Worth Living For 2/16
by Swanseajill
Part Two
"Dean! Dean, wake up!"
Dean jolted awake, jerking forward and biting back a gasp of pain as the sudden movement wrenched his back. "What's wrong?" he ground out, trying to orient himself and catch his breath at the same time.
"You were dreaming, man. You okay?"
Dean took a few deep breaths and looked away from his brother's scrutiny. He didn't need to see Sam to know that his face held the same expression of worried concern that had been present all morning. "I'm fine," he said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "Where are we?"
"Just turned off Highway 70."
Dean bit back a groan. Barely halfway to their destination. The headache he'd been unable to shake all morning still throbbed insistently at his temples, and every bump in the road sliced a sliver of pain through his back.
He was doing his best to behave as if everything was fine, and he thought he'd done a pretty good job so far. It helped that he no longer felt on the edge of breaking down. Last night… last night he'd been closer to losing it than he'd been in a long time. Most of his memory of those hours revolved around Sam — anxiously hovering, forcing Tylenol down his throat, and making up ice packs for his back. He didn't have the words to tell him, but he knew his brother had got him through those difficult hours, and the reassurance that he and Sam were okay with each other was pretty much the only positive thing he had to hold on to right now.
Yet whenever he allowed his thoughts to wander back to the warehouse, the pain and the hurt flooded back. In the past, he had always been able to keep his feelings carefully locked away, hidden from everyone, including himself. His feelings weren't important. The job was important and Sam was important. And Dad… he was important, too.
He shook himself mentally, angry at his lack of control. He just needed to pull himself together and get on with it. Sam had enough issues of his own without having to deal with this kind of emotional crap from his brother. He had to be strong for Sam. Had to keep it together for Sam.
"You sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine," he lied again, wishing it were true. His back had hurt badly enough lying in a comfortable bed. Now, after three hours on the road, the pain had intensified. He fidgeted surreptitiously, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. Sam glanced at him sharply.
"Want to stop for a bit?"
Hell, yes, he wanted to stop. He wanted to hole up somewhere until the pain passed. Instead, he smiled reassuringly at his brother. "I'm good. It's only another couple of hours' drive. Let's keep going."
After a moment of intense scrutiny, Sam nodded. "Why don't you dig out that article, remind me what we're getting into?"
Relieved that he'd successfully averted another discussion about his well-being, Dean pulled out the local newspaper editorial that had attracted them to the small Colorado town of Four Pines.
"It's an editorial from the Four Pines Gazette. 'Killer Cottage' by Buck Weadle." He paused. "Catchy title, eh?" Sam smiled and he read on. "Rose Cottage on Anderson Avenue, Four Pines, has witnessed five deaths over the past three years. Coincidence? Or is something more sinister going on in our sleepy little town? Let us consider the facts – and the victims.
"Brad Warrington: electrocuted while fixing some faulty wiring in the cottage basement. Official cause of death — misadventure. Jamie Warrington, Brad's brother: found hanged in the cottage one year later. Official cause of death — suicide. Rhonda Adams: bled to death after cutting herself on broken glass. Official cause of death – misadventure. Wendy Metzler: drowned in a pond in the garden of the cottage. Official cause of death – open verdict. Bill Turner: broke his neck falling from the roof of the cottage. Official cause of death – misadventure.
"All these deaths took place within Rose Cottage or its grounds. Local law-enforcement officers are convinced that the connection to the cottage is nothing more than a coincidence. 'It is a little odd,' admitted Deputy Sheriff Tommy Cartwright. 'But there's no evidence pointing to the likelihood of foul play in any of these cases. What we're dealing with here is a series of tragic coincidences.'" Dean looked up. "'A little odd '? That's an understatement."
Sam nodded. "Does it give any more details on the deaths?"
Dean scanned further down the editorial. "Nah. He just rambles on about five deaths being no coincidence. He ends with this: 'An unsatisfactory state of affairs, in the opinion of your humble editor. Is it not more plausible to consider the possibility that a serial killer is at work here in our little town? How many more people must die before someone decides to investigate the connection? But the sheriff's department refuses to reopen any of these cases, and who am I, a mere small-town editor, to question the mighty arm of law enforcement?"
"And that's it?"
Dean folded the clipping and put it back into his pocket. "That's it."
"Not much to go on, is it?"
Dean shrugged. "I don't know. I'd say that five deaths in the same house within three years is a mighty big coincidence."
"Yeah, I guess. I don't buy the serial-killer theory, though."
Dean nodded. "If it is a serial killer, he's pretty inventive – a different MO for each murder. My guess is we're dealing with a spirit of some kind."
"Either way, I wonder why he… it… chose those particular people? They can't have been the only ones to visit the cottage in three years."
"Yeah, well, not much point in speculating 'til we find out more." Dean shifted in his seat again and Sam glanced at him.
"Why don't you try and get some more sleep. I'll wake you when we get there."
"Yeah, okay." Dean didn't intend to fall asleep, though. When he slept, he dreamed of the warehouse. But he knew Sam thought he needed the rest, and he wasn't really in the mood to talk, so he slumped down in his seat, folded his arms and closed his eyes.