Chapter Thirteen
It was one of those plans that was destined to end horribly from the moment it was conceived. Sam wasn't sure why he had agreed to go along with it. He didn't know why, yet again, his brother had convinced him to do something so obviously stupid. It was probably because Dean was a bullshitter, a very good, experienced bullshitter who could make the most fool hardy plans seem like works of art. Sure, sometimes Dean was a little slow on the uptake of information, but once he got an idea in his head, there was no turning back. When Dean made a plan, they stuck to the plan. Period. And the plan that currently had Sam in such a fuss was a simple one, one that defied all common sense and precaution. Split up. Search the house. Report back. Stupid ass.
When no one had answered the door at Vincent Newman's house, Sam had taken it as a divine sign that they should sit back and think this out a bit more. Call the Sheriff, tell him their suspicions. Find out a little more about Vincent Newman before they came back to try again. But no. Dean had to be stubborn, because that's just who Dean was. A stubborn, stupid, ill tempered ass who only listened to reason when he was the one to think of it first. But the moment Sam questioned his plans, the moment Sam tried to play the voice of reason, Dean would give him that shit faced look and Sam would find himself dragged off into another dangerous situation that could have been avoided if only they'd spent two extra minutes thinking logically. But Dean fucking Winchester did not do logic.
Sam sighed, trying to calm his nerves and the angry thoughts aimed towards his brother that were racing through his head while he searched through the upstairs rooms of Vincent's house. They'd picked the lock to the back door and had invited themselves inside. Sam was annoyed with his brother, and a bit frustrated, but the truth of the matter was that he was worried. And not just because Dean was hurt. Sure, he didn't really like having Dean out of his sight when his brother seemed so vulnerable, but the real thing that was now fueling his current state of emotions was the thought that every time they split up, something bad always happened. Without fail. He was sure that by now Dean would have to realize this. After everything they'd been through, his brother would had to have picked up on what was now common knowledge. But apparently he hadn't since Sam was currently sifting through Vincent Newman's dressed while Dean was downstairs somewhere, trying to find anything that would be cause for alarm.
They weren't even sure what they were supposed to be looking for. Dean had told him to have a "take no prisoners" attitude. It something looked strange or seemed remotely tragedy inducing, kill it. Those had been Dean's instructions. Sam wasn't sure what he was supposed to be "killing," but he hoped he'd know it when he saw it. So far he hadn't found anything interesting. A few embarrassing magazines, strange collections of do-it-yourself DVDs, and a couple hidden stashes of cash, but nothing out of the ordinary for an older man to have. They guys' house was sickeningly clean, there wasn't even a speck of dust on anything. Sam was growing frustrated. What the hell were they supposed to be looking for?
Dean wasn't having any better luck on the first floor. He'd already checked the living room and hadn't found anything out of the ordinary. Now, he had moved onto the kitchen and was rummaging around in the cupboards. The guy was a health nut, Dean gave him that. Fruits, vegetables and cereal seemed to make up this guy's entire diet. There wasn't even a beer in the fridge, to which Dean was fairly disappointed.
He sighed as he closed the cupboard and gave the kitchen one last look around. When he found nothing he let out a growl of frustration and leaned against the sink, chewing the side of his cheek, trying to figure out what to do next. Dean looked out the kitchen window at the back yard. The snow looked pristinely elegant, untouched with a thin layer of ice over it. Then his eyes went to something else and Dean felt a light turn on inside his head. The garage was separated from the house, sitting in the far corner of the driveway, almost taunting his own stupidity. He smiled shyly and glared at it.
Swinging out the backdoor and walking quickly to the garage so as to minimize the chances of being seen by a neighbor, Dean jiggled the doorknob on the side door to the garage and gave a sigh of relief when he found it was unlocked. He pushed the door open and quietly closed it behind him. He looked out the window to see if anyone had seen him. When he was satisfied that no one had, he turned and was startled to see the black Sedan that was parked inside. He frowned. Why would Vincent leave home without his car in the middle of winter? Maybe he was a nature freak and wanted to save the ozone or whatever the hell it was. Dean quickly looked around the garage and gave a small, "Mr. Newman?" just to be sure he was alone. When no one answered and the garage remained eerily quiet, Dean let out a breath and looked around the room again, this time slower, taking in everything he could.
The far wall didn't hold much. Two windows let in the early afternoon sun. Beneath the windows was a spare tire and a few oil cans. Nothing odd there. Dean turned to look at the back of the garage and frowned at what he saw. A workbench lined the entire wall and followed the corner halfway up the left side of the garage. The tables were littered with tools, wires, pipes, jars of materials and other assorted gadgets. Maps and designs were taped to the walls above the workbenches. It was cluttered and messy, the exact opposite of what the inside of Vincent's house had been like.
Walking over to the workbench, Dean looked down at the mess on the table. He reached out and picked up one of the jars. There was a black powder inside. "The hell?" Dean asked out loud and unscrewed the top. He took a tentative sniff of what was inside and when he recognized the obvious sulfur smell, he closed the jar and set it back down, staring at it menacingly. "Why would a dude have jars of gunpowder in his garage?" Dean asked quietly to himself. He looked at the other supplies on the table. Gunpowder, pipes, wires, torn apart clocks.
Suddenly, his stomach dropped as he realized what he was looking at. These supplies were the makings of a bomb. He quickly reached out and started searching through the materials. Okay, the pieces were starting to fall together. Dean was more sure than ever that this was where they were supposed to be. This was the tragedy they were supposed to stop, a bomb going off. But where? Was it already planted? Was it already set to explode?
Dean's eyes shot to the maps and designs on the wall above the workbench. He squinted at them, taking a moment to try and figure out that they said and meant. Dammit why hadn't he paid better attention in Geometry. Maps and blueprints had been a section in that class, right? God, why did Sam have to be the smart one? Hadn't his brother ever heard of sharing the wealth?
Then he caught something on one of the maps. He leaned forward to get a better look at it. He could make out the downtown of Fort Sudak. He found the motel and the parkway near the river. In the middle of it all, there was a big red "X" circled and highlighted. Dean read the words beneath the site on the map, trying to figure out where it was. His heart sped up as he realized the mark was right over the memorial park. He frowned, trying to think of why a man would put a bomb in a park, where no one was during the winter. He scanned all his memories, trying to figure it out. Suddenly, he remembered the old woman with the dog. They had followed her to the parkway. She'd been putting up decorations, but for what? The town had already been decorated. He tried to remember if he'd overheard anything the woman had been saying when Sam went to get the coffee. He could almost hear her voice in his head. She'd talked about her grandkids and chatted about the weather.
And then it hit him. The decorations she was putting up. She'd said something. Dean took a deep breath of apprehension as he remembered what she had said to the men helping her "These will look perfect for the Christmas concert." A concert. There was going to be a concert. In the memorial park. Right where this fucker had marked as a target. Jesus, he had to tell Sam.
Dean whirled, ready to run back to the house and tell his little brother what he had found. He made it half a step before he froze and abruptly realized that he wasn't alone. A man stood in front of him, breathing heavily, a horrified look on his face. Dean looked him over, noticing the sweat on the man's forehead, the shaking in the man's arms. The man had one hand held out to the side, clutching onto something, the other lay trembling over his stomach. This was Vincent Newman. He stared him down, waiting for the man to make a move. Dean knew he could take him. He could easily win in a fight over this man, injured or not. Come at me, you son of a bitch, Dean thought, tensing his body for action.
Nothing in his twenty some odd years of hunting the supernatural prepared Dean for what happened next. He could dispel ghosts, he could exorcise demons, hell he could kill a ghoul in half a second. But this, John Winchester had never told him how to handle this.
Vincent Newman pulled his shirt up slowly, revealing the homemade pipe bomb that was strapped to his stomach. Dean was frozen. His mind drew a blank on strategies and plans to get out of this one. Vincent held the detonation device in his hand, his thumb coming dangerously close to pressing down on it. The both of them had yet to speak and Dean desperately tried to think of something to say to get the man to let go of that detonation device. Dean could knock it away, knock it out of his hand, but not without the man's thumb involuntarily squeezing down on the trigger.
And as the two stood facing off, neither one of them saying a thing, Dean couldn't help but think that his luck must have run out somewhere along the line. Two hostage situations in one day? This had to be a record.
Sam was growing frustrated. He'd searched all the rooms on the second floor and hadn't found a thing. Deciding that he was done with this, that Dean's plan was shit and he needed to tell him that, he threw his hands up and marched out of the bedroom. Coming down the stairs, he tried to listen for the sounds of his brother ruffling through things down here. When he didn't hear anything he called out, "Dean?" No answer. Sighing in irritation now, Sam snuck out the backdoor and hurried around to the car, where Kate was waiting, annoyed. There was a thin prick of warning in the back of Sam's mind when he realized Dean wasn't with her.
Kate spotted him and quickly opened the door. "About damn time," she whispered angrily.
"Where's Dean?" Sam asked, ignoring her for a moment.
She looked at him and shook her head. "What?" she looked confused. "He's still inside."
"No he's not," Sam said and turned to look at the house half hoping he'd see Dean standing in one of the windows mockingly making some rude gestures towards them. But the house was utterly quiet. Sam turned back to Kate, now worried. "You didn't see him come out?" he asked, his voice giving away his nervousness.
"No," Kate shook her head. "Maybe he's in the basement?" she suggested, though Sam could tell she didn't believe that.
"There wasn't a basement," Sam said, distracted. He gave the house a once over before letting out a frustrated growl. "I'm going back in," he said and headed towards the backyard again.
Kate hesitated for just a second before following him. "I'm coming this time," she announced needlessly.
Sam turned the corner and started for the backdoor when he stopped suddenly, Kate nearly running into him. Sam was looking at the ground, having caught sight of the footprints that hadn't been there before. He followed them with his eyes and saw that they lead to the garage. Sam let out a relieved sigh. "God, I'm gonna kick his ass," Sam grumbled as he followed the footsteps.
As he reached the door, he paused and looked inside the garage through the small window, just out of habit. Always good to be precautious. He was relieved again when he saw Dean standing at the back of the garage. Good, he'd found his brother. But as he looked at Dean, he noticed something strange. His brother was standing stock still, his hands held slightly out in front of him, fingers up, like he were warding something off. Dean's eyes stared stonily at something in front of him. Sam reached a hand back and roughly shoved Kate behind him, knowing without having to see for himself that Dean wasn't alone inside the garage. Kate started to yell at him for being rough, but he shushed her with a quick jerk of his head.
Leaning as much as he dared around the window, his eyes finally fell on the man standing opposite his brother. He was an older man, kind of chubby, not much of a threat. Sam started to wonder what was going on until his eyes fell to the device strapped to the man's stomach. His eyes widened and he let out a small gasp. "Shit," he hissed and turned to look at Kate. "Call the Sheriff," he whispered.
Kate's eyes widened. "Why?" she whispered back, aware that something was happening.
"Vincent's in there," Sam hissed, turning back to the window and watching his brother. "And I think he has a bomb strapped to his chest."
"Oh God," Kate uttered, horrified. She waited for only a second before running back to the car and quickly dialing the Sheriff's number.
Sam stared hard at his brother. He didn't know what to do. The man was obviously distraught and he was a big enough threat for Dean to not want to take him down like he normally would. He didn't want to chance startling the man and accidentally making him set off the bomb. But God, Dean was in there. First Bill Cummings, now this idiot. Sam wondered when this job had turned into something more than just fighting off malevolent spirits. It wasn't their job to take down distraught drunks and suicide bombers. What had they gotten themselves into?
Dean was starting to panic. It had been a while since he'd been in a situation that made him panic when it didn't involve Sam. He wasn't sure why, after all the experience he had with thinking on his feet, that he wasn't able to handle this. Maybe it was because he'd always thought he'd go out swinging. It would be some valiant thing. This sure as hell wasn't valiant. And maybe he wouldn't even die. Maybe the bomb would just blow off a limb or two, leave him deformed, scarred, a vegetable. That thought scared him more than death. But the thought that scared him the most was the he wouldn't be able to say goodbye to Sam, to tell him that this wasn't his fault. Sam would inevitably blame himself for this, even if Dean told him not to. He'd never get a chance to apologize for putting that guilt there, for leaving before Sam was completely back on his feet, before they found Dad.
But Dean wasn't ready to give up. He'd nearly talked Bill Cummings out of his horrible situation, he could do the same for this dude. And if he succeeded, then by God once they finished fighting the supernatural he'd get a job as a hostage negotiator. Yeah, it was a plan. Now all he had to do was make it happen.
"Vincent," Dean said slowly, aware that his voice sounded odd after the silent tension. Vincent shook his head, his face crumbling. Dean held his hand up and licked his lips nervously. "Wait," he pleaded. "You don't have to do this. Look, just put that down and…"
"I can't," Vincent cried, shaking his head. "We're going to die."
Dean shook his head slowly, the panic grabbing hold of his chest. "We don't have to if you put that down," he nodded towards the detonation device in Vincent's hand. "We can both walk out of here, in one piece."
"No," Vincent cried. "We're all meant to die. It's going to happen."
"It doesn't have to," Dean pleaded, hating how his voice broke at the end. God, what would his Dad think? Breaking down like this. Pull it together Dean. You can do this.
"Yes it does," Vincent sobbed, his hand shaking the device. Dean felt his chest constrict with fear, his eyes watering. Don't you dare fucking cry you pussy. "The Mothman said it does. I saw it in a dream. He told me to do this."
Dean stared at the man, hard. He pushed back the lump that had formed in his throat and took a deep, shuttering breath. "No," he said sternly and Vincent just stared at him. "The Mothman doesn't want this to happen. He's trying to stop it. He's trying to get us to stop it. He was probably warning you against doing this. I can help you this."
"You can't," Vincent whispered, though there was skepticism in his voice.
"Yes I can," Dean told him, nodding his head. He glanced at the device and then back at Vincent's eyes. "I deal with evil things all the time. It's what I do. My brother helps me. We can help you. We can make the Mothman leave you alone."
Vincent sucked in a shuttering sob. "He's going to kill me," he sputtered.
"No he won't. I wont' let him," Dean said, feeling the lump form back in his throat as Vincent's hand shook violently. "Just put it down, Vincent."
The man trembled quietly for a moment, his eyes not leaving Dean's face. Dean stared back at him, willing the man to put it down, to end all of this, all of this whole escapade they'd been on. To put an end to the Mothman's prophecy once and for all. Avert this tragedy, save some lives, move on, far, far away. It will all end, all of this mystery if the man will just put the stupid thing down.
Vincent finally looked away, his chin dropped to his chest as he looked down at the bomb strapped around him. He let out a sob and slowly started to bend. Dean watched him, feeling waves of emotion coursing through his body. He couldn't tell if it was panic or relief. But as soon as Vincent's hand let go of the remote, Dean's body instantly betrayed him as his knees gave out and he had to lean back against the workbench and hold on to keep from falling over.
As soon as Vincent started standing again, the door to the garage suddenly burst open. A man in protective gear rushed in, apprehending Vincent in a harsh move. Dean realized that they must have been watching through the window for an opportunity when they wouldn't startle Vincent. Sam must have called them. Thank God for Sam. Several others followed him in, surrounding Vincent and subduing him. One came over to Dean and grabbed his arm, ushering him out of the garage quickly, faster then Dean could handle. He stumbled a bit but managed to keep his feet.
And suddenly Sam was at his side, and Dean knew it was over.
Sam had never felt so relieved in his life when the County bomb squad had shown up with the Sheriff. They'd sat outside of the garage, listening to the conversation inside and waiting. When the man had burst into the garage, Sam had nearly panicked, waiting for the bomb to explode any second and take away his brother. But then, others rushed in and after just a few moments, one came back out, with Dean in tow.
Practically sprinting to his brother, Sam stopped in front of him and looked him over. Dean was pale and shaking slightly, his eyes wide with obvious fear. Sam put a hand on his shoulder and Dean looked up at him. Sam was just about to ask him if he was okay when Dean said, "God damn I need a drink."
Sam laughed and squeezed his brother's shoulder, resisting the temptation to pull him into a hug. But he didn't take his hand off of him as they both were ushered away from the garage, back to Kate who was waiting near the street. She seemed genuinely concerned for Dean and even fussed over him for a bit. Dean was quiet and nervous for a while, but eventually he began to calm and regain himself as they stood there watching the Sheriff and bomb squad take care of Vincent Newman.
"So," Kate started but none of them took their eyes off the commotion. "Is it over?"
"Yeah," Sam sighed, out of relief. "It's over." And with the words said, Sam felt the tension in his shoulders reside, tension that had been there since that first night in the bathroom when Dean had seen the Mothman. Good God it was finally over.
"Piece of cake," Dean chirped and Sam turned to look at him, but chuckled when he saw the grin that was spread across his brother's face.
Hours later, after they had spoken with the Sheriff, had a dinner that was a long time coming, and said goodbye to Kate with the intentions of seeing her again before they actually left Fort Sudak, Sam and Dean found themselves back in their motel room. They still had a couple of days before the Impala would be ready to drive. Dean complained about having to stick around longer, but Sam was happy that they would get a chance to rest before they had to deal with anything else. Sam was tired, and Dean was in desperate need of some major healing time. A couple of days probably wasn't enough, but Sam would take whatever he could get. Besides, Christmas was just around the corner and Sam was looking forward to actually celebrating it, whether Dean wanted to or not.
Sam stepped out of his jeans and sat down on the bed, intent on actually trying to sleep tonight. Dean was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, though he still stood close to the door, one foot on the carpet, not entirely trusting the bathroom again quite yet. Dean spit into the sink and came out, stripping off his long sleeve shirt and pulling on a white one, more fit for sleeping. He crawled into his bed and laid down with a content groan. Sam smiled as Dean mumbled a muffled, "Mmm, bed." They were both quiet for a moment before Dean said, "We can rub this one in Dad's face, huh?"
Looking over at his brother, Sam gave a half smile. "Yeah," then he turned away and let the smile fade. "Once we find him."
"We will, Sammy," Dean said, his voice started to fade, already groggy.
Sam laid back in his own bed and looked at the ceiling. For a moment, he felt odd again, like there was something that wasn't quite right. But he quickly reminded himself that it was over. They'd stopped the disaster form happening. Still, something didn't seem right. But Sam couldn't tell what. They'd gotten all the clues, followed them until there were no more. Sam turned his head to look at the side table. He spotted the piece of paper that sat there, folded and crumpled. He reached over and picked it up. Unfolding it, he looked at the words scribbled there. The words Jess had said to him in that phone call.
Hello, Sam.
I love you, Sam.
Manheim needs his bone.
Save my baby.
Is that a bad man?
Do you see the birds?
Sammy, I'm sorry.
He will see.
Sam read the words over and over again. Something wasn't right. He couldn't figure out what. Jess said she loved him, she'd given him all the clues, said she was sorry and the predicted Dean would see the Mothman. It was all there, they'd gone through it all. He read it through one more time, taking it slow, hearing Jess's voice say the words in his head.
Suddenly, Sam shot up, taking in a gasp. "Dean!" he yelled. Dean startled in his bed and his eyes opened. When he saw Sam looking so frightened, he pushed himself up, hand going for the knife beneath his pillow.
"What?" he asked, slowly coming back to alertness.
"It's not over," Sam said, turning to look fearfully at his brother.
Dean stared at him and frowned. "What?"
"It's not over," Sam said again, accentuation the words.
"How do you know?" Dean asked, swinging his legs off the bed and grabbing the paper from Sam's hands. "We didn't miss anything."
"Yes we did," Sam said, waiting for Dean to look back up at him. When he did, Sam stared him straight in the eye. "Sammy, I'm sorry." When Dean just stared blankly at him, like he didn't understand, Sam went on. "Jess never called me Sammy."
"So?" Dean asked, still not seeing the point.
"You're the only one who does."