Dean was driving in a car. Only, it wasn't his car, it was a 90's Toyota compact. He was really confused by it, upset even, because he seemed so comfortable in it. He pulled into a parking space and got out. Again, he seemed very confused. There were people waving to him, saying hello to him. People who seemed to know him, people that were friends with him. If Dean didn't know better, he'd think he was seeing through someone else's eyes. Then he saw a sign that said "Broome Community College" and his vision turned black.
When Dean woke up later on, he kept his eyes closed. He lay there in the bed, hoping and praying it had all been a dream, but as he woke up a little more, added the sound of traffic crossing the bridge next to the B&B and felt the ruffled comforter on top of him, he knew his view of the world wasn't going to change when he opened his eyes.
"Sammy?" he called out quietly, sitting up on the bed.
"Right here, Dean," his brother replied, coming away from the desk to sit on the bed, putting his hand on Dean's leg.
Even though Dean tried not to show it, Sam saw the relief on Dean's face at the contact. The same relief he'd seen earlier at the convenience store, when he returned to the car with their coffees. He hadn't even thought about how scared Dean might have been to be left alone, unprotected, even for those few minutes. He wouldn't say it in words to Dean, because he knew Dean would deny any such fear, so Sam decided to stay by his brother's side, no matter what, to prevent it.
"I gotta take a piss. You wanna point me in the right direction?" Dean asked, ruining the chick flick moment in Sam's mind.
"Sure," Sam replied with a smile, and led Dean out of their room and down the hall. "You want me to wait?" he asked as Dean went in.
"Nah, I think I can make it back on my own. Out to the right, second door on the left?" he asked, pointing.
Sam nodded, saying, "You got it."
When Sam returned to their room, he sat back down at the desk and resumed his research. The Village of Greene was incorporated in the late 1700's. Some Revolutionary War history was involved. As Dean surmised, it was a small town, with one main drag and two whole traffic lights. The current big employer for the area was a forklift factory, of all things. He searched the Internet for information on the surrounding towns and counties as well, looking for any references to strange occurrences, witchcraft groups, the local community college Marcia had attended and any articles about the explosion, etc. And nothing stood out that would explain or even hint at anyone using powers, as Marcia had, to steal Dean's vision.
Sam had left the door open to their room, so Dean had no problem finding it, but he stopped just inside the doorway, unsure of where to go from there.
"To your left, about four feet, is the recliner," Sam told him.
Dean slowly made his way there, his hands reaching out in front of him until he found the chair and sank down onto it.
"This really and truly sucks, you know?"
"I know."
"You find anything yet?"
"Not really," Sam replied, shaking his head. "The only things going around here are a couple of local ghost stories. Supposedly, not one, but two local restaurant/hotels have ghosts walking around in them. They use the stories to drum up business, though; nothing needing our services."
"Anything on Marcia?"
"I found the newspaper article on the explosion at the college. It happened about six months ago."
"What was the name of the college?" Dean asked.
Sam wondered why Dean needed to know, but checked the laptop and read, "Broome Community College. Why?"
"Just wondering," he replied, shaking his head, dismissing the idea. "Did you do any research about the resort town we were in? Maybe she had to go there to get her mojo," Dean suggested.
"When we first arrived, while I was at the pool that first day, I checked things out on the 'net," Sam replied. "Just to make sure we weren't dropping ourselves into the middle of something." He saw the way Dean shook his head. "I know. Didn't work out that way," he added sadly.
"It's not your fault, Sammy," Dean insisted. When Sam didn't reply right away, Dean repeated himself, more assertively. "Sam, it's not your fault."
Sam looked into Dean's eyes, saw the scars, Marcia's scars, and cursed her all over again. "I know, Dean," he replied, and then, getting on with business, he said, "I called Marcia's house. Guy there said she wouldn't be home until around seven."
"Time to talk to the locals, then," Dean suggested. "Why don't we start with Mrs. Watkins and her apple pie?"
"Yeah, she seems like the type to know what's going on and who's doing it," Sam agreed. "And we haven't had anything to eat yet today, either."
Sam led Dean downstairs and outside to the B&B's large wraparound porch. Mrs. Watkins had already placed plates with large pieces of pie on them on a small table sitting between two rocking chairs. There was a teapot and cups on a small serving cart next to the side door as well.
"I'm so glad you boys decided to come down for pie. It's just no fun to have tea all by yourself," Mrs. Watkins remarked.
As Dean sat down in one of the chairs, momentarily startled as it rocked back, he had a sudden sense of panic come over him when Mrs. Watkins placed one of the plates into his hands. He was afraid to eat, afraid to make a mess of himself, not seeing the food or utensils, not sure if he'd know if he was done or not…
Sam picked up Dean's fork from the side of the plate and subtly placed it into Dean's hand. "Nice big piece of apple pie there, Dean. Couldn't have asked for better service."
Mrs. Watkins chose that moment to rise from her chair. "Oh, dear, I just remembered a phone call I had to make. Those insurance companies; if you don't get to them by three, by the time you get off hold an hour later, it's closing time. You boys enjoy the pie, and leave the dishes. I'll clean up later." And she on her way back into the house.
They were silent for a few moments, neither one touching their plates, before Dean said, "She didn't have to make any phone call."
"She's a nice lady," Sam replied. "So take her kindness and eat your pie before she comes back."
Wasn't kindness, it was pity, Dean thought darkly. But he ate the pie all the same, even asking Sam to get him another piece.
Just as Sam was picking up their dishes, ready to bring them into the house, Mrs. Watkins returned, scolding him, "Oh, don't you bother with those! I'll get them later."
"Delicious pie, Mrs. Watkins," Dean told her.
"Why thank you, Dear," she replied, taking a seat in the rocker next to Dean. "So what brings you boys to our little town?"
"Came to meet someone," Sam told her. "Maybe you know her? Marcia Brody?"
"Marcia? Oh, Honey, everyone around here knows Marcia!" she said with a laugh. "Poor dear. Horrible about her accident. How do you know her? Did you meet her at the eye clinic?"
Sam looked at Dean, meaning to make eye contact with him, see what Dean thought of the "eye clinic" reference, and nearly cursed himself out loud when all he saw was his reflection in Dean's sunglasses.
"No," Dean replied for them. "But we were hoping she might be able to tell me about it," he added.
"Well, I heard she's back in town," Mrs. Watkins went on, her tone gossipy. "I even heard that those doctors fixed her eyes! Linda Jean, my neighbor, said she even saw Marcia driving down on North Chenango Street this morning! Miracle of miracles..."
As Mrs. Watkins was talking, Dean had a sudden vision of an elderly woman, talking to another older woman, the two waving to him from their porch rockers, as he walked down the sidewalk nearing a bridge. Once he crossed the bridge he saw a sign that said N. Chenango Street. He nearly pitched forward in the rocker when his vision suddenly darkened again.
"Dean! You okay?" Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder, steadying him.
Dean shook his head slightly, shaking off the fuzziness. "What?"
"You're looking a little pale," Mrs. Watkins noted. "Are you okay, Sweetie?"
"I'm fine," he replied, trying not to be gruff, shaking Sam's hand off him. "Just tired."
"We've been to see so many doctors and… people… lately," Sam interjected, as if that would explain everything. "Some of them have been complete quacks, so when someone else had mentioned that Marcia's eyes had been healed, we had to find out about her, see if she could tell us who she went to see."
Sam hoped Mrs. Watkins believed his lie, hoped she felt sorry for them, even, and hated himself for it at the same time.
Dean flinched as she took his hand and patted it. "Oh, you poor dear," she cooed. "So young and handsome… to lose your sight…" Then she perked up, lightly slapping Dean's knee, saying, "Why don't I call up Marcia and invite her over here? I'm sure she'd be more than happy to talk to you boys!"
"No, that's okay," Sam told her. "I've already called her. We're going to see her tonight." He looked over at Dean, who still wasn't looking all that great. "I think maybe we'll head back to our room, maybe rest up a bit."
As Dean stood up, a wave of dizziness hit him and if not for Sam at his elbow, he might have dropped right back onto the rocker. "Just a headache," he told both Sam and Mrs. Watkins, reaching under his sunglasses to rub at his eyelids. When he felt steadier, he turned toward the door and reached for Sam's elbow.
When they were alone in their room, Dean sprawled on one side of the bed with an arm over his eyes and Sam sitting against the headboard on the other side of the bed, Sam asked, "What happened down there?"
"I don't know, Sam," Dean replied, squeezing his eyes shut. After a moment or two, he continued, asking, "Is this place a big old Victorian, yellow, with green shutters?"
"Yeeaaahh," Sam replied slowly, wondering how Dean could possibly know, since he never described it.
"It's right at the end of a bridge, next to a river," Dean went on.
"How do you know this, Dean?"
"I keep seeing things, Sam. I don't know, maybe your ESP shit is contagious, or a family trait after all."
"I don't have ESP, it's-," Sam protested.
"I saw myself driving a Toyota! Shit! A Toyota!" Dean swore, and then continued, "and I was at a college, Broome Community College…"
Sam knew now why Dean had asked about the college name earlier. "All these things Marcia would have seen," Sam suggested. "You think you're seeing through her eyes somehow?"
"Almost makes sense," Dean reasoned. "She took my sight, I got hers… and I got her visual memories."
"I wonder if she got your memories."
"Bitch deserves any of the nightmares she sees if she does," Dean spat.
"Well, if she is seeing any of your visual memories, maybe she won't want to keep them. Between the demons, monsters and one-night-stands in your life…" Sam mused, raising an eyebrow.
"Ah, fuck," Dean swore, dreading the possibility that memories of Marcia's sex life might start popping into his consciousness. "Think there's any chance she was a lesbian before she met me?" he asked, hopeful.
Sam swatted Dean's arm and shook his head. Getting back on track, he said, "At least we can probably say she went elsewhere to get her power. The "eye clinic," as Mrs. Watkins said – probably some local witch or someone near the resort." He yawned then and patted Dean's shoulder. He realized that he'd been up for over fifteen hours, half of them spent driving, all of them spent worrying about Dean. "I don't know about you, but I need to get some sleep today. Preferably before we need to deal with Marcia."
As much as Dean wanted to protest, to go find Marcia and get it over with, he was still dizzy and did have a headache and he knew that he needed Sam to be in top form to deal with whatever Marcia might throw at them when they showed up at her house later on.
"Yeah, sounds good."
