting a ghost, though he didn't know whose. I closed the lore book, the information on subtypes of ghoul had been interesting at first but I'd been on the same page for the last hour, rereading the same paragraph and I still had no idea what it said.
I stood and stretched moving to the kitchen to start on dinner. Pasta carbonara maybe? With sausages? The sausages needed using.
"Where's Dean?"
"He went to talk to one of the witnesses again." I pulled the sausages from the fridge and looked at the remaining contents. Inspiration did not strike.
"At ten at night? What's he really doing?"
"I don't know, Dad." I pulled the ingredients for carbonara from the fridge and fetched a chopping board. "He said he was going to talk to a witness."
"What the hell is that kid up to now?" He mumbled, staring out the window with his arms crossed.
"Does it matter, Dad? This is Dean. Dean, who hasn't done anything but hunt for the past year." I chopped the onion, perhaps a little too viciously. "Where ever he is, you can bet it's something to do with the case."
The onions were a good excuse for why my eyes were watering, but maybe my tone was a little too bitter, because Dad turned to regard me. A calculating look on his face.
I sighed, halting my chopping and raising my eyes to the ceiling, talking to it rather than my critical and analytical father. "I'm worried about him, Dad. He's been so focused, trying to bury himself in hunting, taking more risks than normal. Ever since Sammy left, Dean's been…"
I drifted off and there was silence for a moment before Dad turned back to the window, talking to it the same way I had to the ceiling. "It was Sam's choice to leave, no one forced him."
That wasn't really true of course; there'd been a massive argument. Sam had worked his arse off getting that scholarship to Stanford. It was his dream and he was excited to go, and proud of his achievement. Dad was just scared, scared of what might happen to Sam if we weren't around to protect him. He'd reacted to his fear with anger, rather than the pride that Sam had hoped for, and Sam had shouted back. Dean and I had pretty much just sat there in shock, caught between pride in our brother, sadness that he would be leaving and increasing horror at the things the two were shouting at each other.
Eventually Dad had issued the ultimatum, and Sam had accepted, grabbed his bag and walked out. Dean watched Sam go, rose to follow him, and then heeded Dad's order to stay sat at the table. I'd ignored the order, running after my baby brother. He was halfway out of the parking lot by the time I caught up with his long strides. I managed to calm him down a little, and then I walked back into the motel and told Dean I needed to borrow the car. He handed me the keys without a word and I drove to Stanford with Sam. We turned our phones off for the trip, knowing that Dad would be enraged when he realised what we'd done.
Dean had been almost unresponsive after his anger at being deprived of Baby for over a week had faded. He'd given nods and monosyllabic responses where absolutely necessary. Even Dad had noticed his despondency. He hadn't really done anything about it though, just didn't press for Dean to talk any more than he wanted to.
I didn't press either; I just filled the gaps with idle chatter and made sure to give him lots of cuddles. Dean would never admit that he likes cuddles, but he does. He'd come back to life slowly, but he'd still been clearly unhappy until today. Today he had laughed and smiled. Yeah, I was a little frustrated with being left to research alone, but I'm glad Dean was off somewhere, doing something that made him happy, just like Sam was.
It was about damn time.
We pulled into town and headed for an office building, presumably the address that Cassie had provided. I followed my brothers through the doors, noting the signs announcing it to be the offices of the local newspaper.
"Two black people were killed on the same stretch of road in the same way in two weeks." An older man's voice was saying as we entered the office. I craned around my much taller brothers, curious to know what was happening.
"Jimmy, you're too close to this. Those guys were friends of yours." An older white man spoke to a black gentleman of about the same age. He turned to address a young woman, about Dean's age. "Again, Cassie, I'm very sorry for your loss."
The man left, we stepped aside to allow him to pass. The other man left too, presumably to an office within the building and Cassie sighed, turning and noticing us she stared straight at my big brother. "Dean."
I hadn't met her back in Ohio, so I took the chance to get the measure of her now. She was very pretty, with curly black hair that fell to her shoulders and a tired expression in her dark eyes. She was very slight of build and dressed smartly in office clothes. There was something about her eyes, despite the weariness, a sort of stubborn fire, a fierceness that shouldn't have surprised me; she was just Dean's type.
"Hey Cassie."
They stared at each other for a long moment, not speaking. Sam watched, smiling to himself and I watched all of them, not smiling.
Eventually Dean cleared his throat. "This is my brother Sam and my sister Alison."
Cassie smiled at Sam, who smiled back, and at me. I didn't return the smile and her own faltered before she turned back to face Dean, now shifting a little where she stood.
"Sorry about your dad." Dean elbowed me in the side, silently telling me to cut it out.
"Yeah. Me too." They continued to stare at each other. If she ends up hurting him again, I'll feed her to whatever killed her father myself.
Dean returned to the room the next morning, an absent-minded smile on his face.
"If you want me to keep covering for you, you need to start bringing me hot chocolate."
His smile fell a little. "What did Dad say?"
"Not much." I told him as I stood, gathering my jacket and my bag. "You need to take me to the library to research local ghosties. We can get breakfast on the way."
It was hardly the first time that Dean had stayed out at night with a girl, rather than return to the motel room. It happened much more often than Dad was aware of. Dean trusted me to take care of Sam, and if Dad wanted a say, he could damn-well stick around a bit more often. Most of the time Dean had the good manners to either sneak in quietly while we were sleeping, or to wait until a decent hour of the morning to return. Not that I ever slept through anyone entering the motel room.
It's something we worried about with Sam off at college by himself; who was keeping watch at night? Dean and I had both trained ourselves to be very light sleepers, awakened by the slightest noise. Though if you put either of us in the back seat of the car we'd sleep like babies. These days Dean often drives long distances, so I sleep in the car and then remain alert when we get to the motel room, allowing Dean to get some decent rest. I just have to remember to keep my knitting needles from clicking, so I don't wake him.
Dean bought me breakfast, the smile drifting across his face frequently throughout our meal. He sang along loudly to the music in the car, and even continued to hum to himself as we flicked through the archives of the local papers, looking for obituaries. I smiled to myself, observing my brother discretely from across the desk. It was just so good to see him happy again.
Cassie had invited us back to her house, citing the office as not being the place to discuss our work, and we were now settled on sofas in the lounge of the large country house, while Cassie brought a tray of refreshments. "My mother's in pretty bad shape. I've been staying with her. I wish she wouldn't go off by herself. She's been so nervous and frightened. She was worried about dad-"
"Why?" Dean interrupted.
Cassie poured tea from the pot into four cups. "He was scared. He was seeing things."
"Like what?"
"He swore he saw an awful-looking, black truck following him." She added cream and sugar.
"A truck." Sam questioned. "Who was the driver?"
"He didn't talk about a driver. Just the truck." Cassie handed out the tea cups. "He said it would appear and disappear. And, in the accident, Dad's car was dented, like it had been slammed into by something big."
"Thanks." Sam took a cup with a smile before turning serious again. "Now you're sure this dent wasn't there before?"
Dean accepted the tea cup as if it were a cursed object, looking around and quickly finding a side table to abandon it on. I smirked but no one else seemed to notice.
"He sold cars. Always drove a new one. There wasn't a scratch on that thing. It had rained hard that night. There was mud everywhere. There was a distinct set of muddy tracks leading from dad's car...leading right to the edge, where he went over." She ducked her head, taking a few deep breathes. "One set of tracks. His."
"The first was a friend of your fathers?" Dean asked.
"Best friend." She confirmed. "Clayton Soames. They owned the car dealership together. Same thing. Dent. No Tracks. And the cops said exactly what they said about dad. He 'lost control of his car.'"
"Can you think of any reason why your father and his partner might be targets?" I asked, taking a small sip of the tea. It wasn't bad actually; the cream made it much richer than the dried milk sachets you often find in motel rooms.
"No." She shook her head.
"And you think this vanishing truck ran them off the road?" I pressed.
She avoided my eyes, "When you say it aloud like that...listen, I'm a little skeptical about this...ghost stuff...or whatever it is you guys are into."
Dean snorted, "Skeptical. If I remember, I think you said I was nuts."
"That was then." She stared at him for a moment. "I just know that I can't explain what happened up there. So I called you."
Steps on the front porch preceded the door opening, and a middle aged woman entered. We all rose to our feet, Cassie stepping forwards to greet the woman. "Mom. Where have you been I was so..."
The woman stopped short at the sight of us, appearing harried. "I had no idea you'd invited friends over."
"Mom, this is Dean, a...friend of mine from... college. And his siblings Sam and Alison."
"Well, I won't interrupt you." She made to leave, taking off her scarf and coat.
"Mrs Robinson. We're sorry for your loss. We'd like to talk to you for a minute if you don't mind?" Dean called, trying to be as gentle as he could.
The woman appeared affronted, though Dean had been perfectly polite in both word and tone. "I'm really not up for that right now."
The smiles and humming continued for the rest of the day, until Dean disappeared that evening. He was back the next morning with a hot chocolate for me and his smile firmly in place. I raised an eyebrow at him as I accepted the beverage and offered him the lucky charms. We'd not found a likely suspect for our ghost the day before, so we were headed back to the library, and the prospect of another day cooped up with dusty old books would usually have made Dean irritable at best. But now he was humming to himself as he poured the milk into his bowl.
We didn't talk as we ate and prepared to leave the motel. But I was no longer hiding my observation of him and his happiness was catching; I found myself singing along with him in the car. We settled in the library at the same table as before and Dean set to work. Or appeared to at least.
He'd been smiling down at the same page of that newspaper for a good five minutes before I broke the silence. "So, what's her name?"
He startled, staring at me with wide eyes, almost as if I'd caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. "Who?"
"The girl who's got you singing along to The Beach Boys with me, instead of complaining like you usually do." It really wasn't often Dean let me play my music in the car; my tastes ran a little earlier than his, stuff from the fifties and sixties, the things I remember my mum listening to.
"You played the music, Ali." He raised his eyebrow at me.
"And you were in a sufficiently good mood to not only allow it, but also to sing along. So I ask again; what's the name of the girl who's making you so happy?"
He shifted in his seat, dropping his eyes to the newspaper in front of him and blushing slightly. "Cassie. Her name is Cassie."
The next morning dawned clear and crisp and bright. Thick frost, or perhaps a light dusting of snow, covered the ground and our breath formed visible puffs of steam in the cold air. We'd woken to a phone call from Cassie, saying that there had been another accident overnight, her friend Jimmy this time, and we were heading to meet her at the scene of the accident.
I was still grumpy because of the early start, and because I still don't trust Cassie or want her anywhere near Dean. I wrapped my arms around myself as we got out of the car, the cold morning doing nothing to improve my mood.
The same elderly white gentleman who'd been in the newspaper offices yesterday was speaking to Cassie as we approached. "Close the main road? The only road in and out of town? Accidents do happen Cassie, and that's what they are. Accidents."
"Did the cops check for additional denting on Jimmy's car, see if it was pushed?" Dean asked as we came to a halt behind the girl.
"Who's this?" The man eyed us warily.
"Dean, Sam and Alison Winchester. Family friends. This is Mayor Harold Todd."
The mayor nodded in greeting before answering Dean's question. "There's one set of tire tracks. One... doesn't point to foul play."
"Mayor, the police and town officials take their cues from you." Cassie pressed. "If you're indifferent about-"
"Indifferent!"
She folded her arms over her chest, "Would you close the road if the victims were white?"
"You suggesting I'm racist Cassie? I'm the last person you should talk to like that."
"And why is that?"
"Why don't you ask your mother." The mayor said in a low voice before turning and walking away.
Dean and I found the murder in the local paper; 1876, a woman had murdered her husband after finding that he'd been unfaithful. Not that the paper had reported it that way, they'd skated over the man's infidelity, but it was there between the lines if you knew to look for it. The ghost's MO was what tipped us off that we'd found our guy, he was recreating his own death, killing others who were unfaithful. We'd initially thought that it was the wife, but after serving her jail time, she'd remarried and lived to old age, dying peacefully in her sleep; not the kind of death that was common for restless spirits. The rather gruesome murders however were almost an exact copy of how the husband had died, and his grave was in an area of the graveyard that had recently been vandalised, which would explain why the spirit was acting up now.
We'd copied down the information, then high-fived and left the library in relief. The old newspapers we'd spent the last few days combing through hadn't been stored very well and reeked of mildew. We'd stopped at a dinner to pick up food on the way back to the motel and Dean had received a phone call. He left me queuing for food and stepped outside to answer, but I already knew who was calling him. He'd smiled when the number had come up on his phone; clearly it wasn't Dad.
He was back by the time I'd reached the front of the queue and he paid for the two burgers and milkshakes. Then he sent me back to the motel alone.
Clearly this Cassie of his was free this evening and he'd rather spend time with her than me and Dad, digging up and burning an old corpse. I honestly can't say I blame him.
I trudged back to the motel, thinking about my older brother and his new found happiness. We were only in town for the job. We'd solved the case, so we'd be leaving in a few days. This Cassie wouldn't be coming with us. Would they try to make it work long distance? Would we be making stops at colleges in both California and Ohio every time we passed that way? Or would they call it a holiday romance, each parting with fond memories and melancholy moods?
I'm not sure I can imagine Dean being melancholy; both happy for the good times, and sad but accepting that they're over.
Dad was back when I got back to the motel, rereading a mortician's report. I hope that hasn't turned his stomach, it wasn't exactly dinnertime reading, even by our standards. I joined him at the table, presenting him with both the burger (now slightly cold) and the information we'd dug up in the library.
Dad grunted his appreciation, "Where's Dean?"
"He took off to spend some time kids his own age." I didn't really have a clue where he was or what he was doing (or I just really didn't want to think about it) but I figured Cassie was probably his age, so it wasn't a complete lie.
"He should be focused on the case." Dad managed to make drinking a milkshake look angry. You've got to respect the man for how goddamn intimidating he can be when he wants. The effect on me wore off several years ago though, so I answered him coolly.
"All that's left to do is desecrate the grave. This part of the hunt is never exciting, Dad. We'll manage just fine without him."
He glared at me and repeated the angry milkshake drinking.
"For goodness sake, Dad! It's good for him to be socialising with normal people! He's a human-being, not a 'hunter-being'; let him have a night off!"
Dad was still glaring but I rose from the table, throwing the burger wrappers in the trash and turning back to imitate him and his milkshake-anger.
I don't think I pulled it off.
We needed more information on Jimmy's death. And particularly on whether he'd been afraid of a big scary truck before he'd been offed. We'd discussed it all the way back to the motel after leaving Cassie, who'd not been able to tell us much more than we could see for ourselves.
It was just as she'd described the other scenes; dented car looking like it had been run off the road, and only the one set of tracks. I'd not been able to get very close, the deathcry had been nauseating. They're always so much worse when the person who died was afraid.
The boys were changing into suits to go and talk to Ron Stubbins, a friend of Jimmy's that Cassie thought might be able to answer our questions. I would be staying here, as per usual.
Sam picked up his jacket, carefully not looking at Dean. "I'll say this for her: she's fearless."
Dean stared straight into the mirror where he was fixing his tie. "Mmm-hmm."
Sam, apparently emboldened by the lack of aggression, grinned and pushed on. "Bet she kicked your ass a coupla times."
Dean glanced at him but didn't comment, and Sam went on, not even trying to hide his amusement. "What's interesting is you guys never really look at each other at the same time. You look at her when she's not looking, she checks you out when you look away. It's just a...just an interesting observation in a...you know...observationally interesting way."
"You think we might have more pressing issues here?" Dean had clearly had enough.
"Hey, if I'm hitting a nerve." Irritating little brother. Complete with that all-knowing smirk.
"Let's go." Dean turned and walked away. Sam snickered and made to follow him and I pulled a balled up receipt from my pocket and launched it at the back of his head. He turned back to me, running his hand through the too-long curls. I gave him a look and he rolled his eyes at me before following Dean out of the room.
I grabbed a pillow off one of the beds before settling at the table, those wooden chairs were unbelievably uncomfortable, especially for something that's designed to be sat on! I pulled Sam's laptop towards me and started it up, he'd been refusing to tell us the password, but it really wasn't too difficult to guess. I phoned Bobby while waiting for it to boot, there was no news on Dad since we'd heard from him before the scarecrow case. He hadn't even replied to my messages about Dean being electrocuted, though I had left a second message with the good news that he was better, so maybe that was case closed in Dad's mind.
We chatted for a while about the case, neither of us really sure what we were dealing with, the dents being the only solid evidence that these men hadn't simply crashed their cars. Though the fact that they'd all crashed along the same stretch of road within such a short time was certainly suspicious, it didn't necessarily point to anything in our department.
Eventually we hung up and I started searching the web for anything similar, local superstitions, local history, anything really, since I didn't actually know what I should be looking for. The hours passed slowly, and the chair turned my rear numb even with the pillow.
Dad and I dug up the grave, burned the bones and filled it back in without incident. It was a rather boring night in truth. Especially with Dad not really talking, not that he was ever very chatty.
We got back to the motel in the early hours of the morning and I fell into bed, aching all over. I run a lot, and have good endurance for that, but the work involved in digging graves is rather different; the muscles in my arms and shoulders were aching and my lower back and the backs of my thighs were sore from the hunched position I'd adopted for digging. I don't know how Dad does it; he's significantly older than me, and being larger has more issues with the ground being further away. To be fair, I can detect more pain than he's letting on, but it's not enough for me to intervene and I fall asleep quickly.
The next morning, the aches were so much worse. And I groaned, rolling over to note that Dad was up and about, and there was still no sign of Dean.
I pulled myself out of bed and into the shower, the lukewarm water not doing as much for my aching muscles as I had hoped. I hobbled over to the table, accepting the cup of chocolate Dad passed me and ignoring the look on his face; the 'this is why we don't let you hunt' look. This isn't the reason, my slow reaction times are the reason; I'd get myself killed fairly quickly out in the real world.
I sat, wincing at the tightness in my legs and back as I twisted in my seat, trying to stretch out the muscles. "You know, Dad, I've been thinking."
"Don't strain yourself." He mumbled. I chose to pretend he was talking about stretching, rather than my mental capacities.
"We're fairly certain that we got our guy last night. But it's all fairly circumstantial evidence. I mean, just because the wife died of old-age, doesn't necessarily mean she went peacefully, she could be the ghost. And there's an outside chance that we're not dealing with a ghost at all, just a local history-buff/psychopath. We should stick around for a while, check that no more bodies show up with their balls-"
"It's got to be a ghost, men where killed inside locked houses. No sign of forced entry."
"So, they've got a lock-pick. So have I; a locked door wouldn't stop me if I wanted to kill somebody, Dad."
He glowered at me for a while over his coffee, then nodded. "One week."
He stood, leaving the room while dialing a number into his mobile phone. No doubt contacting somebody about getting a resupply of ammo, he was experimenting with mixing rock-salt with shot-gun shells to dispel spirits. I finished my chocolate, rose from the table with a groan and moved through a few stretches before returning to bed to hopefully sleep through some of the recovery time.
The boys had been gone about an hour and I'd learned all about the founding of the town; riveting stuff. The sound of the key in the lock caused my eyes to pop open and my head to shoot up, Sam entered and grinned at me. "Having fun?"
"Screw you, Sammy. What you got for me?" I resolutely turned away from the laptop, avoidance is definitely my friend today.
Dean, entering after Sam, gathered clothes and headed for the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Sam dropped the key on the table and sat on one of the beds, pulling at his tie. "Dean reckons we might be dealing with a ghost truck, a little like the Flying Dutchman-"
"A ghost manifesting as a truck? What makes him think that?"
"There was a truck in the '60's linked to a bunch of unsolved murders. All black men."
"Unsolved murders? Well that ought to have made the local paper, I'll look it up." I turned back to the laptop and opened a new tab, searching for the local paper archives, although if I'm lucky it won't be available online; I'd have to go to the library and leave this miserable little room and its unforgiving chairs for a while.
The bathroom door opened and Dean emerged, looking more comfortable in his regular clothes. "Alright, I'm going to talk to Cassie. Catch you later."
We each acknowledged Dean's departure just as I found the online archives, darn it.
"So," Sam leant forwards, leaning his elbows on his knees. "This Cassie dumped him?"
I stopped what I was doing, Dean had told Sam? "What did he say?"
"Not much," Sam admitted, "but he didn't deny being in love with her, or that she dumped him."
He gave me his best open 'tell me more, you can trust me' face. The one that used to get him one-on-one tuition from teachers all through school, and no doubt worked well on freaked out witnesses. I sighed, turning to face him and leaning forwards to mirror his position.
How much should I tell him? It's Dean's business, not ours, how much does being his family entitle us to know? I know because I was there at the time, I held him together in the fall out, but if I hadn't been there, would Dean want me to know? Would he want Sam to know? Would he consider my telling Sam to be a betrayal?
On the other hand, Sam was a nosy little shit when he wanted to be; he'd find out somehow and better that I told him and could control exactly what he learned, than he went and made a nuisance of himself. "We were working a job in Ohio, a string of particularly nasty murders which we eventually worked out was a ghost. Cassie was a witness to one of the earliest bodies to drop. She and Dean must have hit it off, because he went back to 'question' her several times. Always came back with this grin on his face." I shook my head, smiling slightly as I remembered the kinda star-struck look he'd sometimes had. "Anyway, he started spending more and more time with her, especially as we wrapped up the case and Dad prepared to leave town. I managed to persuade Dad to stick around for another week after we'd burned the bones. But by the end of it, Dad was berating Dean for loosing focus, not that Dean seemed to care much, he was pretty much on cloud nine and nothing could bring him down. Until the end of the week. He told her." I looked up at Sam, remembering what he'd said about having to lie to Jessica and wanting to hear my words, to understand why it'd been important that he lie. "He told her what we do, why he had to leave. And she told him he was crazy. She dumped him."
I paused, watching Sam's eyes as my words sunk in. I could see the cogs whirring, watch him put himself and Jess in that situation and come to the same conclusion I had; hunters don't get happy endings, not really. "He came back the motel looking like he'd never smile again and we left about half an hour later. Dad never mentioned it again and Dean was real quiet for a while. He got better slowly, killing things seemed to help. We haven't spoken her name again until she phoned him about this case."
I turned back to the computer, searching for unsolved murders in the '60's, and Sam remained silent behind me.
It was five days since we'd burned the guy's bones and no more bodies had dropped. Not that I was all that surprised, the reason I'd given Dad for wanting to stay was complete bull after all. Dad and I had used the time well and pretty much nailed the new salt rounds. I was back in the motel room after a day's successful testing, cleaning the shot-guns we'd used and hoping Dad would get back soon with food.
The door opened and Dean slouched into the room, slamming the door behind him and tossing himself face first into the bed. He grunted and pulled half a shotgun out from underneath himself and tossed it down towards the foot of the bed. I placed the shotgun I'd been pulling through on the floor and lay down on my side facing my older brother, rubbing a hand up and down his back.
I don't know what had happened but he was radiating hurt, and his shoulders were slumped, defeated, his face hidden. "You wanna talk about it?"
"No." The word was mumbled into the pillow but it was clear enough to understand, so I said no more. We lay like that, Dean hiding his face and me rubbing his back and occasionally stroking his hair until he sighed and turned to face me. His beautiful green eyes glistened with tears that he would never allow me to see fall and they were red and slightly swollen. "She said I'm crazy. I told her about us, Ali. Told her why we're leaving soon and she said I'm crazy."
I pulled him towards me and let him hide his face on my shoulder, stroking his hair and ignoring the dampness that was seeping into my jumper. He wrapped an arm around me and we lay in silence until Dad returned.
Dean sat up, wiping at his face and not making eye contact. "Hey, Dad? Can we leave town yet?"
Dad dropped the food bag he was holding in Dean's lap and he and I started packing our bags, gathering the half-cleaned shotguns and assorted other weapons from around the room. We were gone in ten minutes.
Sam and I hadn't had much luck with finding anything on a truck from the '60's, but a search for unsolved murders brought up a string of murders in 1962 and into '63. The reports were small, barely more than a passing acknowledgement of the deaths. It did mention that the men were black, and that the deaths had been declared unnatural causes, but most of the reports didn't even call it murder. I don't remember much from the early sixties, and I was too young to really be aware of racism at the time, but I know looking back that it wasn't uncommon, especially in small towns.
I widened the search parameters slightly and found an unsolved disappearance of a white man named Cyrus Dorian and an unsolved arson attack on a local church. There was nothing about a truck in any of the articles in the paper going back even to a few months before the attacks had started. Eventually we gave up on our search, rubbed our tired eyes and glanced at the clock. Dean wasn't back yet, and it was almost midnight. We shrugged and headed to bed.
The next morning I woke early and pulled on my trainers and running shorts. The morning air was crisp and cold, burning my lungs as I ran. It felt good though, the burn, like it was clearing my head. Clearing out the cobwebs, as the saying goes. I increased my speed as my muscles warmed up and headed away from town down a pleasant country road lined by trees and open fields on either side. I stayed on the road, not wanting to deal with muddy shoes, and was happily jumping over and into piles of leaves, skirting around them or crashing straight through as the fancy took me, laughing into the silence of the morning when something caught my eye and I stopped short.
The silence of the morning was suddenly ominous, the cold seeming to creep into my soul as the deathcry struck me and at the same time I recognised the body of the Mayor.
I turned and staggered back the way I had come, retching slightly as I picked up speed. I was sprinting now. It was only about a mile to the motel and I made it in under ten minutes, bursting through the door and startling Sam awake.
He sat bolt upright in bed, staring at me with wide eyes. He was unarmed, some part of my brain noted; I'd have to reprimand him about that later.
I left the door open, doubling over and gasping for breath. "Ali! What-" The nausea hit me again and I groaned before stumbling into the bathroom. I was cold and shaking all over, my skin wet and clammy, still pink from my run in places, pale white in others. I braced a hand against the back of the toilet, sufficiently familiar with motel cleanliness not to want to touch it anywhere else, and leant over it, wrapping my other arm around my stomach, which felt like it was rolling within me.
"Ali? What happened?" Sam had followed me into the bathroom and was wetting the washcloth I had knitted, preferring to bring my own rather than use the motel linens. He handed it to me and I rubbed it over my face, closing my eyes for a moment, then opening them again as the world felt like it was tilting.
"Deathcry." I told him, between heavy breathes. "Fresh."
He pulled me in for a hug, rubbing a warm hand up and down my arm. I calmed slightly, his familiar scent, warmth and strength comforting, though my stomach still felt as though it were trying to escape, and the dizziness returned every time I closed my eyes.
"The Mayor's dead. About a mile outside town." I mumbled into his shoulder, "I didn't stick around to find out how. We should call the police, report it."
Sam got me settled in bed with a glass of water on the bedside table before he phoned the police, pretending to be an official of some sort (I wasn't paying attention), and told them that he'd found the body on his morning run. He arranged to meet them there and called Dean telling him what I'd found and arranging to meet him there too.
He made sure I had water, my phone was charged and within reach, and fetched some plain salted crisps for me, fussing more than a little before he finally left. I smiled at him; my baby brother trying to be just like his big brother, it was really very cute.
Sam sent me updates by text message throughout the day. So I knew that the phantom truck had run the mayor over, but that both the location, a private road, and the victim, a white man, didn't fit the pattern.
Later I learned that the Mayor had bought the old Dorian house and had demolished it, the killings started the next day.
The boys returned at lunch time, waking me from a light doze. I was still feeling pretty miserable, but smiled when Dean handed me a bowl of porridge with a look of deepest sympathy. Dean doesn't think much of porridge, though I quite like it. Which is lucky, I guess, since it's just about all I can keep down when I'm suffering from the effects of a deathcry like this.
My brothers were quiet for the rest of the day, staying close to me and discussing the case in low voices. I dozed on and off through the day, there was nothing to be done but wait until the sickness passed.
Night had fallen outside, lamplight glowing on the thin layer of snow that had fallen during the day. I was beginning to feel a little better after a second bowl of porridge, flavoured with cinnamon and honey this time, and was sitting up leaning against Sam's shoulder as we watched a film when Dean's phone rang.
He answered and we could all hear Cassie's terrified voice screaming his name over the line. We were pulling on boots and jackets and out the door; me with clothes in hand, knowing there'd be time to dress in the car. Dean was trying to get Cassie to calm down, tell him what was going on as the car skidded a little on the frozen ground, racing from the motel car park.
The ghost truck was gone by the time we arrived, and Cassie and her mother, though both quite shaken, were unharmed. I made cups of tea and handed them out, not bothering with one for Dean, who doesn't really like tea.
Cassie's hands were shaking as she accepted the cup. "Maybe you could throw a couple of shots in that." She joked with a weak smile.
"You didn't see who was driving the truck?" Sam pressed.
She shook her head, "It seemed to be no one. Everything was moving so fast. And then it was just gone." She turned to Dean with wide eyes, "Why didn't it kill us?"
Dean seemed a little unwilling, but did provide the answer, "Whoever was controlling the truck wants you afraid first."
"Mrs Robinson," Sam turned to the shaking woman, who was ignoring the cup of tea I'd placed at her elbow, "Cassie said that your husband saw the truck before he died."
"Mom?" Cassie prompted when she didn't answer at first.
"Oh. Martin was under a lot of stress. You can't be sure about what he was seeing."
"Well after tonight I think we can be reasonably sure he was seeing a truck." Dean leant forwards in his seat next to Cassie on the sofa. "What happened tonight, you and Cassie are marked. Okay? Your daughter could die. So if you know something now would be a really good time to tell us about it."
"Dean..." Cassie chided as her mother sobbed slightly before answering.
"Yes. Yes, he said he saw a truck."
"Did he know who it belonged to?" Sam asked, somewhat more gently than Dean.
"He thought he did." She nodded, taking deep careful breaths.
"Cyrus Dorian?" I asked quietly. It must be; the deaths in the '60's ended after Cyrus' disappearance and started again after his family home was demolished.
"Cyrus Dorian died more than 40 years ago." She stared at me with widened eyes, tears starting to fall.
Dean pulled the printed out article from his pocket, scanning it before frowning at the crying woman. "How do you know he died, Mrs Robinson? The paper's said he went missing. How do you know he died?"
"We were all very young." Her voice was high and wavering slightly as she tried to control her tears. "I dated Cyrus a while, I was also seeing Martin...in secret of course. Inter-racial couples didn't go over too well back then. When I broke it off with Cyrus and when he found out about Martin, I don't know, he, changed. His hatred. His hatred was frightening."
"The murders." Sam made the connection.
Mrs Robinson nodded and her voice rose another half octave. "There were rumours. People of colour disappearing into some kind of a truck. Nothing was ever done. Martin and a... Martin and I, we were gonna be, uh, married in that little church near here, but last minute we decided to elope as we didn't want the attention."
"And Cyrus?" Dean asked.
"The day we set for the wedding, was the day someone set fire to the church. There was a children's choir practising in there." The last few words were choked out through her sobs as she buried her face in her hands. "They all died."
There was a moment of quiet, broken only by Mrs Robinson's crying before Sam asked softly, "Did the attacks stop after that?"
"No!" She choked out, taking a deep breath to compose herself before she went on. "There was one more. One night that truck came for Martin. Cyrus beat him something terrible. But Martin, you see, Martin got loose. And he started hitting Cyrus and he just kept hitting him and hitting him." Her eyes were glazed, seeing another time, another place, something she'd never been able to forget.
"Why didn't you call the cops?" Dean asked.
She looked at him with the sort of exasperation that people have for a child's innocence when they think that the world ought to be a fair place. "This was forty years ago. He called on his friends, Clayton Soames and Jimmy Anderson, and they put Cyrus' body into the truck and they rolled it into the swamp at the end of his land and all three of them kept that secret all of these years."
"And now all three are gone." Sam concluded.
"And so is Mayor Todd." Dean pointed out. "Now he said that you of all people would know he is not a racist. Why would he say that?"
Mrs Robinson nodded. "He was a good man. He was a young deputy back then investigating Cyrus' disappearance. Once he figured out what Martin and the others had done he..." she shrugged, "he did nothing, because he also knew what Cyrus had done."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Cassie asked, her voice small, but firmer than it had been.
"I thought I was protecting them." Her mother answered. "And now there's no one left to protect." She broke down into sobs again.
"Yes there is." Dean said firmly, turning to look at Cassie. Mrs Robinson followed his gaze and Cassie shifted slightly, uncomfortable under the attention.
The night was dark and cold and our breathes formed fog in front of us, but it was helping me feel a little better. I was sitting on the edge of the bonnet, leaning against Sam's shoulder as we watch Dean pace back and forth in the darkness.
"Ah, my life was so simple." Sam reminisced. "Just school, exams, papers on polycentric cultural norms."
"So I guess we saved you from a boring existence." Dean told him.
"Yeah, occasionally I miss boring."
"So, this killer truck." Dean stopped pacing.
Sam snorted, "I miss conversations that didn't start with 'this killer truck'."
Dean and I laughed a little before Dean started again. "Well this Cyrus guy. Evil on a level that infected even his truck. When he died, the swamp became his tomb, and his spirit was dormant for 40 years."
"So what woke it up?" Sam asked.
"The construction on his house. Or the destruction." I told him, shivering slightly inside my jacket.
"Right." Sam agreed, wrapping an arm over my shoulders. "Demolition or remodelling can awaken spirits, make them restless. Like that theatre in Illinois, ya know?"
"And the guy that tore down the family homestead, Harold Todd, is the same guy that kept Cyrus' murder quiet and unsolved." Dean picked up.
"So now his spirit is awakened and out for blood." Honestly, it's like those two share a brain sometimes, they think so alike.
"Yeah I guess. Who knows what ghosts are thinking anyway." Dean sighed, coming to lean against the Impala on my other side.
There was a beat or two of silence before Sam broke it. "You know we're going to have to dredge that body up from the swamp right."
Dean just grinned at him, and I wondered about the logistics of that. The thing was buried in the swamp, had been for over forty years, how were we even going to find it, let along get it back out?
"Man." Sam sounded like he'd been having the same thoughts as me.
"You said it." Whether Dean was agreeing with our thoughts, or denying any responsibility for pointing out the task I wasn't sure.
Cassie approached from the house, her arms wrapped around her middle against the cold, and Dean stood to greet her. "She's asleep. Now what."
"Well you should stay put and look after her... and we'll be back." Dean told her. "Don't leave the house."
She smiled up at him. "Don't go getting all authoritative on me. I hate it."
Dean glanced back at us and I rolled my eyes, looking away. Clearly, Dean had forgiven her for calling him crazy, but I still wondered if he'd end up getting hurt again. He mumbled to her after a moment, "Don't leave the house, please?"
This was followed by wet smacking sounds and I looked around sharply. They were kissing. Seriously, Dean? Beside me Sam coughed into his hand but Dean continued kissing the girl, holding a single finger back in a signal to wait. I cleared my throat a little louder than Sam had, and Sam cleared his throat a little louder again. We repeated this once more before Cassie broke away, laughing.
Dean turned to us in exasperation, "You want a throat sweet?"
The border of the swamp was clearly marked and we walked along it, a metal detector held at arms length until it got a weak signal the width of a truck. Sam and I stood at the bank wondering how you go fishing for trucks while dean went to hot-wire one of the bulldozers from the construction site. The only solution I could think of was to wade into the swamp and manually attach the tow line. Given it was below freezing, that didn't seem like a wise idea.
We were still standing there thinking about it when Dean got back with the JCB. He jumped down and started unreeling the tow line before he stopped and turned to us, "How are we gonna get this onto the truck?"
Sam shrugged at him and I sighed. Before bending to pull off my boots and socks, then my jeans, jacket, shirt and the bra from underneath the vest I was wearing. I piled my clothes neatly and took the tow line from my apparently speechless big brother.
"You can't be thinking- Ali, there's got to be a better way!" Sam grabbed at my wrist before I could walk into the swamp
"I'd love to hear it." I told him dryly. Shivering in the cold night air.
He hesitantly dropped my wrist and I pulled away, trying to ignore the dying hope that he had thought of something that didn't involve me freezing my arse off.
The mud was icy cold, slimy and stinking as I stepped in and it squelched around my toes. I shuddered in disgust and pushed forwards. The solid ground angled sharply down and the inky black, sucking mud rose quickly as far as my knees. I remembered studying non-Newtonian fluids in school and moved slowly, trying not to fight against the mud. The trickiest thing would be keeping my balance, and I held my arms out to my sides, knees slightly bent to allow me more movement. The cold felt like it was creeping into my skin, my flesh and my bones. Numbing me, then burning me and I clenched my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.
It took an age to move forwards far enough to submerge up to my waist, and I was only a couple of meters from where my brothers stood at the shore. I was able to use my weight to my advantage now, leaning slightly in the direction I wanted to go, sinking further into the muck as I went. I stopped when it reached my chest, reaching forwards and searching by touch for the truck I knew must be hidden not far from where I stood. I couldn't feel anything and I lifted first one leg and then the other, bending at the knee so now I was kneeling on mud the consistency of jelly, rather than standing on the bottom. I leant forwards, stretching my arms out ahead and arching my back to keep my head above the water.
Pushing with a flat foot, then withdrawing a pointed foot seemed to propel me moderately well through the muck, and my arms were waving back and forth in the thinner liquid at the surface keeping now only my face above the water. I could feel the mud oozing into my hair, and my ears. Supposedly, people go to spas and pay to be coated in mud, people are crazy.
Finally my shin caught against something solid and I was able to use it to support myself, rising a little way out of the swamp.
"Have you found it?" Sam called from the shore, the first helpful thing he'd said since suggesting that we borrow the Robinson's metal detector. I'd been doing my best to ignore my brothers discussion about how they'd get me out if I sank and drowned ever since I'd lost contact with the solid bottom.
I felt around with my numb toes, running them along the metal until I found a corner, then back the other way to where I estimated the middle of the truck would be. I was at the rear of the truck, the tow line would need to be attached to the chassis. Roughly a meter below my feet and two meters below the surface.
I looked back to the shore and nodded. Dean went to start the JCB and I turned back to my task. I took a few deep breathes, in and out, then stood straight, allowing my weight to sink me into the water. Once I was up to my neck and could reach the top of the back of the truck with my hands I got a good grip on it, took one last big breath, and pulled myself down.
The freezing mud was even harder to move through at that depth and I hooked my feet under the truck, pulling myself down as quickly as I could. Frozen fingers reached the bottom of the truck and I numbly forced the tow line around something that felt solid. Once it was on, I gave it a sharp tug, it held.
My lungs were burning as I pulled and pushed and forced my way upwards. I must not panic! The faster I try to move the harder it'll be to get out! But it was so cold, and my numbed fingers were slipping on the slimy mud and metal. I must not fear. Fear is the mind killer, fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. I will allow my fear to pass over me and through me and when it has passed I will turn the inner eye to see it's path. Where fear has gone, there will be nothing, only I will remain.
The litany against fear took the edge off my panic, the cold was slowing my thoughts, and by the time I recited the litany once I had broken the surface. Gasping in the winter air, blessed relief as it filled my lungs.
"Sa..." I tried to call, "D-d-dea..." My voice was so weak. All I could do was continue to suck down great gasping breathes of glorious oxygen and hold myself on shaking arms. I pulled my legs through the swamp, dragging them into the bed of the truck and pushing myself further out of the muck.
"All right. Let's get her up." I'm dimly aware of Sam's voice from the shore and the movement of the truck underneath me.
"All right. A little more. Little more. All right, stop." Sam's voice was closer now. And once the truck stopped with a jolt beneath me Sam's hands, almost painfully warm were gripping my upper arms, pulling me out of the truck and wrapping an old blanket around me. "You did good, you crazy son of a bitch. You did good."
The mud sluiced off fairly easily, though I was still cold and wet. The blanket I was wrapped in had been turned so that I was wrapped in a clean part and I removed the muddy clothes I'd worn into the swamp, pulling my clean clothes back on without them. My brothers had fussed over me, once I had clothes on, and for a while I'd sat shuddering as they'd rubbed feeling back into my fingers and toes. All my extremities were pink again now and Dean was angrily telling me that cold injury was the most sissy way to loose a limb and that no sibling of his would be allowed to do so. Sam agreed, sarcasm clear in his voice as he told me to get a hand bitten off by a swamp monster next time.
I smiled sleepily at them. I was fine really, not even shivering. I just needed to take little nap and I'd be right as rain. My eyes drifted closed and suddenly Dean was slapping my cheek. "No! Don't you dare go to sleep on me!" I grumbled a little at him, and Sam started rubbing my legs as Dean pulled me into his lap and rubbed at my arms.
"Stay with us, Ali." Sam apparently finished with my legs because he tucked them up so I made a sort of cold, wet, stinking ball on Dean's lap and went to light a fire.
Dean turned me so that he could rub my back and warmth finally started to seep back in. I started to shiver violently, the cold and misery once again making itself known.
Sam soon had a small fire roaring and Dean carried me over to it. Once they were content that I wasn't dangerously cold any more, they left me huddled over my little fire and went to fetch rock salt and accelerant from the boot of the car.
"You know, now I know what she sees in you." Sam murmured quietly.
"Who? Ali?" Dean asked, rummaging among the weapons.
"No, Cassie."
"What?"
"Come on man, you can admit it. You're still in love with her."
"Ahh, can we focus please." I snorted slightly. Of course Dean didn't want to admit it. Last time he'd admitted it, he'd been hurt, and badly.
"I'm just saying Dean."
"Hold that." Dean shoved something into Sam's hands and Sam finally dropped the subject.
They got to work, building a small pyre and soaking it in accelerant, before approaching the truck with some hesitation. Dean opened the door and the forty year old decayed corpse of a racist murderer and arsonist fell out.
They wrapped it in a sheet and transferred it to the pyre, sprinkling rock-salt liberally over the top before I pulled a stick which was only alight at one end from my fire and handed it to Dean. He grinned at me briefly and I just knew he was picturing all the funeral pyre scenes in movies where they light it with a torch before he tossed it on and the flames spread rapidly, a small burst of warm air wafting over our faces.
"Think that'll do it?" Sam asked.
An engine revved loudly, breaking the peaceful quiet of the night and headlights shone brightly, making me squint against the sudden light.
"I guess not."
"So burning the body had no effect on that thing?" Sam's voice had risen slightly.
"Sure it did. Now it's really pissed." Thanks, Dean, maybe now isn't the time for humour.
"But Cyrus' ghost is gone, right Dean?" Sam's voice was still rising.
Dean started to back away, "Apparently not the part that's fused with the truck."
"Where you going?"
"Goin' for a little ride." He was headed for the Impala.
"What!" Sam spluttered.
"Gonna lead that thing away." Dean explained, "That busted piece of crap, you gotta burn it."
"How the hell are we supposed to burn a truck, Dean?"
"I don't know. Figure something out." He threw a bag of supplies at Sam, then got into the Impala, slamming the door and leaving before I could follow.
"Figure some - something -" Sam spluttered, clutching the bag Dean had thrown to his chest as the ghost truck roared after the Impala.
I dropped my blanket as I pulled the bag from Sam, dropping it to the ground and digging through it for the salt. Sam dropped to his knees next to me, pulling the map from the bag and fumbling to open it to the section he needed. His phone rang and he answered it one handed, "Hey, you gotta give me a minute."
"I don't have a minute. What are we doing?" Dean's voice was tinny, but I could still hear the controlled panic.
"Ahh. Let me get back to you." Sam hung up.
He hung up.
Dean is racing for his life and Sam hung up on him.
My satchel was next to my little fire and I grabbed my phone from it and the spare salt I kept there.
I hit the speed dial and Dean answered straight away. "This better be good."
"Dean, I'm gonna try salting and burning the truck, but I really don't think it'll work. It's still covered in swamp! Even if it was dry it'd be difficult to set metal on fire, you need really high temperatures to get it started!" I fumbled, one handed with the pot of salt, dropping it in my haste.
"Where is he?" Sam called from behind me, "I've got a plan."
"Where are you?"
"In the middle of no where with a killer truck on my ass! It's like it knows I put the torch to Cyrus."
"Dean, that doesn't help. Where are you?"
There was a brief pause before he answered. "Decatur road, about two miles off the highway."
I relayed the information to Sam, then just put him on loudspeaker.
"Okay. Headed East?" Sam was running his finger over the map, a finger on his other hand marking a fixed point on the map.
"Yes!" There was a muffled thump over the line and Dean swore.
"Was that-?" I left the phone with Sam and stormed back over to the truck. "That is it, you rusty, ugly piece of scrap! You do not hurt Baby!" I scooped up the dropped salt as I passed and threw the contents in through the open driver's door.
"Yeah I made the turn! You need to move this thing along a little faster." Dean's angry voice coming from the phone behind me suggested that my rant had had no effect on the truck and I kicked the wheel in frustration. We were helpless.
"All right, you see a road up ahead?" I turned my attention back to Sam and Dean, all I could do was listen and hope that whatever Sam had planned would work.
"No! Wait. No, yes, I see it."
"Okay, Turn left."
"Wha...?" The familiar sound of Baby's brakes screeched over the phone. "All right, now what?"
"You need to go seven tenths of a mile and then stop."
"Stop?"
"Exactly seven tenths Dean."
I hurried back to Sam, peering over his shoulder at the map, where his two fingers were almost touching. The place they marked, there was nothing there!
The brakes screeched again, and then nothing but silence from the phone. "Dean, You still there?"
"Yeah." I breathed a sigh of relief at hearing his voice, for a moment there...
"What's happening?" Sam asked.
"It's just staring at me, what do I do?"
"Just what you are doing, bringing it to you." Sam had this little grin on his face, like he was just about to beat me at chess again.
"Wha..." "Sam?"
The sound of revving engines came from the phone, and Dean murmuring, "Come on, come on." The revving got louder, then silence fell.
I gripped Sam's arm. "Dean. You still there? Dean?"
"Where'd it go?" He sounded slightly out of breath.
"Dean, you're where the church was." Sam's arm relaxed under my grip, which was slackening now too, and that damn grin was back on his face.
"What church?!"
"The place Cyrus burned down. Murdered all those kids." Sam explained.
"There's not a whole lot left." Dean commented.
"Church ground is hallowed ground, whether the church is still there or not. Evil spirits cross over hallowed ground, sometimes they're destroyed, so I figured, maybe, that would get rid of it." My little brother is a genius. I let my head fall forwards against his shoulder, the relief coursing through me as my adrenaline levels started to drop.
"Maybe? Maybe!" Dean shouted over the phone. "What if you were wrong?"
"Huh. Honestly that thought hadn't occurred to me." I raised my head, staring at the little shit.
There was a moment of silence before the dial tone came from the phone as Dean hung up, and then I punched Sam in the shoulder.
"Didn't occur to you?!" I screeched at him, and he drew back with wide eyes. "He trusts you, Sam! You told him to stand still and let the ghost catch him and he did it without question. He trusts you!" Tears were gathering in my eyes; I always cry when I'm coming down from an adrenalin high, I hate it. "He trusts you with his life and what if you'd been wrong? 'The thought hadn't occurred to you' isn't good enough, Sam!"
He was still drawn back, with those puppy dog eyes wide and innocent as I burst into tears and went to reclaim my blanket and huddle over my fire until Dean came back.
The next day we were packed and ready to leave. Dean had forgiven Sam, and I'd had a shower, which had vastly improved everything, as far as I was concerned. We'd given Cassie the good news that it was over and then fallen into bed and slept until morning.
Sam was sitting in the driver's seat and I was in the back. We were parked at the docks, looking out over the water and waiting for Dean, who'd arranged to meet Cassie here to say goodbye.
They walked up to the car and stopped beside the passenger door. "This is a better goodbye than last time." Cassie observed, her words drifting through the open window.
"Yeah well maybe this time it will be a little less permanent."
"You know what? I'm a realist. I don't see much hope for us Dean."
"Well I've seen stranger things happen. A hell of a lot stranger."
I leaned forward over Sam's shoulder murmuring into his ear, "I've seen some pretty strange shit too, but Dean in a steady relationship would top it all."
Sam snorted and nodded his agreement. We looked up to find our brother playing tonsil hockey with the girl.
I cleared my throat.
Sam cleared his a little louder.
I reached over his shoulder and pressed the horn.
The couple sprang apart, Dean turning to glare at us as Sam flapped at me, trying to get me to stop the obnoxious noise.
My goal achieved I released the wheel and settled back into my seat, a slightly smug smile on my lips. Dean got into the car and Sam sent a sheepish wave to Cassie as we pulled away, Dean twisted in his seat to continue glaring at me.
"What?" I'm the picture of innocence.
It had taken a long time for Dean to quit his glaring, but eventually he'd realised that it wasn't bothering me in the slightest and had given up. He was watching the countryside go by the window as Sam drove and I was dropping off to sleep when Sam spoke.
"I like her." Dean grunted an acknowledgement, "You meet someone like her, doesn't it makes you wonder if it's worth it? Putting everything else on hold, doing what we do?"
I opened my eyes enough to peer at my younger brother, he wasn't feeling the pain usually associated with the loss of Jess; was he healing? Or was he focused on something else?
There was a beat of silence while Dean and I both observed Sammy, and then Dean spoke. "Why don't you wake me up when it's my turn to drive?"
He settled his sunglasses over his eyes and slouched down into his seat to get some rest, and I let my eyes drift shut again. I wonder if Sam really is recovering? Wouldn't that be good.
