Chapter One
(one week earlier)
"Man, there's nothing like New England girls." Dean revs the engine of his classic car as they drive at thirty-five along the harbor, windows rolled down, music blasting. Most of the people walking along the boardwalk cast nasty glances in their direction, but Dean Winchester's always had a one track mind, and it's currently occupied with a group of girls walking down the opposite side of the street in matching khaki shorts and brightly colored polo tops.
He's halfway out the window as they roll by, and gives them the biggest smile he can muster before the car trailing them honks. The driver motions to the speed limit sign, and with a sheepish grin, Dean gives the car a little more gas to pull them out of the crawl they've been cruising at.
Sitting beside him in the passenger seat, Sam Winchester laughs.
"You were defiantly going to school on the wrong coast, Sammy," Dean teases, smacking his brother on the shoulder. "They totally dig me."
"Right," Sam replies, folding up the map he'd been reading. "Let me guess, it's the car."
"Damn straight."
After months of traveling with his sarcastic, smart-ass brother, Sam's getting better at fast retorts. And cheap shots.
"So that's why you spend hours waxing it in the middle of the night."
Dean's horrified, and his eyes flicker from the road. "Uh...you know about that, huh?"
"Yeah, I know about that. Remember? Nightmares?" And I freaked out the first time I woke up and you weren't there. There's lots of that, things left unsaid between them. When he was little, Sam was sure Dean could hear his thoughts; secret conversations, perfect teamwork -- even when climbing a tree they seemed to work together, anticipate where the other would climb next and accommodate.
But at ten, Sam realized his father had raised them that way, trained them to work perfectly as a team, and his ideas of a secret connection were broken. His brother was a thick as a rock, anyway; how could he have ever thought Dean could read his thoughts, would even care about his thoughts?
And he kept that attitude until about three months ago, when he found his brother waking up before Sam's nightmares even finished, lying there with just the right thing to say to quell Sam's fears and let him get some more sleep. Or when they worked together so well, it had to be more than instinct and training.
Dean stops at a light and gives Sam a look that seems to reply to words unsaid. After the first time Sam awoke alone, Dean always kept the door or window open when he stepped outside, letting Sam see at least his shadow.
He had a feeling waxing the car twice a week was about more than keeping it shiny for the girls.
Giant cruise boats and millionaire yachts share harbor space to their right, masts shooting up into the bright blue sky. Spring on the east coast is pretty, temperate, and a welcome alternative to the dull fields of the Midwest. Sam leans on the window frame and admires the view; it looks like a painting to him, and for a moment, a sharp pain in his chest reminds him of Jess and her brief painting period before settling on photography.
The scene flows past him, then slows. He growls and swats his brother.
"Dean, c'mon, man."
"Red light."
"You slowed down to catch it."
Dean looks insulted. "Ouch, Sam. I'm not that shallow."
"Yes," Sam replies, smiling, "you are."
"I thought you knew me better than that. Listen to you, my own brother, knocking me down." But he's slow at the uptake when the light turns green, and for once, Sam's more than mildly annoyed with his brother's driving. When he complained he drove too fast, he didn't mean Dean needed to drive at ten miles an hour.
Dean continues. "Just because you're still pining doesn't mean I can't get any."
"Wait, what?" The scenery no longer interests Sam, and he turns sharply to face his brother. "Did you...pining? Is that what you think?"
"Hey, listen, I understand, man. Just remember, not all of us found that perfect, normal girl."
If he didn't know better, Sam would think there was a compliment somewhere in there. But the words Dean use, those crude, violent words, however well he means or nicely he's trying to speak, it always come out sounding wrong or insulting. He doesn't want Jess explained in those kinds of tones or dirty words.
"I thought we said we weren't going to talk about this."
"Yeah, well, you've got to sometime."
He means well. It's a mantra Sam chants to himself every day. "Can we just get some food?"
Dean grunts in response and turns the wheel wildly to the left, bringing them away from the harbor and the pretty girls shopping in the upscale stores on the boardwalk. Without a permanent address for the last few months, Dean's stash of phony credit cards is running as low as his cash, and they drive for a few miles to find somewhere reasonably cheap to eat. It takes more than a few minutes before Dean finally settles on a fast food place out in front of a strip mall containing a grocery store and hairstylist, among other things.
More of that greasy food that makes up their diet. To think, at one time, Sam ate healthy food and stayed away from chain restaurants and diners that looked like they failed their health inspections. Dean thrives on such places; his ability to find them would be eerie if they didn't make hunting evil and oddities their job.
Local and national newspapers sit in a holder near the door, and Dean swipes one before walking up to the counter. For someone who lamented about school and abhorred reading when he was younger, Dean certainly does his share of newspaper reading. Every day, front to back, every section and advertisement, and he doesn't complain.
When they've ordered, grabbed their food on plastic trays, and sat down, Dean flicks open the paper and starts reading while absentmindedly munching on some fries.
"You know, if you find something, we can go," Sam tries. He sees his brother's forehead wrinkle over the top of the paper and sighs. Why does he have to be singled out, special even?
"No dice."
"I don't understand this."
"What?"
"Your sudden obsession with this psychic thing," Sam says.
The newspaper comes down and Dean quickly scans the small eat-in area for any bystanders who heard Sam's last comment. He shakes his head at his brother; never reveal anything in public, something his brother just hasn't grasped yet.
"Keep your voice down," Dean admonishes. "You've just gotta face facts, Sam. Things are attracted to you, and I'm not getting my head ripped off by a banshee just because you're suddenly plugged in."
"Banshees don't have any psychic abilities," Sam carefully corrects him. Dean folds the paper up into a mishmash of creased pages and shoves it to the side of the table to give him room to eat his late lunch.
"That doesn't matter," he replies through a mouthful of cheeseburger. "What matters is you're a walking spotlight."
"Gee, thanks, Dean. Didn't know you cared."
His brother smiles up at him. "Aww, of course I care, Sammy!" He laughs to himself and takes another bite. "Plus, we're a little low on cash..."
"Wait a second, you're not," -- Sam leans in close, this comment more secretive than declaring he's a psychic -- "you're not thinking of hitting up our relatives for some cash."
"Of course I am," Dean admits. "Why the hell else would I drive all the way out here?"
Sam crosses his arms, lunch forgotten in front of him. "To interrogate our aunt. An aunt, I might add, I've never met."
"Yeah, you have." And here Dean falls silent, his eyes flickering to look out the window instead of at his brother, his brother who doesn't remember meeting his mother's side of the family. Just as well. No one likes to remember their relatives that way, dark, sad, with wet cheeks and empty eyes.
Sam catches this, realizes exactly when he met his mother's only sister, and toys with his food for a second. "Well, I don't remember."
"She'll remember you, that's for sure. Couldn't stop talking about you and your chubby cheeks."
A hand self-consciously flies up to Sam's cheeks, and he frowns as Dean breaks into loud, obnoxious laughter.
"At least I wasn't goofy-looking."
"Hey," Dean says seriously. "I was not goofy-looking. That lady's just got things mixed up or something."
"Right."
"Don't laugh, little brother," Dean tells him, motioning with a fry in Sam's direction. "I'm the cute one. Past forgotten."
Sam snickers and plucks the fry his hand, quickly popping it in his mouth before Dean can protest. "Yeah. Because relatives are the best when it comes to forgetting the past."
--
Storm clouds are already forming when they pull up to the ferry dock, a line of cars marking the entrance. Dean pulls the Impala up behind a poorly kept Chrysler LaBaron; he sneers in its direction as he puts the car in park.
"Look at that," he says, referring to the car with a hand. "How can they do that?"
"I think it's more of not doing anything," Sam quips beside him.
"It's just not right."
Sam laughs at his brother's disapproval of modern car care. "Not everyone's obsessed as you."
"There's a difference between obsession and respect. That person doesn't respect their car. Don't respect your car, it won't respect you."
A light sprinkling of drizzle dances on the hood and sends those walking leisurely to the ferry into sprints for the shelter of the boat. Dean rushes to roll up his window, Sam doing the same, and flicks on the panel with a twist of the wrist before leaning back in his seat.
"I hope we don't have to stay here too long," he comments. "Hand me the box."
Sam leans into the back seat to retrieve Dean's box of cassettes -- just once, he'd like to be able to pick which one they listened to, ever since he snuck a few more acceptable tapes into the jumbled mess -- and hands it over.
"Where, here? The line's already moving," Sam replies.
"Not what I meant," Dean says while digging through the box. "With them, on the island. I can't stand staying in one place for too long."
Sam shakes his head. "It might be nice. You never know. And are you going to start moving soon?"
Dean shifts to drive and gives the car a little gas before stopping again, throwing Sam a look that asks, are you satisfied? -- it was futile; they moved a few inches.
"Aww, shucks. You're right. My desire to be rooted down with relatives is untapped." Dean plucks a tape out of the box and shoves it in the cassette player. "Please. In, out, back on the road. We don't have time to hang out and eat apple pie."
A few more inches forward. Shift into park. Sam sends his brother a quizzical look.
"Not exactly apple pie," he smirks. "Maybe some good food. Man, I could do with some home cooked food."
"It's overrated," Dean says. "Totally."
Sam shakes his head. "You just say that because you haven't had any in years."
"And yet," Dean replies, "I'm still sayin' it's overrated."
The line continues forward. There's a jolt as the car runs over the edge of the dock onto the ferry; the car in front of them stops a bit short and Dean has to slam on the breaks to avoid hitting it.
"I swear, if my car gets one dent in it..."
--
Angela Browning, formerly of the MacKenzies, bought a nice, two story house when she married her husband, a construction foreman who personally oversaw the construction of their "dream home" over the four month period it took to build. Like the rest of the houses on the block, and throughout the entire neighborhood, the Brownings were striving for a traditional-looking home to fit in with the rest of, not to mention the strict building guidelines set down by the historical society.
The family doesn't mind the high prices typical of island living, nor do they utter a peep about snowstorms and sub-zero temperatures. Their life is the perfect cookie-cutter shape they strived for, and little was done to pull them out of shape. Three children have come and gone, giving the once sparkling new home that lived in feel that only children can give, says Angela.
Rain fell with ferocity, the blue skies of earlier nothing more than a memory as storm clouds blew in and unleashed their load.
Angela's their best bet, according to Dean, when it comes to their mother's family. From what Dean's said, and it isn't much, they weren't too excited when one of their daughters decided to marry and ex-Marine turned car mechanic and move to the Midwest, and made their objections known. Loudly. But Mary Winchester-formerly-MacKenzie was in love, and that was that. The family came for the wedding, and Angela was the only one who called when either of the boys were born.
And she was the only one who spoke to any of them at her sister's funeral.
"She's nice. And the only one I could track down," Dean explains. The rain makes pitter-patters on the roof, filling the car with loud metallic clanks that go in time with the music playing just under their conversation. "Her number was in dad's journal. I figure she's as good as anyone."
"And what exactly are we trying to find out?"
"I want to prove a theory."
That's something new, though Sam has a hard time containing his laughter as he pictures his brother working through the hypothesis method in a laboratory. "Going to clue me in?"
"Nope."
It's not often Dean keeps something from Sam, not after his speech about how they were 'in this together' and 'secrets could get one of them killed.' Not that Sam's naive; he knows his brother's got some secrets he's never going to tell no matter how much his doppelganger wanted to. Sam has a few of his own, and if his brother's not going to trust him with something as small as a theory, well, Sam wasn't going to let him in on anything now.
"Stubborn ass," Sam mutters.
"Jerk." Dean slows the car -- there aren't any girls around this time, not in this rain -- and double-checks something in their father's journal before pulling up in front of a quaint two story house of white with blue trimming. He kills the engine but only leans back in his seat.
"What?" Sam asks, hand already on the door. He wants to meet his aunt, feels this undeniable need to meet some member of their family outside his brother and father just to prove they exist, that they're not alone after all.
"Just give me a second, okay? Geeze, impatient, are we?"
"I just want to get out of this rain," Sam lies.
"Bullshit."
They've driven for over twenty hours, taking only bathroom and food breaks, and now, when they're finally there, Dean has to sit back and move as slowly as he can. He's not scared of many things, but Sam can recognize that look in his brother's eyes when he's preparing to face something he'd rather not. Dean wasn't one to do things he didn't want to do, and from the look on his face, he was dreading getting out of the car and knocking on that door.
So why were they really here?
Time for Sam to take things into his own hands. "I'm going," he declares while opening the car door. It creaks, and the sound of rain is even louder than before.
"Fine, fine, I'm getting out, okay, Sunshine?" Dean gets out of the car like something was forcibly pulling him out; a limp rag doll on strings.
The brothers walk side by side through the rain along the decorative stone path leading up to the house, built-up water squishing under their sneakers. The porch lights are the only illumination guiding them, and with heavy feet they climb the four steps up onto the broad porch running the entire front of the house.
Dean looks expectantly at Sam. "Let's get this over with."
Sam wants to say something, ask him what's wrong, but he's got a feeling it has to do with his last memory of his aunt and the particulars of that meeting.
He rings the doorbell.
There's a huff and a shout from inside, then the sound of footsteps near the door. Dean's shoved his hands in his pockets and is standing off to the side, leaving Sam in the pathway of the door; clearly, he's going to take whatever the initial reaction is on his own.
When he's admiring the sheer curtains in the windows on either side of the door, a hand suddenly reaches out and grasps one. Sam jumps back a bit, but relaxes when a face peeps out from behind them. An older, weathered face.
The door swings open.
"Can I help you?" This must be Alex Browning, the former construction foreman turned city councilman. His hair's peppered with grey, a pair of glasses perched on his nose. He eyes Sam, then takes a step forward to see Dean hiding a bit off to the side. "Dean, kid, that you?"
"Hey there," Dean waves lamely.
Alex's eyes brighten and he steps out on the porch to envelop Dean in a hug. Closeness and touching has never been big in their family -- their father grew more and more distant as the years passed -- and Dean awkwardly accepts the hug by hesitantly wrapping an arm around Alex's back and patting him a few times.
"You've grown up," Alex states. Sam can almost hear the typical Dean response in his head -- obviously -- and is surprised when all Dean does is smile sheepishly and cast a glance in Sam's direction.
And Alex's eyes follow Dean's gaze -- just when Sam thinks he has his brother figured out, he goes and does something so out of character yet so him that it forces Sam to re-evaluate some of his conclusions.
His uncle -- it's so hard to think of this man in that way -- turns on Sam and smiles widely, though there's some strain in those eyes that wasn't there before. It makes Sam uneasy, but they came all the way out here to see this man and his wife, and he's not going to jeopardize this. So when Alex wraps his arms around him and gushes about how Sam's all grown up now, he hugs back, though not as tightly as he could have.
"You boys are soaked. Come inside; Angela will be thrilled to see you."
He leads them inside, but not before Dean can elbow his brother in the side. "What's wrong with you?"
Sam's been wondering the same thing ever since leaving Stanford with the smell of smoke sticking to his clothes.