♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪
A small vial of holy water slipped out from between his fingers. It shattered against the floor, thin shards flew, and the water sizzled and bubbled.
The hallway seemed to grow smaller. A cold wind swirled around, making the fine hairs on the back of their necks and forearms stand straight on edge. The sound of creaking like someone was walking around on the old floors echoed from each and every given direction.
Sam yelled. Dean flailed his arms frantically.
Wood cracked, ripped apart. A portion of floorboard under Sam's foot gave out. He stumbled forward into Dean, his chest pressed into his back.
"Don't be afraid." Dean's disembodied voice asked of them. Sam's bottom lip quivered, his chin hit lightly against the back of his brother's head when he looked up, his eyes as wide as plates, wild and confused. The voice was so soft, so naïve, and so not his Dean's.
"Oh, right. Sure!" His voice is thick and heavy with sarcasm and anger when told not to panic. The brothers simultaneously ducked when a piece of wood paneling flew over their heads. "No—" He whipped out his gun, and cocked it. Judging the dangerous glint in his eye, he must've been channeling his brother. "—Freakin'—" Dean jerked away from him when he pressed the trigger, the gun aimed at a wall. "—Problem!"
"You're upsetting it!" A stomping noise was heard; it emphasized the ghost's cry.
Another shot was heard, and it almost seemed like the house shook, like it had a shiver—okay, a shiver of rage maybe. "Yeah, well, it upset me first!" Sam stupidly lashed back, currently out of practice with comebacks and insults. It's a bit challenging to banter with the mute, no matter how expressive they may be.
By now, Dean was getting a little bored. He'd done exorcisms before, he has had things thrown into him, animate and inanimate, and he has been thrown into countless things, again animate and inanimate, so, really, he faced this house with an indifferent whatever. However, the out of order post-it note stuck to his voice box proved to mark the difference between those times and this instance.
"I didn't ask for help so you could do this."
"Ask for help? You didn't 'ask for help.'" Sam spat out, breathing hard. "You stalked us and… and you rendered my brother mute. And… oh, god, and you're communicating using…" He had to trail off because this was just too much to take in—it was absurd! It was crazy, outrageous, far-fetched, totally kind of creepy, and… and… he really needed to sit down.
Dean, who was indeed getting wise in his old age, pried the gun from Sam's fingers. Not because he wasn't for pissing off the house, but because he wasn't in the mood to deal with police. Who knew if the neighbors would report the gunshots? Well, Sam could know, but god freaking forbid if his visions would ever personally help them out… like with winning the lottery.
"Help him. Ask how." The shorter Winchester asked, snapping out the words soundlessly after Sam swatted his demanding hands away from the gun that he clutched. Sam blinked, the wheels in his head doing overtime as he processed the thought why hadn't I thought of that? Maybe because you were too busy quarrelling with a ghost, huh?
And so, Sam finally asked the question they've wanted answers to for the longest time—or at least, the past week, which did feel like the longest time. He asked about the house, about himself, why he chose Dean, them, what was going on… everything. When he kept going on, Dean nudged him in the ribs, an action that said dude, stop already.
There was a pause, and a door across from them flung open. The only light in the room came from the glow of the late evening sky that passed through a window. The creature—the boy—stood in front of the window. "I'm stuck here." He stated simply, his long, lanky form trembled when the door slammed shut after Sam and Dean strolled into the room. "Trapped."
The house seemed to calm down all of a sudden; all went quiet, still.
Huh. Nice demonstration. Dean thought. He took out his flashlight and clicked it on, the light blinding him. He let out a grunt that burned his throat; his eyes squinted as he turned his head away, and aimed the flashlight at the creature.
"Cut that out!" It was a hiss; irritation underlined the tone of voice. The ghost quickly caught himself and moved on. "My mother… she did this to me."
"Corinne?" Sam exhaled sharply. I shouldn't be too surprised, he realized. She did tell me he was dead. Yeah, she could've just said deadish. What a hag. "Why would your mother do this to you?"
"Ah, well, Sam, maybe 'cause she's buckets full of crazy?" That would be Dean's response if he weren't cursed with muteness. He kicked at the end of a floorboard that stuck up, and quietly added, "She sure ain't runner-up for the Mother of The Year award."
"Because—" Red and blue lights flashed from outside. There was the sound of two car doors slamming shut, and Sam's chest tightened. He exchanged a panicked look with his brother; both of them shared the same thought.
"She called the police." He felt lightheaded with anger. "She called the police." He repeated, stressing the right words when they remained frozen. "We have to get out of here now." Sam was way too pretty for jail. "We'll be back." He told the ghost, and Dean quietly added the 'I promise.'
Sam could hear the muffled mumbles of the officers downstairs. "We'll have to go through a window." He whispered hastily. Dean's top lip curled up, and Sam, having sensed the sarcastic comment ("no, I thought we'd hold hands and skip merrily downstairs to use the front door.") that would've come, told him to shut up.
Luckily, the room across the hall had a window that led to the back roof. The roof wasn't in any better condition than the rest of the house, but when they heard the sounds of stairs creaking, they realized they didn't have any other choice 'cause they were not about to be someone's bitches. Then again, these boys would probably own the place. You just don't mess with a guy with bow hunting skills—or his younger, taller brother… who can probably kick your ass anyway.
"Stay low." A pause. "Stop walking so heavily!" A gentle shove that screamed back, you stop walking so heavily. Sam scoffed and sat down on the roof while he silently prayed to any God that would listen for the roof not to cave in. He scooted down to peer over the edge. Lady Luck was crushing on the Winchesters tonight, because right below them was a roof from an extended room—the kitchen maybe? Bah, who cares about the floor plans of the house, move it!
"Get the keys out, 'cause as soon as our feet hit the ground…" Dean nodded; the car keys already dangled from his hand. And thanks to an adrenaline rush, they pulled it off effortlessly. The boys hopped down to the first floor roof, and leaped off. Their feet dug into the damp ground; mud splattered their shoes and pants. They ran as fast as their legs would carry them to the Impala that was parked just half a block away without looking back—
They hadn't needed to look back to feel the eyes that burned into their backs.
♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪
Well, that Corinne was certainly off the Winchester's Christmas card list.
"Of course she didn't go to work today." Sam snapped, half-muttering to himself. He carelessly swung open the driver's side door, and plopped himself down into the seat. Dean winced at his actions, and bit down on his lip. He nearly drew blood when Sam slammed the door shut. He swore he heard her cry out. "And the other librarian wouldn't give me her address!"
Huh. There's a shocker. Dean sullenly figured. His arms were folded against his chest.
"Maybe Google will help us out on this one." Sam started up the engine. Good ole Google—making stalking easier since 1999. "Besides, Scranton isn't that big. We'll find her."
Dean looked sideways slyly. Not that big? Mmk, Sammy. But there was no way in hell Dean was going to go door to door to look for the deceiving woman; they didn't have the Girl Scout uniforms for that.
They drove back to the motel, where the manager approached them like a hungry lion to two zebras. He reminded them—or rather, Sam, since he'd been the one making the payments—that other people could use their room, so they'd better make with the credit card.
Dean went to their room, biting back comments he couldn't crack out anyway, to get a head start. Sam strolled in minutes later as the laptop rebooted.
"Anything?" He asked anxiously, which earned an obscene gesture from Dean for being too impatient. "Ooh, cranky." He mumbled under his breath. Dean's eyes shot up to meet his briefly for an "I heard that" look. Sam merely shrugged sheepishly. "What is it?" He perked up when Dean made a face—good or bad? (Or a bad look on a good face?) He moved to behind his brother and peered over his shoulder.
Shoo. Dean waved at him persistently. Being the younger brother, Sam was obligated not to move, but to move in closer, squinting down at the screen.
Okay, she's not listed… but relatives are." The brunette rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "Now, how do we get family member to tell us?"
After a pregnant pause, Dean smirked. Sam felt wary.
♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪
"Okay—at least we're not priests… or FBI agents… or Bikini Inspectors… or alarm maintenance associates… or—"
Dude. Shut your cakehole.
"We're flower boys."
Delivery men! Dean waved a bouquet of flowers in Sam's direction—a threat to shut his "cakehole" or he'll be hacking up flowers for a month.
Sam sighed drearily, not wanting to know where Dean, who was mute for crying out loud, got the uniforms, or the truck, or all the flowers. It was better left unasked and unanswered.
So, the boys were clad in purplish gray work jumpsuits with a pink decal of the business's logo printed on the back. They felt pretty, witty, and…
"Is there anything I should know about? I mean, are there two men, half-dressed, gagged, and tied up in the back?" Sam just had to ask after he climbed into the yellow truck. It smelled sweetly of flowers. He glanced into the back of the truck, where it looked like Walt Disney threw up—so many different flowers of so many different colors.
Dean didn't answer in the negative… or in the positive for that matter. He grabbed a visor, which matched their lovely uniforms, off the dashboard and slipped it on with mocked enthusiasm before starting up the truck.
Sam sighed again, only this time with the ghost of a smile as he shook his head. "All right, the first name on this list lives on…" He took out the crumbled sheet of paper, flattening it over his thigh. "Division St."
And there they went, the manliest flower boys ever.
♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪
Three times is the charm. The first house? No one home, or at least the house was dark and no one answered. Hello, two guys hotter than eighteen suns standing outside your door? I don't care, male or female, you open that goddamn door… and try not to faint, or make a fool out of yourself.
Now, the second house? People home, people answered, people had no idea who they were looking for; people not related.
Third house? And Bingo was his name-o. An elderly woman answered the door and instantly fell victim to Sam's puppy dog eyes, and Dean's innocent smile. Sam charmed her with his words, and looked genuinely surprised when she informed them they had the wrong Connor.
"That's so sweet. Corinne'll love 'em." She commented dearly, eyeing the basket of flowers Dean was stuck holding—Psychic boy uses his charm, and mute boy gets kicked down to sidekick and holds the pretty flowers. He felt like holding up a sign that read, "will hunt supernatural for leadership."
"Sorry about the mix up, ma'am." Sam reached for the slip of paper but she unexpectedly pulled back.
"Now, who did you say they're from?" Ok, so the old bat wasn't as senile as she looked. Panic striking at his heart, Sam glanced down at the fake chart he was holding in one arm. Beads of sweat popped up along his hairline.
"It just says Christine. No last name." He verified, and then leaned forward, taking the slip of paper in the least "give me!" way he could. "Thank you." He nodded at Dean for them to leave. His eyes screamed with victory.
Dean gave the woman a courtesy bow ("Haha, you've been played, and by a master no less!"). Then he waddled after his brother, anxious to stab him with the flowers for trying to lower his position. Dean never dealt those 'sidekick' cards.
But maybe this was a whole new game…
Sam got into the passenger side, and took out a map to look up the address. He hadn't needed to be asked, or to be told. He knew what to do.
… And yet, maybe it wasn't.
♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪
It was a friendly white house with a neat little white fence surrounding it. Not much protection in a fence that could break so easily if someone, oh like Sam, were to stumble into it. Dean shot his brother a look, and Sam grinned down guiltily at his untied shoelaces. Anyway, the front yard was neatly decorated with colorful assortments of flowers. Nothing seemed out of place, Sam realized, not feeling any weird or dark vibes.
The boys, by now, had changed out of the uniforms, and wore civvies. The truck had been graciously traded back for the awesome Impala. Dean had patted the faithful car, silently apologizing for leaving it out. The car, though hesitantly, accepted his apology.
Sam went in first, Dean closely behind, shutting the gate behind them. He stopped halfway up the pathway. Sam already was making his way up the front stairs.
Dean suddenly heard barking, and spun around to see a beautiful white dog. He smiled at it, but that gorgeous "hey there, puppy" smile dropped when the mutt growled and continued to bark at him. Oh shit, down Cujo! The dog made a vicious move towards him. Dean, in long, quick strides, made his way over to Sam, and grabbed his arm as he rang the doorbell.
"Dean, it's a Pomeranian." Dean shot him an exasperated look—I've seen Blade: Trinity! The small dog scurried onto the porch, still yapping away at Dean. Sam rang the doorbell once more before he looked back at the scene behind him. "Why Dean, you aren't carrying dog biscuits in your pocket again, are you?" He laughed, despite the murderous glowering that came from Dean.
The front door swung open, and Corinne stood there, her appearance rugged and tired. Her eyes were noticeably red. "What?" She demanded to know with a defeated sigh, not looking too surprised that they had found out where she lived.
"What did you do to your son?" Sam bluntly asked, his voice soft, but filled with resentment. His jaw was tightened considerably, but that might've been from the death grip Dean still had on his arm as he tried to shoo away the dog.
Corinne stared ahead, emotionless. However, her cracking voice betrayed her greatly. "You don't know anything."
"Yeah?" He challenged without doubt.
"Yes, or else you wouldn't be here." Her angry eyes fell from his cold stare to her pet that was still trying to get a taste of Dean. Must be a fangirl. She didn't call the little terror off, so Sam crouched down and scooped it up into his arms. He turned back to her, holding the beast against his chest tightly enough so it wouldn't escape.
"I know your son did something to my brother." His tone of voice was icy, accusing. "And I know that in order to save him—" Dean noticed his choice of words, and looked over at him. Save? "—You have to reverse whatever it is you did."
Corinne remained unaffected by his words. "My son couldn't have done anything to your brother." She told him dubiously. "You saw him in the hospital. He doesn't even know where he is." Her eyes watered up. She struggled to keep her tone even. "Whatever it is you think you know, you're wrong."
"You know what's going on in that house! Or else you wouldn't have called the police." Sam bent down enough for the dog to drop safely to the ground. Sensing the tension, the Pomeranian raced inside. Corinne's face twisted up like she was in pain—emotional and physical. She begged for them to leave, to keep away from the house, but neither one moved, and Sam only urged for her to tell them what she did.
Dean felt his own eyes start to water up at the sight. She was a wreck—they were way over their heads, maybe. But he stood strong next to his brother. He wanted to be able to speak again; he wanted to figure this out.
"My son, Drew." Corinne gasped, tears rolling down her flushed cheeks. "He's a murderer." She rolled her hands into fists and weakly struck Sam in the chest. Dean nudged him back, taking a cautious step forward, barely leaving any room between him and the older woman. "Is that what you know, you Sonofabitch!" Heart wrenching sobs escaped her lips that could no longer remain tightly locked. She doubled over, whispering, "but he's a good boy," over and over.
Both Dean and Sam felt sick—
—And awfully confused.
♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪
