"Come on, Sam. What are you waiting for?"
Jess smiled at him, her eyes sparkling. She left her blond hair loose; she knew he liked it like that, and she always did little things to please him.
Her white dress, whiter than snow, was catching a glimmer from the sun rays. It was perfect for Southern California weather, perfect for summertime.
She was perfect.
He laughed, following her into the shop. She paused for a moment to admire the old-fashioned tea set, which she claimed she'd someday have in her parlor.
"Why would you want a parlor?"
"Shut up," she laughed. "My parents had one in their old house, and it was beautiful. The new house didn't have anything like that. I was angry they got rid of it."
"That's bad. I've seen you angry."
"Well, since you won't let me have a parlor, for now this will have to do." She reached up and pulled down an old Victorian baby doll, with a white dress and bonnet.
"Come on. Please. No."
"Yes. I love it."
"But it's a doll."
"Ah, so it is! Good for you, Sam Winchester!"
"Winchesters don't do so well with dolls."
"What, are you afraid of it? It's only a little baby."
"The last doll we had, my brother put into a blender."
"Yikes! Remind me never to invite him over to the parlor."
Sam laughed. "I don't know if he'd come! Anyways, I hope he's gained some manners since then—he was eleven at the time."
"Well, that explains a lot. But I suppose we'll have to wait and see—speaking of which, how much longer DO we have to wait?"
"Uh, that I can't tell you. As long as we have to wait to meet your parents."
She shook her head, and took the doll to the register. "You don't want to meet my parents, Sam. They're boring old people. Nice boring old people, but boring old people."
"I don't have anything against old people. Not even against crabby, unpleasant old people. Nice, boring old people would be great."
The clerk took the doll to be wrapped. She stood on her tiptoes, and gave him a gentle kiss. "You'll meet them when I'm ready for you to meet them. It has nothing to do with you, Sam. Just with them. I want them to be perfect when they meet you."
He wrapped his arms around her. "You're perfect. I'm sure they are too."
She laughed. "You're a very optimistic person, Sam Winchester."
The clerk handed them the doll, smiling at their embrace. Jessica smiled and thanked him.
Sam guided her out the door, looking up into the bright sun. Clouds were rolling in. "It looks like rain might be coming."
There was no answer.
He turned. "Jess?"
She was standing just outside the doorway, the doll dangling from her hand. There was a vacant expression on her face.
"Jess?"
She glanced up at him.
"Sam…"
She flickered for a moment. Her image, clothed in white, split in two.
"Jess?" Sam tried to reach out, but he couldn't move.
The two images held up their dolls. "This is mine."
"JESS? JESS!"
There was a burst of light.
"NOOOO!"
She blended into one form, her eyes widening. The flames engulfed her, burning around her. He'd seen it, in his mind, again, and again. His body released and he moved towards her as fast as he could, but they took her, spreading across her white dress, her blond hair, her beautiful face.
"JESS! NOOOOOO!"
"SAM!"
Sam shot upwards, sweat beading on his forehead. Dean was bent over him, his pendant dangling off his bare chest, his hands on Sam's shoulders, shaking him.
"Sammy. You okay? You were screaming."
"Yeah," Sam panted. His t-shirt was soaked with sweat. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "You didn't sound fine."
"I'm fine."
"Nightmare?"
Sam didn't answer, just rose from the bed and went to grab a drink.
"You don't have to keep it to yourself, you know."
"Keep what?"
"The night Jessica died."
Sam choked on the water. "What?"
"Come on, Sam," Dean said, sitting himself back on the bed. "You were screaming her name in your sleep. We just saw a massive fire. It's obvious."
Sam turned away from him. "It wasn't that. I don't want to talk about it."
"I know you don't. You never want to talk about it. But you have to, Sam, at some point. You can't keep it bottled up forever. Look at what it did to Dad."
"I'm not Dad."
"No, not most of the time. But you do keep things bottled up, and it's not healthy. If you're going to go into this thing, you're going to have to keep your emotions in check."
"You're one to talk."
"What?"
"You almost ran into a burning house to save that boy. You don't think that was driven by emotion?"
"He might have died."
"And so would you."
"I would have done that for anyone. You, him, the little girl, Joe Schmoe down the road."
"It still could have got you killed, Dean."
"Maybe. That's a risk we take. The difference is, for me, it's not personal."
"Yeah, well, you've never watched anyone you loved die right in front of you."
Dean stood up, snatching his T-shirt off the dresser. "You're right, Sam. I've never watched anyone I loved die right in front of me. But maybe you don't know what it's like to watch two people you care about killing themselves slowly right in front of you. Maybe you ought to think of that once in a while."
He stormed from the cabin, slamming the door behind him.
Sam dropped his head into his hands. Dean's just being Dean. Protective to a fault, and always concerned about the family…
But Dean did what he did out of blind allegiance to their father. It was not something Sam could do. He had to have a reason to get up every day. Losing Jessica had been hard—so hard, he could barely stand it sometimes. He knew how his father felt, what drove him to his mission. Even if he didn't like it, he understood it.
This has to be about them, Dean. Not about us. We're not doing this because we want to save the world. We want to make them pay. We want to destroy them, so no one else has to suffer like we have.
So no one else has to die, like Jessica.
Sam woke up exhausted—he hadn't gotten much sleep last night. Neither had Dean, apparently—it was hours after his nightmare when Sam finally fell asleep, and Dean hadn't returned before that. When Sam woke up—sometime in the afternoon—Dean was fully dressed and poring over the journal once more, though it appeared he hadn't gone anywhere in the morning.
"I think we need to speak with the fire chief," he said. "You can handle that. I'm going back to the library to check a few more records. We can meet Mrs. Arnette at the hospital too. Aaron's already been released, but he's staying at his old house with his brother and sister until their grandparents come tomorrow."
Typical Dean, Sam thought. Acts like nothing's wrong the next day.
Not that he cared. He'd rather not talk about it.
They didn't say much to each other as they got ready to go. Dean dropped Sam off at the fire station, then parked the Impala in the town square.
The fire chief accepted his story about being a reporter, thankfully.
"All that we can find, initially anyway, is that the fire started downstairs. Looks like a lamp was being plugged in, and it blew the circuit. Happens in those old houses—wiring's old and decrepit. We've had 8 minor to major incidences in the past 6 months. And the Anderson house was one of the oldest in the town, so I'm not surprised the wiring finally blew."
Dean was waiting for him at the hospital entrance way when he walked up fifteen minutes later.
"You find what you were looking for?" Sam asked. Dean didn't respond, which Sam took to mean he hadn't.
June was on the third floor, resting up after suffering smoke inhalation. She smiled weakly when she saw them.
"How are you feeling?" Sam asked gently. She nodded, whispering hoarsely. "Fine, I guess. I'm more worried about the kids."
"They're fine," said Dean. "They released Aaron this morning."
"I know. That's good."
"Mrs. Arnette—do you remember anything about what happened last night?"
Her eyes tightened a bit. "Not really—at least not after it started. But I think…I think this was my fault."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because…I had unplugged one of my lamps—an old decorative one with one of those high wattage bulbs? To let Aaron play his little video game. When he went upstairs last night I bent down and plugged it back in. It was only a few moments after that, and…I just saw flashes. Lots of flashes. I saw the flames, and I couldn't even get up to the children's rooms. I remember hearing little Aaron screaming…and I couldn't…I couldn't…"
Tears were rolling down her face.
"He's fine, Mrs. Arnette," said Sam soothingly. "They're all fine now. You did what you could."
"I couldn't save Amelia," she sobbed. "And I almost hurt them too. I…I just…"
"They're fine. Don't worry. You've done your very best."
"Thank you," she said, sniffling. They stood awkwardly by her bedside as she gathered herself. "I think I should probably go back home. This place has too many memories. Bad memories."
Sam smiled wanly at her. He knew the feeling.
"Do you need anything?" Sam asked finally.
"No. My sister is coming in a few hours. But," she added as they turned from the bed, "could you go and check on the kids? Aaron's been talking about you non-stop since you came yesterday," she nodded to Dean. "I'm sure it would make them feel better."
Dean shrugged. "Sure."
"Thank you."
They walked across the town's central park, Dean with his hands in his pockets. Sam glanced over at him every now and again, trying to read him. He'd only been up a few hours, but the sun would be setting soon.
Even he had to confess this was hopeless, by now. As strange as it seemed, the fire at the Arnette house has also been a coincidence.
Sam admitted it was strange that it had been a coincidence, and normally it might warrant further investigation. But this was a dead end. There was nothing here—nothing left about ARA, nothing left in Cariño, nothing about that doll. There were no leads, and no answers.
"I wonder if that gravestone might be on record somewhere else?" Dean said suddenly. "In one of the big cities. Maybe they listed earlier births and deaths with the bigger cities."
"Doubtful," said Sam. "The records halls didn't have time to keep up with surrounding towns, particularly ones that were as far away as Cariño. They had to rely on the towns themselves for information. The best bet would be newspaper articles, and if it was a big enough event to be written about in San Francisco, it would be remembered by the townspeople here."
Dean dropped his head. "Alright. So maybe we look for articles anyway. The Andersons were well known. It could have passed out of the town's history but still be on the books."
"Dean…"
"What?" Dean turned, and immediately grimaced at the look on Sam's face. "God—what now?"
"Dean, you know as well as I do that this is—it's a waste of time. This is a dead end. There's nothing here."
"Nothing here? Did you see the same fire I did last night?"
"The fire chief confirmed what Mrs. Arnette said. That the fire started in her parlor downstairs. The doll was with Anna. Aaron was in a back room. There was nothing unusual."
"Aaron's name is AA. He was trapped—almost didn't get out. That's not 'unusual'?"
"It's coincidental—I'll admit that. But that's all. The Amlys apparently liked names that begin with 'A'. But they only moved here a year ago. Amelia Arnette died a year before that. They're unconnected."
"Aaron Amly. Amelia Arnette. Annabelle Rebecca Anderson. A history of people dying with those initials. Initials which appear in Dad's journal. Connected by a doll both of them had near or with them. You cannot tell me that there isn't something suspicious there!"
"And what are we supposed to do, Dean? We have no idea what's going on, if anything's going on. There's no information to go on, nothing to track, nothing to trace. Everything is random. Nothing is clear."
"Dad found something."
"He found something. But even that's not clear! Maybe, once, this town had an interesting folk tale about ARA. Maybe the doll was once connected to it…maybe that's even what Dad found. But you saw Anna Amly last night! She's the 'ARA' this thing, if there is one, should be going after. But she was perfectly fine! There were no signs of anything going on. Nothing."
"So was that doll. Perfectly fine."
Sam raised a hand to his mouth. He felt frustrated. And today's the twenty-sixth…
Dean pointed to the ground, a stubborn, determined look on his face. "Look. we've found more dangerous situations on a lot less information than this, Sammy. There's something here. We just haven't found it yet. We still need to talk with Aaron Amly. Maybe he's the break we need."
"We found the break, Dean. We found the 'ARA' Dad was hinting at. We found the doll. And all we found are a string of random deaths and no signs of haunting whatsoever. All Aaron Amly is going to tell you is what June Arnette told us—that it was an accident, and another coincidence. All we're going to be doing is waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for something we don't even know exists!"
"God—Jeez, come on, Sam! You don't feel something here? In your gut? That feeling that tells you we're missing something? Don't you feel it? That we're missing something? We're close to this thing. I know you know it—I've seen it on your face. We just have to pick out one more piece."
Sam paused.
"Sam?"
"No. I don't, Dean. From the very beginning. No."
"From the very beginning…" Dean laughed sarcastically. "You know what? You're right. YOU. ARE. RIGHT. From the very beginning, you wouldn't. Because you haven't been here, Sam. From the very beginning, you've been somewhere else. Or with someone else."
"That's not true."
"Oh no? Who were you thinking about at the Arnette house a few days ago? Who were you thinking of last night? This morning? Everywhere we go, you're here in body, but your mind is somewhere else."
He shook his head. "We're supposed to stick together, Sammy. It's what we do. It's who we are. You got my back, I got yours. For everything. But if you're not here, with me, right now…"
"Then what?"
"Then you're no good to me. You're a liability. You put me, you, and all the people we're trying to help in danger."
Sam stared at him for a moment.
"I need you here."
"And what if I can't be 'here'? What am I supposed to do? You want to know what I'm feeling? You want to know what I want? I want you to understand that there are some things I can't tell you."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because they don't concern you, Dean. Or the mission. This is about me. I can't help that. I can't change it. And you can't possibly understand that."
"Then explain it to me, Sam. Tell me what you have to do. Tell me where you have to go! But, jeez, Sam! Tell me something!"
Sam shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dean." He stared his brother straight in the eyes. "I just can't."
A shadow slowly passed over Dean's face, and he turned away.
"Dean…I'm sorry. I…"
"Take it."
"What?"
"Take it. Take the car."
Sam's heart was suddenly beating very quickly. "What did you say?"
"I said take the goddamn car, Sam." Dean turned back, tossing the keys to him. "Take it, and get the hell out of here."
He didn't just… "Dean."
"Did you hear me? I said to get the hell out of here!"
"Dean, I…"
"GO! NOW, SAM. GET OUT OF HERE!"
Sam swallowed. The look on Dean's face was one he hadn't seen before. But he knew better than to question him.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," he managed to choke out as he was walking away. His heart was still pounding. I'm going to make it. Dean was watching him, the strange expression fading from his face. He slid into the driver's seat, cranked the car gently, and took off.
He could see Dean turn his back to him in the rearview, his head lowered, rubbing his face with his hand.
Sam gunned the car down the highway.
