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Chapter Two:
Welcome to the Madhouse
Sam waited inside the Impala, his nose buried in a folder full of newspaper clippings. He didn't say a word as Dean dumped his bag in the trunk and got into the driver's seat. The car dipped beneath Dean's weight, and the door squeaked when he swung it shut, the heavy steel not designed to be quiet and gentlemanly. With a turn of the key, the engine roared to life then quietened to a deep rumble as Dean backed out of the spot and sped forward through the wide tunnel that led to the outside.
The Men of Letters bunker was a four-minute drive away from the nearest town, Lebanon, Kansas, which was so small that Dean could drive the entire length of it, while respecting the speed limit, in under two minutes.
Once they got to the highway, Dean asked, "Where to?"
"Eufaula, Oklahoma," said Sam.
Dean took a left, barely bothering to slow down at the bend, and once on the main road, he changed gears, put his foot down, and enjoyed the high that came with soaring over the asphalt fast enough that any cop with a radar speed gun would do a double-take.
It was a few miles before Dean asked, "What's in Oklahoma?"
Sam finally closed his folder. "On Monday, a small town went crazy. The number of violent crimes quadrupled in a day, then suddenly everything went quiet—nothing in the papers, no police reports, just total silence from the authorities."
"So it's a ghost town?" Dean guessed.
"Not quite. I checked social media, and if anything, Eufaula is getting more mentions now than it ever has before. Parties, street racing, people getting drunk before noon, and some darker stuff too."
Dean shrugged and pursed his lips. "Maybe they're celebrating."
"Yeah, maybe." Sam sighed loud enough to be heard over the engine. "I don't know, man. It feels like our kind of thing."
Even if it wasn't, it didn't matter because Sam became less and less tense the farther they got from the bunker. This case could be a wild goose chase, but so long as it kept the brothers busy, that was good enough for Dean. And if it really was nothing, they could always find another job to work. It was the beauty of the gig: there was always something to hunt.
"All right, then. Eufaula, Oklahoma, it is," said Dean.
Sam nodded and leaned back in his seat, staring out the window. Dean turned up the music and settled in for a seven-hour drive.
Eufaula, Oklahoma, population 2,813, had originated as a Muscogee Creek settlement and trading post after the U.S. Government forced the Creek to move to Indian Territory and cede their lands in the Southeastern United States in 1832. It evolved into a ranching centre after the arrival of the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad in 1872. Present-day Eufaula was located near Lake Eufaula, the largest capacity reservoir in Oklahoma, created in 1964, nicknamed the 'gentle giant.'
Dean had known none of that this morning, but Sam decided to give him a history lesson while they drove down highway 69 and across a long-ass bridge that spanned the length of the lake. He might not have cared much for the history of the place, but he couldn't deny that it was pretty to look at. Sam had mentioned that it was one of Oklahoma's vacation destinations, and Dean could see why. Come peak season, this place would be swarming with tourists, but in late winter, it looked practically deserted.
A few miles later they drove past a sign that read, 'Welcome to Eufaula Where Pride Creates Progress.'
The town looked nice. Dean had certainly seen worse, but his first impression was interrupted when a ninth generation Ford F-Series overtook him. The F-150 pickup truck sped past faster than even Dean would be comfortable driving down a suburban street, and less than a minute later, it swerved at a 90° angle. Dean braked—hard—and for a second, the sound of tires squealing was all that there was. Then the truck rolled, flipping over and over as glass shattered and metal warped, pelting down the road, leaving behind bits and pieces before it eventually settled on its roof.
"Holy shit," Sam whispered. He clutched the dashboard, his arms so tense they looked like they might snap off.
Dean shut down his daze before it got the chance to take over. He threw open his door and jumped out of the car. The smell of burned rubber and radiator coolant assaulted Dean's nose the minute he stepped onto the road as did the smell of fire and gasoline. Not good. He ran toward the crushed and twisted hunk of metal, glass crunching beneath his boots. Sam was right behind him, his uneven puffs of breath tickling Dean's neck.
Dean slid to his knees on the glass-strewn asphalt beside the driver's door on the other side of which a middle-aged guy with balding hair and a thick plaid jacket hung upside down. "Hey, man."
No answer.
Dean reached into the car through the broken window and gave the guy a shake. The driver startled awake, gasping for breath and staring straight ahead with wide eyes. Behind Dean, Sam was on the phone to 911.
"You're all right," said Dean. "Can you move? You gotta undo your seat belt."
The guy looked over, eyes glazed and unseeing, and gave a shaky nod. "Sure thing."
With trembling hands, he reached up to the seat belt buckle, his shaking fingers struggling to find the strength to push down on the release button. Dean heard sirens in the distance, but they only sounded for a minute before cutting off mid-note. The driver finally managed to get himself under control enough to unfasten the seat belt. Dean reached in and protected the man's head as he fell from his seat, landing in a heap on the cab's roof.
The car groaned and whined as Dean helped the guy out of his truck. It was a narrow fit through the window, but a bit of heaving and pulling did the trick. Dean winced as he helped the guy to his feet, feeling the hot, sticky dampness of blood trickle down from his knees. He probably had a few shards of glass embedded in his skin, his threadbare jeans not enough to offer much protection. Sam rushed to the guy's other side, and together he and Dean hobbled the man along until they were back at the Impala. The guy leaned heavily on the hood as the three of them caught their breath. Dean glanced around at the rows of houses on either side of the street, expecting a crowd of onlookers to have gathered, but save for the three of them, the street was deserted.
"Are you okay?" asked Sam. He ducked his head to catch the guy's eye.
The James Dean wannabe nodded, and after another gulp of air, he burst out laughing. "Never better."
Sam and Dean shared a look. Dean mouthed, "Shock." Sam shrugged, his brow creased with worry. The guy carried on with his hysterics, giggling and snorting as though nothing had ever been funnier. That was when Dean smelled the booze on his breath, as well as a strong, skunky odour that clung to his hair and clothes. That explained it. He mimed drinking and smoking to Sam whose shoulders immediately dropped, his frown turning into one of disapproval, as though he were in a position to judge.
"Lucky for me that you two showed up, huh?" said Mr Stoner between giggles. "A regular pair of good samaritans."
"Sir, you are aware that you shouldn't drive while intoxicated," said Sam in that tone of his that oozed dissatisfaction.
Old Tommy Chong guffawed. "Must have slipped my mind. I gotta say, it really took the edge off, though, you know? Made me feel like I was in a Fast and Furious movie."
"Almost complete with a fiery explosion," said Dean as he checked his watch. This place should be swarming with authority figures by now. The firetrucks should have barrelled down Main Street minutes ago, followed by cop cars, ambulances, and maybe the odd news truck. But other than that first wail while they were getting the stone-head out of his ride, no other siren had sounded. "We should get you to a hospital."
"Good idea," said Sam.
Mr Stoner—Calvin, he said his name was—tried giving directions to the nearest place offering emergency care, but somehow ended up directing Dean to a drive-thru.
"I have a craving," he explained as Sam glared at him over the backrest. Dean held back a snigger at Sam's expression while Calvin ordered his full of French fries and chicken nuggets.
"Can we get you to the hospital now, or would you like us to make another stop first?" asked Sam once Calvin got his food, his tone tight and irritated.
Sitting in the backseat, surrounded by paper bags and with his mouth full, Calvin said, "Nah, I'm good. Thanks."
Sam gave the directions this time, pulling up a map on his phone and ignoring Calvin who went off in a spiel about government spyware. Dean got to the clinic in record time, and Sam didn't complain once about his total disregard for the speed limit. Hell, the minute the car was in park, Sam all but threw Calvin's door open and quickly ushered him out.
Dean half-expected the small hospital to be empty. They hadn't driven past a single person on the way here, and Dean's ghost town theory was looking more and more plausible. He wanted to ask Calvin about it, but the guy was more likely to blame the aliens than give a straight answer. Fortunately, the clinic wasn't empty. Unfortunately, it was over-crowded. It looked like half the town was here, packed between the blindingly bright white walls, adding the smell of sweat and blood to that of antiseptic. People shouted while others laughed, and some milled about, quietly staring off into the distance or down at their phones. There was barely room to move as toes were stepped on and upper bodies were elbowed. Dean had only ever seen a hospital look this chaotic in medical dramas after a major accident or catastrophe, which generally resulted in at least one person losing a limb. Speaking of which, the man standing next to Dean had a bloodied towel wrapped around his hand, and the woman behind him had a scowl etched onto her face and one hand wrapped around the guy's collar while the other clutched a cooler box.
Sam stopped a woman wearing a white lab coat as she hurried past. "What's going on here?"
The woman looked haggard—the bags under her eyes were worse than Sam's, her dark hair escaped from her braid in clumps, and frown lines seemed to be permanently etched onto her forehead. "Sir, if you or one of your party have a minor injury, I'm afraid you're going to have to wait. If it's an emergency, there's a makeshift trauma room out back."
She made to leave, but Sam stopped her again. "Actually, we're here to help."
As the woman with the cooler box hauled Dean's neighbour out the door and toward the back of the building, Sam and Dean took out their fake FBI badges and flipped them open. They hadn't gotten the chance to change into their suits, but that didn't seem to matter to the doctor who barely glanced at the badges before sagging.
Her frown disappeared with a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I was about to call the CDC. Follow me."
She weaved her way through the crowd, and Sam hurried after her, mumbling apologies as he pushed past clusters of people. Dean turned to Calvin who swayed from side to side, clutching a bag of nuggets to his chest.
"All right, man, end of the line," he said. "You stay here until a doctor or nurse comes to see you. Got it?"
Calvin nodded, his face set in firm lines. "Thank you. You saved my life; I owe you." There were tears in his eyes as he reached into his bag and handed Dean a nugget. "Here."
Dean rubbed his mouth, wiping away his smile. He was set on refusing the offering, but Calvin grabbed his hand and pressed the gift into his palm, closing Dean's fingers tightly around it. The fried batter squished against Dean's skin, cold and soggy.
Dean gently pulled his hand out of Calvin's. "Thanks."
"No." Calvin shook his head as marijuana-induced tears ran down his unshaven cheeks. "Thank you."
This guy thought his life was worth a single chicken nugget, and Dean could no longer hold back his smile. "Take care."
He spotted Sam, easily visible above the crowd, turning left down the hall, and followed. He had to elbow his way through and received a few jabs himself, but once out of the reception area and down the hall, he stepped through a metal door marked, 'Personnel Only.' This corridor was notably less crowded with only the odd nurse or doctor speed-walking or ambling past. Half of them looked as rushed off their feet as the first doctor had, while the other half strolled around, whistling or laughing.
Dean walked past a supply closet but jumped back when something heavy fell against the closed door. The metal groaned beneath the weight of whatever was pushing against it almost covering the sound of laboured breathing coming from within.
Dean glanced up and down the corridor, checking that the coast was clear. He rested his hand on the butt of his gun, ready to draw it if necessary, and in one fluid motion, he threw open the door. A flurry of white wooshed past him and fell to the floor with a thud and a curse.
"What the hell was that for?" shouted a partially undressed man as he struggled beneath the weight of an attractive redhead who was equally lacking in clothing.
Dean's eyes widened and his mouth fell open as he took in the couple he'd just interrupted. "Sorry. I was—I thought…"
"No need to apologise, sugar," said the woman between heavy breaths. Her friend tried to cover himself up using both of their lab coats, but it wasn't easy with her lounging on top of him, not caring a bit about her current state of undress. "Were you hoping to catch the show?"
Dean chuckled awkwardly, feeling his skin grow warm beneath her leering smile. "I heard the banging, and I thought someone might be stuck in there."
"Sure, you did." She grinned and pushed to her feet. Dean kept his eyes glued to her face, resisting any temptation to glance elsewhere, which only made her smile grow. She inched closer until she was barely an inch away. "You could join us if you'd like."
Dean took a moment to consider whether he'd just stepped onto the set of a porno. Sure, he'd had women offer him threesomes before, but never in this kind of environment with this level of sobriety. He was so thrown out of his rhythm that he couldn't decide if he was turned on or not, although most indicators pointed to yes.
The redhead bit down on her lip and slinked back a step, giving Dean a better view of what she was offering. He couldn't help his gaze from sliding down, over her unbuttoned blouse, lace bra and rumpled skirt. Her lab coat hung off one shoulder like a kinky negligée, and her hair had that mussed sex hair look. Then Dean's gaze fell lower still down her bare legs then off to the side where movement caught his attention. The redhead's partner sat up, his trousers now zipped and buckled although his shirt was still mostly undone. He didn't look so thrilled with the woman's proposition—sitting cross-legged at her feet, staring down at his clutched hands, his lips drawn in a firm, sulking line.
Dean glanced up the hall where his brother and that other doctor had disappeared then looked back to the redhead. "Tempting, but I don't think that supply closet will fit three."
She laughed and flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Fair point." Taking another step back, she flicked her tongue over her lips as her eyes trailed over him. "Such a shame. But there's always next time, right?"
"I sure as hell hope so," he said, a twinge of disappointment pinging through him, but he had a job to do, and now wasn't the time for a hook-up, no matter how much fun that might be. Later, though…
The woman must have had the same thought because she reached into her pocket and pulled out a pen and notepad. She scribbled something on a sheet of paper then tore it off and handed it to Dean.
"For next time," she said as Dean read her name—Trisha—and number from the paper.
He grinned and made a show of carefully tucking the note into his coat pocket. "For next time."
With a nod of farewell, he walked around Trisha and the guy still slumped at her feet only to jump forward with a surprised gasp when she slapped his ass hard enough to make it sting. It took his brain half a second to reboot during which he stood frozen, trying to figure out if that had actually happened. A glance over his shoulder revealed the most coquettish smile he had ever seen, accompanied by a sultry wink. Dean gave a wavering smile back along with a little wave as he got over the shock, but he upped the pace as he walked away. Ass slapping was all well and good, but there was a time and place for it, and doing it to a stranger in an unexpected environment wasn't the way to go about it.
The clinic's subpar soundproofing led him to Sam. He knocked once on the door, and the doctor must have been standing by it because not a second later it flew open.
"I thought you might have gotten lost," she said, looking even more frazzled than earlier.
She ushered him into the office. Sam sat in a frayed leather chair in front of a desk stacked high with files and paperwork. The desktop computer made a low thrumming noise that hiccoughed every few seconds with a dull clunking sound. Behind the desk stood another chair as well as a bookshelf that covered the entire wall. There was a second door in front of Dean on the other side of the room that must have led to a waiting room if the exam table was anything to go by.
"No, just ran into a woman named Trisha," said Dean. "Stopped for a talk."
The doctor's face fell with a sigh and a frown. "And how long did it take for her to proposition you?"
Sam managed to turn his laugh into a cough as Dean floundered, mouth opening and closing, scrambling to find a reply, but the doctor wasn't looking for one.
"She's married, you know?" she said. "Happily. Or at least she was last week before she started sleeping with every attractive man she came close to."
"I didn't know," said Dean.
The doc nodded, eyes downcast and distant. "Her husband is one of our local firefighters. He was taken to Oklahoma City for major surgery after he jumped into oncoming traffic two days ago."
"Did he jump because of—" He hooked his thumb over his shoulder toward the direction in which Trisha was having all kinds of extramarital fun.
"No." She shook her head as her lips twisted into a bitter smile. "Apparently, he just 'felt like it'."
Dean frowned. "He 'felt like' jumping in front of car?"
"Like I've been telling your partner: over the past few days things have been out of sorts around here. People aren't acting like themselves. They've become reckless and dangerous—drinking, gambling, cheating on spouses, leaving kids unsupervised, driving like maniacs, jumping in front of cars, hurting themselves and others… It's as though ninety per cent of the town lost their minds overnight."
"Do you remember what day this happened?" asked Sam.
The doctor walked around her desk, running a hand through her knotted hair, and collapsed in her chair. "Monday. Everything was fine on Sunday, but the minute I woke up on Monday, it was different. It started slow. Some people were more affected than others right from the start, and they've only gotten worse since."
The frown lines on Sam's forehead deepened. "Did anything happen around that time that might have caused this?"
The doctor scoffed, "I don't even know what this is." With a sigh, she ran her hand through her hair again. Her fingers caught on a knot, and she yanked hard enough that even Dean winced. "There was a game on Sunday. Football. Nothing major, but the entire town showed up for it. It's the only thing I can think of, but it was all ordinary. Nothing strange happened."
That she would notice. But civilians had a way of missing things, especially when they pointed to a supernatural entity.
"You said this isn't affecting everyone," said Dean. "Is there anything you have in common with the others who aren't affected?"
Her dark eyes went distant again. She was probably mid to late thirties at most, but the stress lines added a decade on top of that. "Not as far as I can tell."
Dean moved toward the spare chair next to Sam's to take his weight off his wounded knees. The movement drew the doctor's gaze down to his blood-stained jeans, and she jumped out of her chair like a startled cat.
"You're hurt," she said. She rushed around the desk and bustled Dean toward the exam table, ignoring his protests.
It was just a bit of glass, which he was perfectly capable of dealing with himself, but she wouldn't hear it.
"Take off your shoes and trousers," she said once she had him backed up against the table.
He was about to argue again, but he saw her hands twitch and figured that if he didn't do it himself, she might. He crouched to unlace his boots, and when she was sure that he was doing as he was told, she hurried off to the line of cabinets and counters behind him. Dean kicked off one shoe then the other, unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, and pushed them down. He held back a wince as he shoved them past his knees where he dislodged a shard of glass that tinkled as it hit the floor.
"Hop up," she said, nodding to the table.
Dean did so before she got the idea to help him along, feeling a painful throb as he put weight on the cheek Trisha had hit. The paper towel crinkled beneath him as he laid back and let her get to work. To her credit, she was very good at her job. Dean was cleaned and patched up in record time. He hadn't cut himself too badly, which helped. It was just going to sting for a while and make crouching, walking, driving, and getting down on his knees uncomfortable. Other than that, though, he would be just fine.
Cas could have fixed him up no problem, leaving not even a scar behind when he was done. But Cas wasn't here—he had better things to worry about, so Dean would have to make do.
When the doctor went to throw away the bloodied gauze, Dean slid from the table and got dressed. He was lacing up his boots when shouting sounded on the other side of the patient room door.
"They're not supposed to be in there," said the doctor. She glared at the door as though that might make the arguing stop. It was a good glare, but not that good.
It took only a moment for the argument to escalate with a slap, thud, and crash. Dean ran for the door and threw it open to find three big guys in the middle of a brawl. One lay in the shattered remains of a glass table while the other two danced. It only took one right hook from the biggest guy, though, to send the other flying through a closed door. The wood shattered from the force of it, hinges snapping off, and the guy fell into the reception area, which was suffering from the same situation as the waiting room. Fists flew as people attacked anyone within reach with grins on their faces and mad gleams of glee in their eyes.
The doctor stepped up beside Dean as one man threw another over the reception desk.
With a loud, put-upon sigh, she said, "Welcome to the madhouse."
A/N: Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Full disclosure, I have never been to Eufaula, Oklahoma. All I have to go on are Google Maps and a tourist board website, so please forgive any inaccuracies.