Chapter Three
The porch is silent. Everyone's frozen where they stand, all their eyes glued to Alex as he huffs, breathing fast and deep from his final outburst. Sam wishes he would have been paying attention, would have heard exactly what was said after moving away from Angela because of Alex's accusation. Maybe what Alex just said would have made more sense that way.
Because, as it stands, it sounds awful dubious.
It's a few more seconds before Dean storms inside, slamming the screen door behind him. His footfalls grow softer, but Sam knows he's going to the room they've been sharing to pack their things haphazardly so they can get out of there. If only his brother wasn't so thick headed and bent on self-destruction, they could have left sooner, with smiles on their faces and good relations with their relatives.
Sam might look like his father, but Dean did the best impression.
"Angela," Sam starts, voice soft. "How did you know we were coming?"
"No. None of that nonsense," Alex interrupts, holding his hands up. "This is exactly what I was talking about."
"How..." -- she pauses, fed up with her husband -- "How did you know I knew?"
Sam smiles. "You didn't seem surprised when we arrived."
Angela smiles shyly.
"You're filling his head with nonsense, Angela!" And here, Alex turns to Sam. "There's no such thing as...as... knowing things!"
"Well, I know things." Dean comes storming out of the house and tosses Sam's bag to him. "I know I'm not staying with someone who insults my family. Let's go, Sammy."
"Please don't go!" Angela says. "This is all just a big misunderstanding. Let's go inside and get some dinner and just forget about all this."
Dean's never been very forgiving, unless it comes to Sam or his father, and then he'll fall over backwards no matter what they've done. Something softens on his face; Sam can't tell why or what, and he looks to be ready to forgive and forget.
Of all the odd feelings he gets from places and people, Sam wishes he could gain insight into his brother's head the most. To know what's going on up there, because there's no way Dean's going to tell him.
Sam has an idea, though, and it has to do with Alex's comment about attaching himself to Angela. The desire for a mother, though the idea of what a mother is has only been constructed by fairy tales and movies. He doesn't know how it feels to have a real one, but he knows the last three days with Angela is the closest he's ever gotten.
He has the deepest feeling that's the reason why Dean's willing to let everything go.
"Just tell me one thing," Dean says, "and I'll forget everything. What is it about my dad that ticks you off so much?"
"He's a coward, which is what you'll become if you keep hiding from everything." Alex is defiant to the end, standing by his convictions, and Sam can't blame him for that. What he can't stand by is someone calling his brother a coward even if part of him believes it to be true.
Sam only ever saw his father and Dean fight physically once before, back after a hunt gone bad when Sam was only fourteen. He didn't know the particulars when they arrived home, but didn't need to. Dean was huffing and puffing in that way kids do when they reach eighteen and feel they know everything about the world.
Their argument was indecipherable to Sam, their words a mish-mash of swears and hunting words they'd created after years of training. He made out a few, about how their father had messed something up, or Dean had -- Sam wasn't sure. But it ended abruptly when Dean swung a nasty right hook that landed their dad on the floor and Dean with weeks of extra training to do as punishment.
He'd never asked what it was all about, respecting their silent compromise. Back then, Dean and their dad lived in a secret world Sam was only privy to once and awhile, and sometimes, he didn't feel he could ever fully understand it.
Before Angela could step up to defend her husband once again, Dean launches forward and delivers one of his patented right hooks, knocking Alex back against the side of the house. Angela shrieks.
"What the hell?" Sam asks, turning to Dean. His brother stands shaking out his hand, smiling in that crazy, deranged way when he'd done something bad but felt good about it.
Dean looks down on Alex. "You can call me whatever you want, but don't you ever insult my father or Sam. You understand me?" Alex nods weakly. "Good. Let's go, Sam."
Like always, Sam follows his brother down the steps to the car, throws his bag in the back seat at the same time as Dean, and falls into the passenger seat.
Neither glance in the rear view mirror as they drive away.
--
There aren't any chain businesses anywhere on the island, so the gas station -- one of two on the entire island -- is a pure mom 'n' pop operation, complete with full service and complimentary window cleaning. Even at seven at night, someone comes out when the sleek black Impala cruses into the station and up to one of four pumps.
A teenager, on the upper side of those troublesome ten years, jogs up to the car and whistles in appreciation. "Nice car."
"Nice car?" Dean repeats, stepping out to watch the kid's every move. "That's an understatement. This here's a beauty." He rubs his knuckles -- years of throwing punches and he still feels a little sting -- and leans against the trunk.
The windows are wide open, as they always are when the weather permits it. Sam sticks his head out the window and asks, "Hey, when's the last ferry?"
"Sorry, you missed it. Next one's not until eight tomorrow morning," the kid answers. Dean's still watching him and he certainly feels the pressure. Twice he fumbles with the gas cap before Dean has to lean over and undo it for him.
"There any cheap places to stay?" Dean says.
The guy practically laughs at him, but holds it in after catching the seriousness of the question. "You're kidding, right?" He says right in that snooty New England way, elongating the 'I' just enough to tell the boys they're way out of their element.
"Do I look like I'm kidding?"
The kid clears his throat and watches the gas ticker. "No, sorry. Umm...there's an inn near town, but that's still expensive."
"How expensive are we talking about?"
"A hundred a night, and that's if you're a pretty blond." He laughs at his joke, catches the eye of Dean, and goes back to the task at hand. Finishes filling the car, puts the nozzle back, goes to grab the window washer.
"No, dude. No one washes this girl but me." Dean pats the car affectionately, then frowns at the fingerprints he just put on the black finish. He tries to buff them out with the sleeve of his coat, but leather isn't very conducive, and he lets it go. "You don't think I'm a pretty blond?"
"Excuse me?" the kid stutters. Inside the car, Sam howls with laughter.
"C'mon, I'm a pretty good lookin' guy."
Sam leans back out the window and leans on his arms. "Dean, I don't think he's your type."
"The guy at the inn might be, and we don't have that much money to shell out on a room."
"Trust me," the kid says, holding out his hand, "you're not his type."
Dean grumbles as he hands over the money -- gas on an island is expensive, and the Impala guzzles up gas hand over foot -- and checks his wallet, counting their remaining funds. There's not much left. The kid's still standing there, and Dean glares as he hands over a few dollars as a tip.
When he gets back in the car, he turns to Sam. "You know I don't like asking -- "
"I still have a few hundred left on my credit card," Sam interrupts. "Don't worry about it."
"I can pay you back."
"I said don't worry about it," Sam intones. Dean starts up the car and waves his brother off.
"I take care of my debts."
"I don't doubt it." He waits a second, watching the scenery as Dean pulls out of the station and turns left, heading away from their relatives and towards town.
Another small town, though it's refreshing that it's not located somewhere in the Midwest, where dust and dirt gets everywhere the longer you spend outside. They remind him too much of home, of his real home, with the wide open fields and lines of corporate-sponsored corn separating town from town, city from city, in that way that helps you identify where you are based on how much land is about.
Here, the land is hilly and open, but with lush green grass and old trees instead of the tan monotony of crops. Nothing like Kansas or the Midwest, which is a good thing. Maybe the dreams won't be so bad with the seaside air infecting everything; the older houses are discolored from weather and salt, showing how far the ocean penetrates the land here.
The purr of the engine lulls Sam into a half-slumber, eyes half-open but mind still alert as the scene twists and turns on the few roads radiating out from the town. Maybe it is like Kansas; he can clearly tell where one part starts and the other ends with clarity found no where else in his life.
Clouds still linger above, but moonlight manages to cast a thin sliver like a soft spotlight, tracking them as the car speeds down the narrow island roads. The lull of silence grows too great, and Sam leans his head against the headrest, letting it roll down to his shoulder. Even in a bed that reminded him of better times, he found himself unable to sleep, and, as usual, the car has a magical effect on him, allowing him to find a little peace.
His eyes slip closed even though it's roughly 7:30pm, but all preoccupations about when someone's supposed to sleep, when it's normal to do so, flew out the window months ago when his nightmares intensified along with his lack of sleep. The calmness washes over him.
When the car starts up a hill, it jostles Sam's eyes open. The sliver of moonlight reflects off something, and at first, he thinks it's another car, but soon realizes it's on the wrong side of the road. He sits up, narrows his eyes, and tries to make whatever it is out as the light reflects up and over something else.
"Wha...?" is all he manages to get out before the car speeds up just as he is able to make out someone standing next to --
-- the headlights flash over rows and rows of gravestones.
A shiver runs up Sam's spine as he tries desperately to make out who would be standing in the middle of a graveyard in the dark, and his head whips around to track the person.
As soon as he can see past the blind spot, the person's gone.
"You say something?" Dean asks from the driver's seat. Sam takes a breath before answering, touching a hand to his forehead. It's covered in cold sweat.
"Did you, did you see anything back there?"
Dean shakes his head. "Umm, no?"
Sam's hands are shaking. He doesn't respond; what the hell was that?
"You okay, man?" Dean tries again. The car slows a bit. "C'mon, you look like you saw a ghost."
Sam just turns his head. He can't shake this feeling of dread that's fallen over him.
"Aww, hell, no."
"I'm sure it was just...the lighting or something."
"I swear, you're a magnet for this shit."
Dean's humor relaxes him a bit, but not enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck relax. That feeling, the one he got the moment they arrived, is stronger now, has grown, and he's pissed that it keeps working in vague shapes instead of solid constructs.
"Oh, yeah?" Sam raises an eyebrow. Battling wits with Dean takes his mind of things. "Tell me you don't like the idea of hunting something."
"Only if I can see it," his brother admits. "You ever try to shoot something invisible?"
"You ever consider the fact that it was invisible?"
"Not when it was trying to kill me."
There are days Sam wants Dean to tell him about all the hunts he went on when he was away at college, about all the trips he took with their father when Sam stayed home and worked on schoolwork. He doesn't think it's a need to know what kind of monsters are lurking there in the dark, what possibilities await them, but his brother's compulsion to tell him about those years apart might show that Dean wants to know about Sam's boring life at college.
At least it would give him the opportunity to talk about Jess a little.
"Did you kill it?"
Dean smirks. "Of course I did."
Figures. He doubts Dean's ever left any job unfinished, and if he is, he'd never reveal it.
"Dean."
"Yeah?"
"You realize we haven't seen any hotels, right?"
He considers this for a moment. "If there are frilly curtains, I'm sleeping in the car."
Sam laughs, but his mind is still back in that little graveyard on the hill and the moonlight slithering over the gravestones like a snake hunting it's prey.
--
A storm rolls in around 2am, all thunder and lighting that interrupts the television reception each time a boom rattles the air and the wood of the old house. April is storm season, the blossom of spring always drenched in April showers, and it hits with iron knuckles as it rolls over the edge of the Atlantic and up onto the coast.
There's something unnerving about the inn. It's cute and quaint, but built for families now, and the room was set with two double beds and a decent sized couch with plain, striped curtains instead of lace. That sealed the deal for Dean, who, at 2am, was attempting to catch syndicated re-runs of all the shows he's missed while on the road.
But 2am isn't the best time to catch re-runs, and he's stuck sitting at the end of the bed on the floor watching an infomercial about some exercise machine. Dean snorts. If only they went into his line of business, they'd never need another exercise machine or diet plan as long as they lived.
Which might or might not be that long.
So long as that wasn't included on the brochure...
Oh hell, what was he thinking? Mortality and television don't mix; there's a reason he watches it when he's got some down time before or after a job. Heavy thinking isn't required, and if he focuses enough, he can block out all thought and let his brain absorb the mindlessness of the set.
Years of poorly-timed insomnia helped develop the ability to lip-read; his father became aggravated and grumpy when woken up in the middle of the night, especially if he smelled of the alcohol Dean learned to block out. So he would turn off the volume, sit three inches from the TV set, and try to figure out what they were saying. After three years, he could sit six inches away, and now, at twenty-six, he could sit across the room and follow everything with no problems.
Behind him, Sam slumbers on, twisted in his covers from two rounds of nightmares strong enough to make him struggle against unknown aggressors, but not enough to wake him up. The ghost earlier bothered him, but not enough to keep him from going to bed around midnight after a quick meal from the kitchen downstairs and a game of poker with cards Dean found in the nightstand drawer.
Fifteen dollars richer, which he immediately used to pay on his debt for the room, Dean tried to settle into bed but found his mind replaying Alex's finial assertion; would his father, a man who basically left him on his own to hunt, actually fight for custody against a well-adjusted married couple?
And how close had they really come to a normal, suburban life?
Hell, he would have offed himself if it came to growing up in the suburbs. All that normality and apple pie and cuddly feelings. Dean shuttered. Uck. Hugging could be worse than being covered with zombie bits.
At least this television has a remote control; most of the places they stay at spend more money on the coffee maker in the lobby than the upkeep of hardware in the rooms that the television was the least of his worries. He encountered a demon in the form of a broken sink in Des Moines that decided to leak water all night while he and his father slept, greeting them with not only a soggy carpet, but a huge bill to duck the next morning.
At least the curtains don't have lace.
The beds do have dust ruffles, though, and the light from the TV lends to monsters hiding under there where he can't see. The knife's still tucked securely under his pillow, half a world away, but there isn't anything lurking there, couldn't be anything there. One monster a day was enough, and though Alex was technically human, he was beginning to be classified under evil in Dean's mind.
A crash of thunder seems to agree with him, but it also takes out the electricity, plunging the room into darkness.
Great. Just great.
Grumbling, Dean stands and crosses the room to look out the window; the entire town couldn't be out, plus, this place just has that feel of shoddy wiring.
He pulls back the curtains and winces -- there's the lace he was expecting, and holds it aside with a single finger while scanning the town outside. A few lights cast a glow from the harbor and that's it.
"C'mon!" he grumbles.
There's a shift and commotion from the other side of the room followed by the unmistakable click of a light that won't turn on.
"Power's out," Dean explains. He lets the curtain fall and wipes his hand on his t-shirt like the lace was some kind of contaminate.
That should have alerted his brother more than it did; in the dark, Dean can hear Sam grumble something and turn back over. A sigh gives him away, so Dean crosses the room and sits on the edge of his bed, kicking his feet up onto the other a few feet away.
"That ghost thing still bugging you?" he asks innocently. "Cause I've gotta say, you've seen a lot worse."
"No, the ghost thing isn't it," comes the crisp response. He sighs again and turns over. "Dean, why were you so miserable at Angela's?"
"You're skating pretty close to a Dr. Phil moment here, Sam. Might want to steer clear," Dean deflects Sam's question instinctively, the words out of his mouth before his brain has a chance to think. It wouldn't be the first time he'd speak without thinking beforehand, but it usually works in his favor, especially with pretty women.
"Seriously, man," Sam says. His eyes have gone all large and doe-like like Bambi's when he finds out his mother's dead. "I know you don't like to talk about things -- "
Dean interrupts with a wave of his hand. "Then don't ask."
"How can I not ask? You're my brother, Dean. And you punched your uncle less than twelve hours ago."
"Is that what's bothering you? That guy was a jackass. He didn't like you 'cause you look like dad. Who wouldn't want to punch him out?"
"Me, for one."
"Oh, c'mon!"
Sam hesitates. "I really look like him, huh?" But it comes out as more of a dejected statement than a question that causes Dean to start chewing on his nails.
"Yeah, I guess," he answers around one of his fingers.
"Huh. No matter how hard I try not to be like him, I guess I'll never really win."
"Hey," Dean asks with an air of impatience. If only the power hadn't gone out, he'd still be watching crappy infomercials and dreaming up ways to take those creeps out. "Don't be such a downer. Dad's not such a bad guy."
"Not a bad guy? Are we talking about the same John Winchester?"
Dean asks God, or whoever's still listening to him out there, why a weekend on the shore looking for some cash and answers has turned into a Lifetime movie of the week. Any second now, some thin chick with an eating disorder was going to come running through the door and start throwing shit because one of them fathered her child and refuses to support her. Or there's going to be a soft knock on the door, their father will be on the other side, and there will be a tearful resolution full of confessions and hugs.
"Hey, remember that guy I punched earlier?"
Sam snorts. "Remember that night you broke into my apartment?"
"Touché."
"So are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to guess?" Sam continues. Dean groans -- couldn't the kid take a hint and just let it go? Or was he so dense that sarcastic comments and snide remarks didn't get through to him as a signal that Dean didn't want to talk?
He's tired and drained and just doesn't want to deal with Sam and his touchy-feely moments, so he just lies back on the bed and throws a pillow over his face.
Sam starts singing.
It's nothing terribly good; his voice is nice, but not spectacular, and he chooses some sappy sounding tune from that alternative station he insists on putting on every time they near California. Dean lets him go for a few bars, but when the song goes high and Sam attempts the notes far outside his range, Dean roars, tosses the pillow across the room, and shoots his brother a death glare.
"You keep singing and I swear I will kick your ass," he growls. "At least sing something worth singing."
"Yeah. Because guys screaming at the top of their lungs sounds so much better," Sam sing-says.
"It's better than that sappy shit you listen to," Dean retorts, relaxing.
But Sam's got him pegged after months of the road and years of childhood. "It doesn't -- "
"Let it go, Sam," Dean says with an air of finality. "You don't need to psychoanalyze everything I do, okay? There are some people who can get through the day without dishing it all out to a therapist."
"Just because I went to college doesn't mean I'm a therapist."
"No, but you took classes in that stuff," Dean replies as he gets up to retrieve the pillow he threw across the room. "Plus, lawyers interrogate people."
"Interrogate people? Dean, do you hear yourself?" Sam asks. He finally sits up, brown hair mussed by sleep. "I'm not trying to interrogate you, I'm just asking questions."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
Dean doesn't like questions when they're directed at him. Sometimes, when they walk into someone's home, he feels like an invading army come to pillage and take what they can without any thoughts as to the damage they leave behind. Those people, the ones he never has to face again, he can question. There is an evil to find and take care of, and that is a task above all compassion.
But when his brother questions him, he'll still have to face him in the morning, in the car, on a hunt, sit across from him in a diner. When all is said and done, he'll have to look at that face and those eyes that know the answers and see exactly what comes out when they leave the houses of those faceless, nameless people.
He doesn't like it. Never likes it. And he'll never admit he has the same look in the dark, where no one can mistake it for weakness.
--
Drizzle falls in the morning, but the waves roll onto shore with such force, the boats in the harbor sway like toys caught in the turmoil of bath time. They thunk and thud against the piers loud enough the insurance adjusters must be able to hear the damage occurring miles away, a mass of bruised hulls and flailing masts.
Sam holds his jacket over his head as he runs through the rain. The passenger door to the Impala opens with a loud screech, and he falls inside, a mass of rainwater shaking off onto the dash.
"Awww, man!" Dean complains, motioning to the water spots.
Sam ignores the complaint, but tries to find a dry part of his shirt to mop it up nonetheless. "The ferry's been docked in Hyannis until the storm passes," he explains.
"Which is?"
"What do I look like?" Sam asks. "A weather man? Or do you think lawyers get training in predicting the weather as well as interrogation techniques and therapy?" He's harsh, but doesn't regret it, not like usual. His brother's thick-headedness has finally gotten to him, finally cracked through his shell, and he thinks he'll go insane if he doesn't patch it up soon.
Dean shifts the car into drive and lets the engine roar out of the parking lot of the A&P, the only chain on the island, but it has seniority over most of the establishments. The outside looks nothing like a grocery store found in most towns and cities; instead, it resembles a mom and pop operation.
A few cars honk, but Dean doesn't pay them any attention -- at least no visible attention. Just tears out of the parking lot and drives randomly north, along the edge of the town where small bait shops dot the edge of the harbor. He passes a lobster shop before Sam can't take it anymore.
He opens the door while the car speeds down the road.
A totally crazy move, he knows. But he also knows his brother, and just as predicted, Dean slams on the breaks and skids a bit onto some yellow tall grass that hasn't seen landscaping in more than a few years.
"Are you insane?" Dean cries, more than a little miffed. He makes a move to lean over Sam and pull the door closed, but Sam blocks him. Dean's face is turning a particular shade of red reserved for nasty monsters that drive his car without permission, which, for a moment, amuses Sam. Let him feel the frustration Sam's felt for months.
"Are you?"
"Oh, no. We're not starting with this shit again. You close that door before any more rain gets on the seats."
"Or what?"
"Or I kick your ass so bad, you'll be begging me to stop."
Sam keeps his hand on the handle, but doesn't make a move to close the door. "C'mon, Dean, we both know you wouldn't."
"Right. That's your game, isn't it?"
"See? That's what I'm talking about. Those digs. Damnit, Dean, if you're angry about something, stop acting like you're twelve and just tell me."
"Shut. The. Door."
It's an old-fashioned Western standoff with Dean at one end, Sam at the other, fingers dancing over silver revolvers waiting for the town clock to strike twelve. The drizzle continues to fall, flecking into the car to coat the dash and passenger seat. The engine continues to hum.
"I'll make you a deal," Sam starts. There is something college taught him, and that's mediation. "Tell me why we really came here, and I won't bug you anymore."
"How 'bout you close that door and we just pretend this didn't happen." Dean's voice is strained, but like Sam, he's also beginning to crack, just a little bit, but a small sliver's enough to get a chain reaction started. You can't teach an old dog a new trick, but hell if Sam's not going to try and figure his brother out before their collection of secrets gets them killed.
Dean's stubborn, and if it wasn't involving his car, he'd probably sit there and stare Sam to death, literally. But the rain's falling outside and Sam can tell he can't stand seeing his precious car get all ruined.
What were the odds he'd tell a lie just to save the leather?
Pretty high.
But the truth will be hidden in there somewhere. He'll give himself away because deep down, he can't lie to Sam, but he can veil the truth in wit.
That's all Sam wants. An answer. Because this nagging feeling in the back of his head is screaming that Dean is the enemy, that whatever Dean wants to find out he can't because it'll ruin something, cause something, break whatever bond they've re-forged.