The Peacock Farm – Chapter 4

Disclaimer: None of it, none of it, none of it. It all belongs to the suits. But the milk? Well, it's free.

Rating: T 'cause I write like I talk. And it gets a little, well, icky, but nothing you haven't read in the morning paper.

Not-so-Fun Fact! The case of the murdered guru, the button man and the cult actually happened in Victoria, BC, a number of years ago; I've changed a few details for obvious reasons, but it's the reason a very close friend of mine, who was a journalist covering the story at the time, still crosses the street when he sees Hare Krishna on the corner.

--

Mission, BC, 40 miles east of Vancouver

Dean had stripped down to a sleeveless white undershirt and the nastiest pair of sweatpants he owned.

At least Sam hoped they were the worst thing in his brother's wardrobe; anything more shabby was unimaginable. They looked as though they could have run around the block completely on their own. And he was wearing them in public, no less.

Well, as public as an empty laundromat could be. Not that he blamed Dean; they were out of clean clothes and it was hot in the laundromat, hot even this early in the morning. Beat the rush, Dean had announced at about half past five, when they could still hear birds singing outside their motel room window and the sun was just tipping over the mountains. Apparently, he'd spotted the Sparklee Kleen ("free internet access while you wash!") when they'd cruised the shabbier part of Mission last night, looking for a cheap motel. They'd found one, of course; they always found one. Even though the room's air conditioner had hissed and died immediately, the Traveller's Rest Inn had the rare luxury of an outdoor pool, confined on three sides by the looming two-storey motel. The pool, Sam had found out last night, hadn't been cleaned in awhile. He'd followed up with a shower, just to be safe.

At the moment, Dean was giving the locals an eyeful; Sam, perched at a magazine-strewn table in the window with his laptop open, had caught the lingering glances of several attentive young women who had peered in the window. Some had passed by more than once, stealing looks. Dean had this effect, and he almost always knew it. Today, though, he was uncharacteristically oblivious, was trying, almost comically, to separate the darks from whites. Sam watched him puzzle over a striped shirt before throwing it in with the whites.

Sam plucked his damp t-shirt away from his chest as he tried to concentrate on the site he'd just found. He took a sip of coffee from a paper cup; damn, they knew how to make coffee around here, in addition to sushi. If he could only convince Dean to try one of the Thai restaurants, he'd die happy.

Done with sorting, and monopolizing no fewer than five washing machines, Dean came to the table, sat heavily, and glanced at Sam's screen before prising the lid off the coffee Sam had bought for him. Looked up with a whatthehell expression in his eyes.

"Latte," Sam explained, tone dry. "It's a breakfast drink in many parts of the world. Just be happy I didn't give it to you in bowl. Here's a croissant."

"Shit," Dean muttered, tearing into the brown paper bag, "that's the last time I send you to sell the cow, Jack." Still, Sam's croissant had been warm and so fresh it had melted in his mouth. And there was no way that Dean would ever admit to enjoying it, not after what he'd said, so Sam had to be content to watch the pleased surprise war with Dean's regular morning grumpiness. "So, what have you found?" Dean sprayed flakes around the table, and Sam surreptitiously pulled the laptop closer.

He shrugged, bemused. "Old newspaper articles about the cult, dating mostly from 1972, when they discovered the body of Emily Jones, also known as Omni Radiance, under the floorboards. Emily had recently given birth, it says here, but they never found the baby. The guru, Ray Crimson, had disappeared, leaving the bloodied farm house, fifteen starving maltreated children, many of them his own, a couple of male hangers-on and five young women. Only one was officially married to Crimson – Aurora Berkley."

Dean sat with a particular poised, expectant look on his face, the way a large bird of prey waits. Alert, but somehow above it all. Until it sees something move, something small that scurries in the grass. And then it just goes. Sam waited.

"Candlemaker?" Dean asked, finally, causing Sam to jump, even though he'd been expecting him to say something. Just not that.

"Huh?" he responded, looking at his screen again for some sort of verification. "No, it says here that they sold produce at the Mission farmer's market, and that they had a button business. You know, they made and sold buttons with slogans and sayings on them. Where did you get the idea..."

Dean gestured with an open hand to a sign on the community bulletin board behind Sam's head. Amongst the advertisements for events – the upcoming airshow, a powwow out on the First Nations reserve, a demolition derby at the local raceway – were a few flyers for local products and services. Babysitting, raspberries, beeswax and honey, tarot card readings. And one for Aurora Candles. Fine print: contact A. Berkley. And a phone number.

"It can't be that easy," Sam warned, a little pissed off that Dean's research technique consisted mostly of sitting passively and waiting for shit to come to him. "Why would she have stuck..."

But Dean already had his phone out, was punching the number while he supplied his brother with a quick sliver of a grin. It was the grin that told Sam that Dean wasn't above taking advantage of the paranormal weirdness that surrounded them. That was them, really. Sam had his nightmares; Dean had all kinds of luck.

Good luck, and bad luck. Sam wished he knew which this was going to be.

--

The sign said 'come on in' and so they did, a bell ringing above their heads as the smell of hot wax and perfume hit with the force of a freight train. Why they kept the door closed, Sam had no idea, because it was fifteen times hotter inside than out. Upstairs must be the living quarters, for the whole ground floor – cement and exposed 2x4s and pink insulation covered in plastic sheets – was devoted to candles. Dipped candles carved into loopy patterns, large beeswax columns, square candles that looked like party drinks with ice cubes floating in them. Cinder blocks and cedar planks stacked to make a display area; candle moulds and dipped candles hung from the ceiling. Beyond one large sheet of plastic, a figure moved. The radio hazed in and out of good reception, played something barely audible. The heat was incredible.

It had taken twenty minutes to drive there from the laundromat, twenty minutes of wearing clothes hot from the dryer, the windows down, roadside stands advertising raspberries, tomatoes, and home preserves. The Candleworks were open to the public any old time, Dean had found out with his quick phone call. No time like the present, he'd said immediately after hanging up.

A woman came out from behind the plastic sheet, rubbing her hands with a dishtowel. Her fingers were short and scarred with burns; she wore a tank top with flowers on it, graying hair tied back from a broad weathered face that looked like an old baseball mitt. Her light blue eyes touched them briefly before she smiled in cautious greeting.

She ought to cover up, Sam thought. If I was that scarred, I'd cover up.

A thin pink line ran across her throat, a wound at least twenty years old. Another, thicker, like a corded pink worm, ran from her forearm all the way to the inside of her elbow. Both of those knife wounds. On her chest, small flecks like birdprints in mud, crosshatching their way from collarbone to where the sunflower pattern of her top finally put an end to it. Burn marks.

Dean nodded to her, an easy smile coming to him, even teeth white against his tan, green eyes friendly and open. This was the part he was very good at; consequently, Sam hung back, not wanting to put Dean off his stride, observing, trying to figure out what – besides the scars – made this woman so wrong.

"Hi," Dean said, taking a step forward. "This place isn't easy to find."

"I gave you good directions, didn't I? You're the one who called," the woman replied, probably marking Dean's accent. Or, even more likely, she didn't get many customers. Her attention passed over Sam and he couldn't blink, let alone smile or muster anything remotely friendly. Goddamn Dean, why did he always have to be right? She felt as though was part of the overwhelming terror at the Peacock Farm, even though Sam couldn't pinpoint her in the blinding vision he'd had there yesterday.

They talked for a long time, about candles at first (and how Dean knew anything about candle-making defied all logic, was a telling legacy of those missing Stanford years), then safer ground, local history. She gave them herbal tea, which Dean drank without a murmur, outside under the second floor veranda – thank god, not inside the furnace of a workshop – and Aurora's gaze flitted about like a hummingbird, lighting on Sam, then Dean, then the flowers in the garden, then the mountains through the trees, then Dean again.

"So, you were out at the farm yesterday?" Her voice had the timbre of gravel sliding from the back of a dump truck, a result of the scar across her throat. Dean swallowed, shot a quick glance at Sam, who had no idea in which direction to take this.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, throwing caution aside, a sudden change in his posture telling Sam that his brother was about to go for it. Bird of prey, mouse.

Before he could, though, Aurora nodded sagely, took a quick sip from her chipped mug. "Think I didn't know, eh? This is a small place, and you don't look like you're in the market for candles. Only one reason guys like you would visit me. I'm not an idiot."

Okay. Sam leaned forward, and Dean let him. "It's not exactly...peaceful there." A question, and an admission. For better or worse, she would understand both these things.

A long moment passed. Aurora held Sam's gaze while the cicadas hummed in the tall grass and Sam smelled the scent of chamomile and his own sweat. He held his breath. "No. Not peaceful," she agreed. Something amused her, pegged exactly how and why he'd know about the restless spirits that walked the Peacock Farm.

Grateful, truly so, for Dean's cleared throat. And then the calming, soothing weight of Dean's hand on his shoulder, briefly touching before coming up to scratch his nose, making it look seamless and natural. As though he hadn't been conveying Don't worry, I won't let her get you, Sammy. Priceless. Always the fucking youngest.

"Can you tell us where Ray Crimson is?" Long past small talk, now. Dean was actually smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes this time. "If he's even alive?"

Aurora leaned away from them, tucked her Birkenstock-clad feet under her skirt as she cradled the mug to her scarred chest. "Your brother should ask him. Bet he knows how, eh? Because I really couldn't tell you."

And Dean got to his feet, inserted his body between Sam and the candlemaker, so Sam couldn't see her, but he could hear well enough and the day was too hot and the tea wasn't helping. He hated chamomile, reminded him of a time when he was ill and Jess had said it would soothe his stomach.

"Sam'll know what to do," she repeated, voice like a body dragged across sand. "He'll know. You, though? I'd watch yourself, there, sweetheart. Ray never liked guys like you."

The door to the workshop opened suddenly, and a tall gaunt figure peered through, long grey hair tangled into his black eyes, a grizzled stooped man who stared at them with an oddly tentative smile. Not a smile, really, just a social convention, a learned, rote mannerism. "Aurora?" he asked quietly. Meant: who are these people?

He wore an old army surplus coat, way too warm for the day, and it was covered in buttons of all sizes and colours, pinned to the lapels, the inside lining, the sleeves, even on the back.

The candlemaker also got to her feet, eyed Dean serenely, and said, "My brother, Rupert. Lives with us." She turned to him, "Would you like some tea, Ru?"

And that was just the signal for them to get moving, which they did without so much as buying a birthday candle. Dean pulled out of the drive with more velocity than was strictly necessary, but Sam couldn't fault him for it, fought the urge to tell him to drive faster.

"Shit!" Dean finally said, slapping the steering wheel with an open palm. "Shit," he repeated a moment later, more softly. "What'd you get from all that, Sam?" I'm at sea, he was saying. Help me with this, Sam, cause her knowing about your shining is just plain freaky.

After shaking the chill Aurora had given him, Sam was actually enjoying the noon heat blasting down on them as they threaded farm roads, heading west, towards town. He took a second to collect his thoughts, then laughed shortly. "Well, she's got me down. I think Crimson must be dead. I wouldn't be surprised if his body is still somewhere on the property. I think he's behind the fear that's in that place. I think she's still scared of him. Her brother, too."

Dean appeared to think about this. The line was between his brows again. Sam wished he could make it go away. "You think she killed him? You see that scar on her neck? That brother was all kinds of weird, with the buttons."

Sam extended his arm out the window, let the air flow around it, made his hand into a blade and cut the air as though it was butter. Did this long enough to know that Dean was staring bullet holes at him. Turned, finally. "She was warning you."

Dean shrugged, and it almost made Sam hit him. "Only one thing to do, then."

--

The girl wasn't there this time, the gate was closed and the booth boarded up. A piece of paper was tacked to the hoarding: Closed on Mondays. Handwritten in marker. No 'i's to give them confirmation that the girl used hearts or happy faces. Dean grimaced, parked the Impala on the dirt verge, and hopped the fence.

Full noon and the farmhouse felt like the inside of an icebox.

Though more prepared for it this time – Dean had retrieved a canvas bag from the trunk with a salt gun, and vials of holy water, and crosses and smudgesticks and spirit wheels and who knew what else – Sam still hoped Aurora was wrong. He hoped that the children wouldn't be as loud, or as plaintive. Most of all, he hoped Dean wouldn't hear them. Children in trouble were always the worst for Dean, he knew, and the analytical part of Sam's nature always made him wonder if it was because of him. He'd been a baby in a burning building and from then on in, everything had changed for Dean. For all of them.

No luck with that, today, because as Sam moved down the hall, trailing his fingers along the wrecked wallpaper and stopping to trace the outline where a picture had once hung, he heard them. Their shrieks. Don't! Don't hurt her! And in front of him, Dean turned sharply to the left, where he was framed in an open doorway, the door off its hinges and lying on the floor, framed like a photograph. Framed like a deer in a hunter's crosshairs.

Sam had time to think that, but only that, before he watched Dean's body slam against the wall with bone-cracking force, followed by a shearing white light that enveloped them both, and the screaming intensified as though the volume on a powerful stereo had been suddenly turned up to full. Sam, crouched on the floor with his hands over his ears, couldn't be sure that the children were the only ones screaming.

A sudden, fraught silence, broken by faint laughter, a man's laughter, and Sam uncurled, head throbbing painfully, looked immediately to where Dean had been. Nothing but a smear of blood on the wallpaper where none had been before. A fleshy scent, open carcass.

Oh God, Sam thought.

TBC