Thanks for everyone who's read (and even more thanks to those of you who've reviewed!) I really wasn't expecting anyone to like this story... Very gratifying! And, as much as I'd like the boys to come to England, I don't really see it in their future... Although they'd be welcome to spend a few days sleeping on my sofa. OK, so maybe Sam can have the sofa... I'd have other plans for Dean...
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"So this St Swithun guy," Dean recapped, pulling the Impala out into the waterlogged street casually, acutely aware that Alex and Nathan were still watching their every move from the porch. "You said his bones had been scattered, right? No-one knew where?"
Sam nodded, smiling half-heartedly at the Bradshaw kids as they began to recede into the rear view mirror. "Yeah. Until now, apparently."
Dean glanced sideways at him. "So that's what the old lady's pissed about?" he clarified. "That Bradshaw brought one of the Bishop's bones here?"
Sam frowned. "I don't know if that's why she's angry," he said. "Maybe just the act of moving the bone is what set her off – like a desecration of St Swithun's final resting place or something. Maybe she doesn't really care where the bone was moved to…"
"Yeah, but that must have been Bradshaw's plan from the start," Dean pointed out. "The legend says it rained for forty days and forty nights because the Bishop was angry that his bones had been moved. So that must have been what led Bradshaw to try and find them – or one of them at least. He was a desperate guy – maybe he figured if he brought the bone here, the Bishop would get pissed off again and hey presto – forty days of rain to solve Stillwater's drought problem."
Sam nodded grudgingly, and Dean figured he'd lay off kicking the kid's ass for treating him like an idiot for the umpteenth time. "Maybe," Sam said thoughtfully. "Maybe he didn't expect quite so much rain."
"Or that it'd be the mad egg lady doing the rain dance."
"That would make sense," Sam conceded. "No way would he have expected the pious, caring Bishop of Winchester, friend of the common man and Patron Saint of Drought Relief, to be vengeful enough to want to drown a whole town."
"Just enough rain to get the reservoir back up to capacity." Dean seemed about to add something, when suddenly he changed his mind, instead laughing mirthlessly.
Sam's forehead crinkled still further. "What?" he asked.
Dean glanced over at him. "Sammy," he said. "Granted we've seen some pretty weird stuff in our time. But do you realise just how crazy this sounds?"
Sam shrugged. "Yeah," he agreed casually. "So? Any crazier than a vengeful spirit trapped in a mirror who delights in causing people with dirty little secrets to bleed from their eyes? Or a genetic freak who can mutate into anyone it pleases? Or a hick family hunting people for sport – ?"
"Now that one's really crazy," Dean admitted, suppressing a shudder at the thought of that red hot poker millimetres from his eye. He rubbed the scar on his shoulder absently. "So why the dreams?" he asked at length. "If Thomas Bradshaw had the same dream I did, why did he wind up taking a swan dive off the bridge?"
"You didn't jump off the cliff in your dream," Sam pointed out. "You pushed me…"
"Thanks for the reminder," Dean said tersely. "So Bradshaw didn't have the same dream I did?"
"Not exactly the same," Sam said, thinking for a second. "Which would make sense if the old lady was warning you to stay away… If she's a water wraith it'd be in her nature to lure her victim's to a watery death."
"Like the other five dead guys."
Sam nodded, biting his lip. "But I don't get why she targeted them. There doesn't seem to have been much point if she was going to drown the whole town anyway."
"And I don't think my dream was a warning," Dean added, meeting Sam's inquisitive glance. "She wanted me here. But not to drown me."
"No," Sam said, laughing ironically. "She wanted to drown me!"
Dean grinned. "And who can blame her? I've thought about doing the same thing a few times… That's what they do with runts, you know."
Sam pulled a face at him, before deciding to ignore his comment totally. "We've only got until tonight to save the town, remember?" he said. "We need to figure this out pretty fast, man." The expression on Sam's face suggested he didn't seem entirely confident in their ability to do that. "We need to figure out what it is she wants us to do. If she kept asking Bradshaw if he understood, like she did you, maybe he didn't… Maybe that's why he drowned."
"Hate to break it to you, kiddo," Dean said. "But we don't understand what she wants us to do either."
"No," Sam agreed. "That could be a problem."
Dean contemplated their next move. "So how about this Doctor at the University? Three guesses why a guy with an ancient bone would be visiting a Professor of Anthropology…"
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"Ninth Century," Professor Maurice Greenbaum confirmed excitedly, eyes magnified to owl-like proportions by the half-inch thick glasses perched on the end of his overly-long nose. "That's what I said to Tom, and that's what I'm saying to you."
Sam exchanged an 'ah crap' look with Dean before prodding, "And Mr Bradshaw paid you to carbon date the bone for him?"
The Professor looked at him with the haughty contempt of a tarantula considering a money spider. "Son, if Tom Bradshaw had actually paid me, you wouldn't have that invoice in your hand, now would you?"
Sam glanced down at the slip of paper clutched in his fist and smiled dumbly. "Right," he muttered, suddenly feeling as small and insignificant as he had on his first day of Stanford.
Dean glanced over at him, picking up on his brother's obvious Professor-Anxiety and stepping in to rescue him. "Mr Bradshaw tell you where the bone came from?" he asked cautiously, barely controlling the urge to smack the condescending stiff for causing the abashed expression on Sam's face.
Greenbaum frowned, sighing dramatically. "England," he said. "That's all he'd tell me. And God knows I tried to get him to loan it to the University for further research…"
"But that was a none-starter?" Dean interrupted.
Greenbaum seemed slightly taken aback at Dean's lack of deference, used to students hanging on his every word, his every thought.
He liked the taller, more respectful boy a lot more than this one.
"He said he already had a use for it," Greenbaum managed reluctantly. "He was very cagey about the whole thing, actually. God knows what he was planning to do with it."
"Probably," Dean muttered. "But I think He's the least of our worries…"
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"Crossing back into Stillwater…" Sam announced, eyes riveted to his watch as the mid-afternoon sun beat down on them from a merciless blue sky.
Dean's fingers tensed on the steering wheel. He was ready for it this time…
"…Now!"
Despite his readiness, Dean still didn't manage to avoid instinctively ducking slightly as the first huge raindrops landed with an unnatural boom on the Impala's roof. "Man, that's freaky," he reiterated, shaking his head as he flipped the window wipers into overdrive. He frowned slightly as the action enabled him to see further down the dingy road in front of them. "Sure is a lot of traffic coming out of Stillwater," he observed, understating somewhat as car after car began to pass them heading out of town.
"This does not look good," Sam said, taking note of the number of vehicles that seemed to have the entire contents of the occupants' house strapped to the roof.
"No," Dean agreed, inclining his head in the direction in which they were heading. "And neither does that."
A cop with a plastic cap strapped over his hat and a yellow plastic cape slung ineffectually over his uniform was standing in the middle of the road, waving down oncoming vehicles.
"I think he wants us to stop," Sam hazarded, taking some kind of perverse comfort in stating the obvious as he nervously caught sight of the road beyond the officer. It seemed completely submerged under a good few inches of muddy water for several feet ahead of them, almost as if someone had decided to build a ford in the middle of the highway during the three hours they'd been away from Stillwater.
The cars heading in their direction were negotiating the standing water carefully, but couldn't avoid spraying everything within the surrounding few feet of their tyres with mud and ooze as they hit each pothole.
"Man," Dean grumbled. "We sort out this Egg Chick's problem, she is so gonna owe my car a wash 'n' wax…" He rolled down his window for the police officer, braking as gently as he could to avoid splattering the poor guy with even more mud than already covered his uniform. Which he regretted the second the cop splayed a filthy hand against the Impala's roof while he leaned slightly into the car.
Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightened with the effort of restraining himself from barking at the guy to get his dirty mitts off his paintwork. Gritting his teeth slightly, he smiled up at the officer, who grimaced in return.
"You boys might want to consider turning around," the cop advised them, the plastic cap covering his hat dripping incessantly onto the Impala's upholstery.
Dean's knuckles whitened.
Sam, sensing an imminent explosion, asked in his most innocent voice, "Is there a problem, officer?"
The cop tipped his hat back slightly, causing the trapped rainwater to slide backwards down his neck.
Dean barely suppressed a grin. Revenge was a dish best served wet and muddy…
"Flood warning," the cop replied, hunching his shoulders as the water trickled down his back. "The whole town's on alert."
"The reservoir?" Sam asked, more than casual alarm in his voice.
The cop shrugged. "Not yet," he said resignedly. "But its only a matter of time. No, the river's burst its banks in a couple of places. Most of the town's OK for now, but Southland Bridge is out."
"What about Churchill Bridge?" Dean found himself asking for no apparent reason. Sam spared him an inquisitive look, but Dean continued to look up at the policeman.
"Still passable for now," the cop replied.
"So not everyone's leaving?" Sam asked, half hoping they'd be heading for a ghost town – it would certainly relieve some of the pressure if there weren't quite so many lives at stake.
The cop shrugged again. "Can't force people to leave their homes," he said with an odd grunt. "There's always gonna be some wanna bury their heads in the sand and pretend it's not happening."
Sam nodded. "Well," he said, flashing his most disarming smile. "Thanks for the warning. Maybe we'll just go and pick up our stuff and head straight back out." He smiled again, the ghost of Normal College Guy Sam berating him for lying to an officer of the law.
The cop straightened. "Suit yourself," he said, finally removing his muddy hand from the Impala's roof and waving them on. "Don't leave it too long though."
"We won't," Sam smiled again, elbowing Dean in the ribs in an attempt to silence the string of curses emanating from between his brother's gritted teeth. "Just doing his job, man," he muttered under his breath, still smiling at the cop as Dean put the car into gear and pulled away.
"Yeah, well," Dean growled, winding up his window just in case the cop heard him and decided to call them back. "He can go do his job over someone else's upholstery."
"Dude," Sam said, trying to ignore the pained grimace on Dean's face as he edged the Impala through the newly-flooded stretch of road. "Biblical flood imminent; evil English chick; missing bone of St Swithun… You gotta focus!"
"I am focussed," Dean protested. "But right now, I'm focussed on not messing up my paint job!"
Sam shook his head disbelievingly, while Dean continued to grumble all the way back to the motel.
