Part Two
"Hey Dean, I figured we could find some information about Sheridon in the local library. Maybe they have some articles from the 1800's still on file…Dean?" Sam emerged from the bathroom dressed in boxers, his hair damp and tussled. He looked around the cabin, but there was no sign of his brother. Sam was in the shower for at least ten minutes, surely it didn't take that long to retrieve a bag of M&M's from the car…
Resisting the urge to panic immediately, Sam toed into his boots and carried the sawed-off shotgun with him as he ventured outside, calling out his brother's name into the obscure night. Only the chirps and wails of bugs responded. Stepping further outside, Sam scanned the area around the Impala then retraced the path back to the front porch. The abandoned bag of peanut butter M&M's lay just outside the flowerbed, pieces strewn across the ground. He couldn't see any possible signs of struggle, but there were more than one set of prints surrounding the area.
Sam jumped down the last two steps of the porch, heart pounding and eyes searching frantically through the dark copse of trees that surrounded the cabin. It was silent, eerily so, and he couldn't help hoping that his brother was just playing a trick on him, hiding in the shadows ready to pounce any minute and laugh it off the next. "Dean? Dean! Where the hell are you?"
He jogged toward the car, found nothing inside and walked back to the cabin. He turned around in circles before stepping onto the porch, hoping to catch of glimpse of something – anything that would lead to where his brother went. And he swore to hell and back if Dean was playing a prank on him, he'd kill that bastard with his bare hands and then tear him to pieces.
Then Sam remembered his cell phone… He bounded into the cabin and found it by the laptop, dialing Dean's number without skipping a beat. He felt his heart plummet when it rang once before immediately switching to Dean's voicemail. His brother never turned his cell phone off in hopes that their dad would call. This wasn't a game – Dean was in danger. "Shit, shit, shit!"
Sam drove into town clad only in his boxers, a worn T-shirt and his ankle-high boots still unlaced. The sawed-off shotgun lay in the passenger seat, and his cell phone clutched in one hand as he sped down the two-lane road that led straight into Cave City. How could he have been so stupid? He should've known… What? How could he have predicted that the townspeople were going to kidnap his brother? They all seemed innocent enough – maybe a little on edge and aloof, but nothing that gave any impression otherwise.
Honestly, Sam didn't know what to do once he got into town. If it was true, and the locals did kidnap Dean, they would obviously lie about it once Sam questioned. The panicked side of Sam wanted to break down every damn door and find his brother that way, but the sensible side forced him to find a more non-violent approach. He needed to find Dean without getting himself run out of the town by force, or even killed. If only he knew where to start…
Fortunately, Sam spotted Betty closing up the diner for the night. He pulled up against the curb, tires squealing, and jumped out of the car with it still running. He jogged towards her, barely aware of how frightened she reacted upon seeing him. "Have you seen my brother?" It was the first thing he could think of saying when he saw a familiar face. He didn't even know if he could trust Betty, but he had to try.
"Boy, don't you know not to sneak up on a woman like that?" Betty exclaimed once she recognized Sam, her hand on her heaving chest. Her eyes were wide and brimming with tears from the adrenaline rush of a possible attacker coming after her. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
"I'm sorry, Betty," Sam said breathlessly, his eyes apologetic and pleading. "I just—"
"I should give you a good smack for acting so foolish!" Betty said, shaking her head. She turned her back on Sam and locked the diner's door. Turning around, she huffed and placed her hands on her chubby hips. "Now, what is this about your brother? Is that the boy you were with today?"
"Yes. He's missing."
"Have you tried the nearest bar," she sneered and straightened out the invisible wrinkles in her skirt. "I bet that boy took the first opportunity he had to find one."
"The nearest one is at least fifty miles away, right? He was with me all night."
Betty looked at Sam, her eyes narrowed. She shook her head once and pushed past him toward her car. "Sorry, son… I haven't seen him. You may want to get ole' Addison involved."
"He didn't seem very "helpful' when we met him earlier," Sam said, disappointed as he followed Betty.
"How would you feel if you just lost your son, huh?"
"Awful, but—"
"I rest my case, darlin'."
Sam felt his frustration rising. He forced himself to calm down and asked softly, "What is going on in this town, Betty? Why is everyone dying?"
That seemed to grab the older woman's attention. She stopped just a few feet from her Oldsmobile, though she didn't turn around to face Sam. Her shoulders seemed to sag heavily at the sudden question, her fingers wringing the leather bound strap of her purse. "Son, we've been through a lot in this town…"
"You can tell me, Betty. We're here to help you. Just please…"
Suddenly she shook her head and continued forward. She dangled her keys in front of her with every intention of escaping this conversation without giving Sam the answers he needed. "It's best you leave, now."
Sam wanted to shake her until she confessed! He tried to subtly block her from getting into her car instead. She looked up at him in surprise before anger took over her gaze, but Sam implored anyway, "Betty, you've got to help me. You know something. My brother and I… we came here to help."
"Boy, if you don't move…"
"Does any of this have to do with Kathryn Sheridon?"
Fear flashed in Betty's eyes, her face losing all color and her body frozen. Sam did not expect that kind of reaction and he reached out to comfort the woman, an apology already on his lips. He was surprised a second time when Betty's large purse swung toward his face, and he tried to jump out of the way only to have the car block his path. He yelped when Betty's purse struck him twice in the arm, and then another for good measure; the small woman repeatedly shouting threats. "Now, you get outta here! I will not have you say that name around me again, got it? I should beat your hide, you ungrateful little—"
"Betty, please! I'm sorry! I just need your help!"
She pushed Sam aside with her purse, and opened the car door with enough force to cause it to bounce back on its hinges. Her entire body was shaking when she got in the car, her lips pressed in a thin line and her face beet red. Sam had really hit a nerve with mentioning Sheridon. He couldn't help wondering if everyone in the town would have the same affect. He was surprised when Betty didn't drive off immediately; she just sat there in her car, hands on the steering wheel and the door still open. The engine was running, but it was clear she had no intention to leave yet. She fought an inner battle, one that Sam couldn't understand. "Who are you?" she asked, her face slowly turning toward him. "You're not from disease control, huh?"
Sam frowned, shaking his head. "No."
"Then who are you? What are you doing here?"
"If I told you everything, you'd think I am crazy."
"Hon, I already think you're crazy," she snorted, giving him a look. "Answer my question."
"Kathryn Sheridon is haunting your town, isn't she Betty?"
Betty gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. She glanced at Sam out of the corner of her eye before she reached over and grabbed the door handle. "You'll find your answers in the library. It's on Johnson Street." The door slammed shut and she sped off, leaving Sam stranded in the vacant parking lot.
It didn't take long for Sam to start moving back to the Impala, in a slight daze. He sat behind the wheel, and stared out the windshield in the direction where the headlights glared against a busted lamppost. Though Sam knew how to pick a lock, he never liked the idea of breaking into a public building, especially with his brother normally egging him on from behind. He tried to conjure up the motivation he needed to break into the library, but once Dean missing entered his mind, all thoughts of morality ceased – what little remained, and Sam steered the car toward Johnson street.
Thankfully, once he found the building and snuck inside the back entrance, no alarm went off, but that didn't rule out the possibility of a silent one already putting the Sherriff's office on alert. With that thought in mind, Sam rushed through the aisles of the nonfiction section searching for the local history archive. He placed his mini-flashlight under his arm as he was forced to pick another lock to get inside the archive room, and inside he found numerous rows of shelves with filing boxes all organized in chronological order. With very little to sort through, Sam found a box labeled, "1860 to 1863" in faded black ink.
Jackpot.
He placed the flashlight between his teeth, grabbed the box from the shelf and carried it to the nearest table to sift through the files inside. It mostly consisted of old newspaper articles and some police reports throughout the three year span. One paper in particular caught Sam's attention and he pulled out an article mentioning the death of Josephine Dubois. She was thirty-nine and found dead outside of her home, on the front steps. No evidence pointed to health related problems and instantly foul play became a key factor, but it didn't add up when the victim bore no signs of assault. It was as if she had just collapsed while on her way to town and didn't get back up again. Following that article, a police report named Jonathan Sheridon as the suspect – the last person to see Dubois alive and all fingers pointed to him without giving him a fair trial. Within a week, he was executed under the crimes of witchcraft and hanged at the age of twenty-eight.
Sam straightened and gave out a low whistle. Kathryn never killed her husband like the stories had told…
Shaking his head, Sam bent forward and read through more files. He found another police report of Kathryn becoming violent and unstable after her husband's death with numerous charges against her for threatening the families responsible for Jonathan's execution. The names mentioned filing the majority of the harassment files were Addison and Dubois. Not even six months later, Kathryn committed suicide and immediately after followed a series of deaths against the families involved, creating a pattern to the present day – her vengeful spirit getting the revenge she had wanted all along.
"Jesus," Sam muttered. "And I thought our family had dark spots."
At the bottom of the box lay a small folder full of old photos, though most consisted of group shots of the townspeople. Sam placed them aside, not interested and thumbed through the remaining stack. He found one of the Dubois family and then one of the Addison's. Under that a photo of Kathryn Sheridon with who Sam assumed was her husband. He moved to toss that picture on the pile on the table, but he did a quick double take and stared at the photo again. Slowly, his eyes widened in surprise as the puzzle pieces finally started to fit together. He uttered a curse under his breath, then another spilled forth and he dashed out of the room, the photo clutched in his hand with every intention to face Sherriff Addison and his family with the sawed-off shotgun in visible sight.
----
Consciousness was such a bitch.
Dean would've gladly given in to the blissful, painless shroud of his dreamless sleep again, but the voices surrounding him deterred that desire. It sounded as if he was listening to a broken walkie-talkie, with only garbled words of a conversation coming through, but nothing he could make out. Maybe because he couldn't get past the intense pulsating inside his head, the sensation threatening to split his skull into gory little pieces. No, that was a big understatement…
Dean forced his eyes open. Much like his hearing, he saw nothing but distorted shapes and colors even after blinking many times. He then realized it was a mistake to even try to grasp his surroundings, nausea suddenly causing his empty stomach to recoil. Don't throw up. Don't throw up, he told himself, closing his eyes. He took a few deep, steadying breaths through his mouth and waited for the waves to stop rolling. He groaned, and with the low rumble of sound that came from his throat he noticed the hushed voices drawing near. They sounded stressed, even angry, but he still couldn't understand the words said.
Despite the fact that he just wanted to lie there and go back to sleep, Dean brought his arms up from his sides to brace himself as he tried to sit up. Instinct told him he had to get out of there – wherever 'there' was. He knew this wasn't right, but he couldn't remember why exactly, he just knew. He hoped that he only drank too much the night before and carrying the weight of a hangover, but it was highly unlikely since he clearly remembered the lack of alcohol consumed that night; actually there had been none.
Stupid county regulations…
An invisible force pushed him down, suddenly trapping him underneath the heavy weight with his cheek pressed against something cold and gritty. He didn't have much strength to fight as his consciousness was still in a state of limbo, threatening to pull him under again, and he just laid there breathing heavily. After several minutes, his vision soon evolved around him and shapes took form, colors separated. Although warped and angled sideways by the position of his head, Dean gathered in a spacious room – a basement. It was sparse of any furnishings aside from a washer, dryer and a hot water heater along with an old mattress situated against the far wall – a stairwell beside it. The walls were painted a bland off white with water stains and cracks in sporadic places. It had that distinct underground smell and Dean wrinkled his nose at the scent of mold and other old things.
"We can't do this…"
"What makes you think we can't?"
"He's a kid, Addy. A kid. He could be Sean's age…"
"Don't start that, Lynn. Please."
A sigh in response, filled with doubt and longing. "We don't even know if this will work."
It was a woman and a man talking, no wait, a second man; the one standing over Dean hadn't spoken yet. Obviously they were arguing over Dean, but why he didn't know – not even sure he wanted to know. And where was Sam?
"It's worth the risk," the first man finally said with little confidence.
Dean assumed it was Sherriff Addison by his voice, though he couldn't see much of him past his dark boots pacing the floor. He did notice the woman sitting on the steps, elbows on her knees and face cupped in her hands. A frown marred her delicate, aging features, but it didn't take away from the fact that she was still beautiful considering her state of distress. She finally looked at him and straightened; her eyes wide. "He's awake."
The pressure between his shoulder blades lifted and Dean did the first thing his mind conjured, quickly rolling away with every intention to escape his captors, hoping that his body had the strength to do exactly what his brain screamed at him. But he was too slow, lethargic, as if moving against a crushing wave and it eventually won. Head spinning from the sudden vertigo, Dean found himself standing, the collar of his shirt clutched in a tight grip. He blinked the spots from his eyes, coercing his head to stay up instead of lolling forward and stared at the man keeping him upright under heavy eyelids. Tobacco breath assailed Dean's nostrils and he almost gagged. "Dude, ever heard of a toothbrush?" he croaked in a bovine tone, screwing his face in disgust and closing his eyes tight.
"Don't!" Sherriff Addison warned from behind, obviously preventing the other man from punching Dean in the mouth for his snide comment. "Just put him over there for now."
Dean's vision started to tilt in various degrees as he was dragged across the room and thrown down onto the stiff mattress. A layer of dust billowed up after he landed unceremoniously on his side, causing him to cough up the dirt that clung to the back of his throat. The headache came back, no it never left, but intensified and Dean was sure it had finally split his skull down the middle. No doubt he had a concussion.
He tried to move, at least to roll over into a sitting position, but his limbs felt so heavy that all he could manage was a clumsy flop onto his stomach. Obviously the position they wanted him in as his hands were pulled behind his back and cuffed together; the same done to his ankles. Not good…
"Don't hurt him, Larry," Lynn said, her voice dripping. "I think he has a concussion."
No shit, Dean thought bitterly. He tried to sit up for the third time despite the chains, and Lynn surprised him by helping him prop his back against the wall. Instantly, he saw the search for forgiveness in Lynn's eyes, and he felt an unexpected coil of fear in his stomach. "What do you want?" he asked, looking past Lynn to stare at the Sherriff and his trusty sidekick, Larry. His question went unanswered, both men frowning at him before they started for the stairs. Dean's gaze flew from one person to another, his heart beating faster with anxiety. "Wait! What's going on?"
"Lynn? Come on."
"Addy…"
"Lynn," the Sherriff said, his tone changing, darkening as he gave his wife a stern glare, "Now."
"I'm so sorry," Lynn whispered, shaking her head before straightening; her face a mixture of sadness and regret.
"Wha-what? Why?" Dean quickly felt his anger take over his apprehension, and he yelled at their retreating backs, "Damn it… wait! Tell me what you want! Where is my brother?" The door slammed shut and locked. Save for Dean's rapid breathing, the room was silent. An interesting find was the door had no knob, indicating no chance of escape, if he ever got out of the cuffs, unless someone unlocked it from the outside. He grunted and struggled with the restraints for a few moments, but found no give in their strength. He really started to despise the human race, and he felt the urge to bang his head against the wall in frustration, but decided better on it – he didn't exactly want to end up with another injury on top of the other. Instead, he just shouted the first thing that came to mind, "Son of a bitch!"
TBC…