May 14, 2006
When Sam awoke Dean had the news on. He hesitantly entered the living room, confident that his horrible memory would be replaying before him, like all the other deaths he somehow caused.
Dean muted the television as he turned to face Sam, "I've been watching the news for almost an hour. No reports of missing kids or deaths. I told you it was all in your head." Dean turned around to face his brother, who was paling as he watched the television. "Sammy, what's wrong?"
Sam pointed at the television; a man was being led in handcuffs out of a suburban home. Dean un-muted the TV, "…Richard Watts, age 47, murdered his wife and three children early this morning. Their bodies were found in the living room. Forensic analysis has concluded that all but one of the children were killed using blunt force trauma, with the youngest being suffocated…"
Dean turned to Sam turning off the television, "You saw him do that?"
"I watched as he suffocated his daughter with a plastic bag." Sam's eyes were dark and heavy as he looked at Dean. "It's not my imagination, it's not a coincidence. Something is going on."
"Okay. I promise we'll figure this out. Maybe there are other psychics out there-real ones-and one of them can help." Dean suggested, his face contorted with worry as his brother numbly stared at the floor.
For as large as Lawrence was there weren't many psychics. Dean had called a handful to check if there were any even remotely not-totally-a-crock-of-shit, and the only one that could even correctly guess any basic information about him was twenty minutes away in a part of town he'd never even been near. When he finally managed to get some food in his catatonic gigantor brother Dean dragged him to the Celica and drove to the woman. Hopefully she was good enough to get Sam to stop worrying and blaming himself for these random deaths. Otherwise a physiatrist is next.
Missouri Moseley's house wasn't too impressive from the outside. If it wasn't for the small sign in the window proclaiming her a psychic it would've been easy to just assume it was another ordinary house in the row of brick homes. Dean walked in through the front door and rang the small bell on the wall that was labeled, 'Pull Me'. Sam was close behind, still mostly out-of it.
Dean leaned against the wall as he waited. He noted the peeling wallpaper and musty odor in the air, and hoped they were out of there fast-because this place is in need of some serious upkeep.
"Like you live in Buckingham Palace!" A voice shouted from the other room as a blind woman entered the room, her arms crossed.
"What?" Sam said, finally stirring from his depressed stupor long enough to realize that the comment made no sense.
"Your brother thinks that I need to do some redecorating, apparently." She said, "Or am I mistaken, Dean?"
Dean was silent a minute, surprised at the woman, "Uh, sorry… I didn't…"
"You didn't say it-I know. And you're working out, 'how the hell does this old black lady know what I'm thinking'. Well, I'm the real deal, so get your butt in here and we can get started." She shuffled toward a parlor at the back of the house as Dean exchanged a quick look with Sam and the two hesitantly entered the velvet-draped room.
The parlor was not large, nor was it much to either Sam or Dean's decorative tastes. But given that the woman seemed to know their thoughts Dean decided to avoid thinking about how he didn't care much for the décor. "So… not that I don't believe you, but it is possible you could just be really good at guessing. I'm thinking of a baseball player."
"It's Tom Tresh." She said flatly.
Dean's eyebrows shot upward as his eyes widened. There was no way in hell she could guess that.
"Now that you believe me, I believe there's some reason why you came here." She said, turning to Sam, "And given how you've been thinking about how much you hate yourself basically the entire time you've been here, I think it might be something to deal with you."
Sam looked up, eyes bloodshot as he sighed a ragged breath, "I'm killing people with my mind. I'm dreaming that people die in these god-awful ways and then it happens."
She frowned, "Honey, you're not killing anyone. You're just seeing the future-admittedly not the best parts of it-but the future nonetheless."
"What?" Dean said, turning to face Sam, "Why is he suddenly all Minority Report?"
"Your brother's special… I don't know why it's happening now, only that it's something supernatural that is now part of who you are." She paused, "But, as a general rule, seeing only the bad isn't a great sign-usually that kind of thing comes from a demonic source…"
"Demons?" Sam bristled at the mention, "How? I'm Catholic, I go to confession, I do all the rites…"
"Child, demons are much more than in the bible, and they certainly can do more than you think possible."
"Okay, I've heard enough for now. The point of this was to help him, not make him suddenly think he's possessed. Thanks, but goodbye." Dean pulled Sam as he got up, but Sam resisted.
Sam shot Dean a glare as he remained seated, turning to Missouri as Dean huffed, "What exactly can they do-and what does that have to do with me?"
"Well, if I were you I'd look up a fire at 174 Raven Drive. Then I'd give a friend of mine a call. He can help." She held out a piece of paper with a phone number scrawled on it, "Just tell him I told you to call."
An hour later Sam had convinced Dean to go to the town records and look up the fire. Lawrence city hall was an annoyingly winding maze of corridors as a result of decades of additions and renovations. By the time the two brothers had gotten to the records department they'd already trekked through accounting, city planning, and a rather irate meeting of the historical society. A woman with blonde hair sat at the desk, idly flipping through a magazine as she glanced up at the footsteps.
"Hello-I'm Dean Winchester, I called earlier about the records for 174 Raven Drive?" Dean smiled, laying the charm on thick.
The woman smiled, taken to the handsome diversion from her otherwise boring afternoon, "Yes! You called earlier, give me just a moment, I pulled the files for you earlier." She stood up and walked-well, honestly it was more of a strut-to get the file from a cabinet on the far side of the room.
"Here you go. If you have any questions my personal number is on the card. I'd love to help…" She winked at Dean as he nodded politely and the two went to find somewhere quiet to look over the documents.
An empty reading room on the third floor provided a sufficiently private place to peruse the file. The documents weren't too extensive; with the records only going back to the home's construction in 1963 the file was pretty light.
"174 Raven Drive, 3 bedroom-2 bathroom-multi-story single unit residential structure. Constructed June 19, 1963 as part of the 'Walsh Estates'…" Dean muttered, skimming the records. He flipped ahead a few pages. A few permits for various additions… Then a deed transfer. Dean tilted his head, "Property sold to John and Mary Winchester, September 12, 1978."
Sam looked up from his small stack of papers-mostly property permits, "What's up?"
"Winchester… I swear that name is familiar."
"Yeah. It's a gun." Sam said, turning back to his pile.
"Yeah, I guess." Dean frowned as he continued reading.
Sam glanced at his stack, yet another permit-this one for a new roof, then a fire report?
"November 2, 1983: 174 Raven Drive, Lawrence caught fire in the early morning between the hours of two and three AM. Police and fire responded to the scene when the four-year old son of homeowners John and Mary Winchester awoke neighbors. Dean Winchester, along with his infant brother Samuel were spared the blaze. The fire engulfed the upper floor where the bodies of the two parents were found. Investigations have been unable to determine cause, but fire originated in second-floor nursery near the roof-line. Fire was controlled before it spread to neighboring residences. Property has been condemned and will be demolished on December 14th by order of fire marshal." Sam looked up from the paper-"Dean…"
Dean was shaking his head vigorously as he closed his eyes, "No. No. No. No. No, Sammy! There's no way that's us…"
"Dean they have our names!" Sam pointed at the paper.
"Don't you think mom and dad would've told us?!" Dean said, "Besides, even if it was-"
"'Even if it was'-it might explain my weird-ass powers!" Sam whispered angrily, finger quotes around Dean's phrase.
"But it's not, so drop it! It was a mistake to go to that psychic, let's just call it a day and get lunch somewhere. Okay?" Dean bargained, not in the mood for Sam's continued self-loathing and newly found paranoia.
"Fine." Sam huffed, clearly not letting the matter drop.
