A/n: Okay, so, no journal entry for this chapter, sorry. I have given up trying to guestimate the number of chapters for this fic. Apparently I love the little details too much for events to happen quickly. I still have the entire outline, though, so no worries. This story is completely plotted out. Hopefully a longer fic than planned won't bother any of you guys.
Thanks so much to all my reviewers, you are amazing and wonderful and kind and deserve amazing, wonderful things.
And if you haven't checked out my other AU WIP, "All The Pretty Monsters", please check it out via my profile. I update it also very regularly, though, fair warning, it is a dark fic (perhaps the darkest I've ever wrote.)
If you can spare a moment, please review and let me know your thoughts.
As always,
EverReader
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox
Chaper Six- "The Boy Who Drew To Much"
Sam studied the boy in front of him. Lucas continued to steadfastly ignore him however, completely engrossed in his drawing. Crayons and sheets of paper were strewn about the room, and Lucas seemed almost manic as he created picture after picture of the lake.
Most of the pictures appeared to have bodies in them. Wasn't that a charming thought?
Sam could feel the watchful, worried eyes of both Andrea and Dean on the two of them from where they stood in Lucas's doorway. Verbal pleas hadn't gotten a reaction out of the child and Sam wasn't sure how much longer Andrea would allow them to remain. That she had let them in at all was a minor miracle itself, as far as Sam was concerned, and testament to Dean's utter ability to charm blood out of the proverbial stone.
Racking his mind for an alternative way to communicate with Lucas, Sam settled for picking up his own blank sheet of paper and crayon. Speaking lowly, so that Andrea couldn't hear his words, he started talking to Lucas, his words almost stumbling over themselves in his haste.
"I saw something this morning, Lucas. In the water. I saw a...a picture of something important, but my brother stopped me from seeing the rest. Is that what you've been seeing? Is that what you've been drawing? Can you help me, Lucas? Can you tell me who this is?" Sam handed his own crude drawing of the boy with the red bike over to Lucas.
Lucas studied the drawing solemnly for a moment, and Sam held his breath, afraid to ruin the moment.
Biting his lip, Lucas laid down Sam's drawing. Picking up a crayon of his own, he slowly started filling in the background, which Sam had intentionally left blank.
Slowly, new details emerged, first a tree, then a yellow two story house with a fence running along side of it. Sam felt a surge of excitement when Lucas added the white clapboard church beside beside the yellow house.
Sam recognized that church. He had jogged by one just like it that morning.
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Dean watched as his brother somehow managed to interact with the nearly catatonic child. Dread curled in his stomach, and he had to repeatedly force himself to unclench his fists.
Dean had never walked away from a hunt before. Had never even considered walking away from a hunt while the baddie was still breathing air (or whatever that particular brand of baddie breathed).
But then, Dean's little brother had never suddenly mutated into monster bait mid-hunt either.
Dean couldn't understand why the ghost had seemed to latch on to Sammy the way it had, unless it was just a case of right place, wrong time. The ghost was obviously fixated on Lucas also. Perhaps Sam had just been unlucky enough to attract the ghosts attention during it's attack on Lucas at the playground yesterday.
Sam was only a few years older than the ghost they appeared to be hunting, so perhaps that played a part also.
But then what was the connection between the other victims? The ghost was obviously after the Daniels family, but why?
He looked up at Sam as he walked up to Dean with a triumphant grin. Dean didn't fail to notice that the smile never made it to Sam's eyes.
"I got it." Sam said, presenting the drawing to Dean as they went to meet their father outside. "I know where we have to go next."
Dean looked at his brother, careful to ensure his face did not betray his turbulent thoughts. Sam was still too pale, and had spent half the car ride over coughing. Stubbornly, he had refused any of Dean's offer's of assistance, and Dean was becoming nostalgic for his old, clingy little brother.
New Sam seemed almost...driven.
Dean didn't like it. Something about all this felt horribly wrong.
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Sam studied the house in front of them. It was a match in every way for Lucas's sketch, but more than that, it simply felt right.
Pushing down his unease at the thought that he now had instincts that could pick up on something like that, he got out of the car and stood staring up at the house.
"Sam?" His father questioned gruffly, and Sam nodded a short, terse affirmative.
Following his father and brother to the front door, he obediently stood behind Dean as his father knocked. A small, timid looking woman in her late sixties opened yes door.
"Can I help you?" She asked in a quivering voice, eyes widening in mild alarm at the sight of the three men.
John smiled, and Sam reluctantly acknowledged that his father could definitely turn on the charm when he had a mind to. It was obvious where Dean had learned that particular skill.
"Ma'am, My name's John Talbot, I'm with the Wisconsin Weekly Sentinel, and these two young men are interning with me. I'm doing an article about the drownings and disappearances here in Lake Manitoc. May we come in?" He smiled his charm smile once more for good measure, but it wasn't necessary, as the woman was already opening the door wide.
"Dear Lord," She whispered, half to herself, the three men straining forward to catch her wavering words.
"You must be here about Peter," She said, tears welling up in her eyes. "After all these years." She swallowed, then gestured them in. "You'd better come in and sit down."
Sam's head snapped up at her words, violent chills working themselves up and down his spine.
Peter.
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John kept the charade up smoothly, asking the right questions, pausing in all the right places, making all the right, sympathetic noises.
Sam had obviously been correct. Peter Billings was almost certainly the ghost responsible for the recent spate of drownings. But a missing body was difficult to salt and burn. And the host's fixation with the lake indicated that drowning was the most likely cause of death. Stopping the ghost out right would be nearly impossible. Eventually, the draining of the lake by the feds would render the ghost impotent, but who knew how many other people might drown in the meantime?
Their next best bet would be to identify and try to relocate potential victims while they worked on the problem of dispelling Peter's ghost. They had yet to establish the pattern between the victims though.
Just then, John noticed Sam stiffen, spine as straight as a board as he reached out to pick up a photo from the mantle where he had been studying Mrs. Billing's knick knacks. Dean noticed also, smoothly engaging Mrs. Billings in conversation, distracting her as Sam subtly pocketed the photo.
John smiled to himself in satisfaction. A few weeks ago, Sam would have balked at what he would have considered a form of theft.
But now he didn't hesitate, seeing a source of vital information and taking the steps needed to acquire it.
Yes, Sam was coming along nicely.
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They thanked Mrs. Billings for her time and left quickly, gathering round the Impala. Sam had already removed the picture from its frame. Dean spared a moment of unease for how easily Sam had stolen what had probably been a treasured picture of Mrs. Billings dead child. Forcing it down, he leaned down to read the writing on the back of the photo. The writing was faded but still legible, in a curling, feminine script that probably belonged to Peter's mother.
Peter Billings and Joseph Daniels, age twelve.
"Joseph Daniels." Sam said, making eye contact with his father. "Sophie and Will's dad."
John frowned in thought. "Its unlikely to be a coincidence." He said finally. We'd better head over to the Daniels place and see what he has to say.
They split up, the boys in the Impala and John in his truck. They pulled up a little less than ten minutes later.
The house appeared empty, eerie and silent, windows darkened, a lone wind chime sounding discordantly in the breeze.
John gave the boys a look and Dean nodded, pulling his gun from where he had put it at the small of his back. Sam knelt smoothly to pull his knife from his ankle sheath, but was stopped by John nonchalantly handing him his second piece.
Dean pulled up short in surprise. John had been adamant that Sam not carry during the day unless the hunt took them into the woods or into so other, isolated area. He had always said it wasn't worth the risk of Sam getting caught carrying, no matter how proficient a shot Sam had become. Sam's face revealed neither surprise or anything other emotion, however, so Dean filed it away, one more item to deal with later.
Their father motioned for them to cover the rear entrance and the brothers moved stealthily around the house. Dean noticed with some surprise that despite his recent growth spurt Sam moved easily and silently, seeming to have finally come to terms with his own body. They moved quietly up the stairs, pausing when Dean held up his handling, directing Sam that they would wait for John's signal.
A second later, though, Dean realized that Sam was no longer at his back. Pivoting smoothly, he could see his brother running towards the dock at the water's edge.
"Sam!", Dean hissed, lunging after his brother.
The look Sam tossed over his shoulder had Dean on red alert, however. Straightening, he scanned the area, trying to see or hear whatever it was that had caught Sam's attention. He could hear John behind them also, now, the banging of the screen door certifying without words that the house was indeed empty.
Sam slowed as he came to the dock, and Dean caught up to him only a few yards out.
"What the fuck, Sam!" He cursed, voice echoing back at them over the water and Dean winced at the volume of his own words.
"Ssshhhh!" Instantly Sam reacted, holding his own hand up to his brother to signal for quiet, turning in a circle where he stood.
Facing out to the lake once more he closed his eyes. Almost immediately though, he opened them again. Sam's eyes shot to Dean's.
"Do you hear a boat?" Sam asked, voice low and intense as he scanned the tree line once more.
Now that he knew what he was listening for, Dean could, in fact, hear the sound of an outboard motor.
From around a bend in the shoreline, a small boat appeared, a lone man at the helm. Dean recognized Mr. Daniels.
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"Come back!" Sam shouted desperately, cupping his hands around his mouth to better pitch his voice across the water. Sam was certain he had been heard, but Mr. Daniels gave no indication that he was returning, instead increasing the speed of the small boat.
Sam watched defeatedly as the boat shot out further across the lake. Sam tensed, feeling a sense of... unease...wash through him.
Eyes widening with sudden understanding, he turned back to Dean and their father, unceremoniously shoving them off the dock, toward the cover of the tree line.
Sam's back was turned at the actual moment Peter attacked the boat. He had to rely on Dean's description after ward.
It didn't matter, though, because Sam had achieved his goal. When the boat flew up into the air, as if it had struck a wall in the middle of the lake, raining down shrapnel and debris, the Winchester's were several feet away from the dock and the smoking wreckage that struck it almost immediately.
Peter was one seriously pissed off ghost.
Dean made to go into the water then, thinking to try to rescue Daniels, but John stopped him, his arm an unrelenting wall across Dean's chest.
"It's too late, anyway." Sam said disjointedly, listed suddenly to one side. He felt strong hands wrap around him as his knees buckled and everything started to fade to Gray.
He probably should have grabbed something to eat this morning.
Oh well.
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Dean listened with only half an ear as his father argued with the suspicious Sheriff.
Most of his attention was settled on his too pale, too quiet, too still pain in the ass little brother. Sam had shrugged off passing out, attributing it to too much cold medicine and not enough breakfast.
Dean was less than reassured, but hopefully it wouldn't matter much longer. The ghost of Peter Billings had successfully managed to kill the last living member of the Daniels family. The Sheriff had reluctantly acknowledged that his son-in-law had, in fact, been Joseph Daniels godson.
The entire case was wrapping up neatly, if slightly less than satisfactorily. It burned that they hadn't been able to save the Daniels family, but it was obvious now that Joseph Daniels had, in fact, been the intended target all along.
Dean was willing to chalk this one up in the win-some, lose-some column, and get his ghost-whispering little brother the hell out of dodge.
John had just reluctantly agreed to the Sheriff's "suggestion" that they make tracks out of town when the door opened, revealing Andrea and Lucas.
Dean noticed two interesting things in the next moment. Firstly, the Sheriff was seriously unhappy to see his daughter and grandson.
The second was that apparently Lucas had taken a shine to Sammy during their few interactions, because the child threw himself into Sam's arms and promptly burst into tears.
Sam gave Dean a bewildered, uncomfortable look, and Dean shrugged helplessly. Perhaps the child had sensed the ghost's aggression from as far away as the Daniels place and now was frightened?
Andrea hurried over, looking alarmed, vainly trying to wrestle Lucas from Sam's arms. The boy had wrapped himself around Dean's brother like an octopus, however, and neither one of them could seem to manage to untangle him.
The sheriff finally solved their dilemma by brusquely yanking Lucas out of Sam's lap, nearly spilling Sam out of his chair in the process, and Dean shot him a heated look, lips pressed thin with anger.
Sam righted himself, and Dean stood, stepping in between the Sheriff and his obviously still unsteady little brother. John stood as well, displeased with the both the Sheriff's attitude and threats.
"Andrea, take Lucas and go home, now!" The Sheriff ordered. Andrea bit her lip, but complied, a now whimpering Lucas clutched in her arms.
Lucas stared solemnly at Sam over her shoulder, and Dean unconsciously angled his body to block Sam and Lucas's line of sight. He had had enough of creepy children, dead or alive, who were fixated on his brother.
The sheriff turned back to the Winchester's.
I know you lied about being from the Sentinel. If I hadn't had a witness watch Joe Daniels go into the water, the three of you would be cooling your heels in one of my cells right now. As it is, if you're not out of my town in the next fifteen minutes, you still might be." His eyes were hard, voice unrelenting.
Dean glanced at John, unsure how his father would react to the Sheriff's tone, but John simply nodded tersely, a calculating look in his eyes as he studied his opponent.
"Let's move, boys." He ordered, turning away the Sheriff dismissively, and Dean couldn't help but grin at the annoyance that crossed the Sheriff's features.
Sam followed them silently, pale and still not quite steady on his feet. Dean stopped at a vending machine by the door to the Sheriff's station, feeding it quarters until it relinquished a coke in return. Popping the top on the can, he shoved it into Sammy's hands.
"Drink. Now." Dean ordered, staring into Sam's too-wide hazel eyes until Sam finally focused on him, nodding slowly without a word.
He obediently started sipping the soda, and Dean found himself once again wishing for a little of Sam's old spark. At this point, even a famous Sam Winchester bitch face would be a welcome improvement.
Hoping that it was simply Sam coming down with a cold, he hustled Sam into the car, before walking over to his father's truck. John was waiting impassively, and Dean felt a momentary flair of annoyance that John didn't even inquire about Sam before launching into instructions.
"Bobby found another hunt for us. It's all the way in California, though, so we need to make good time tonight. You good to drive straight through?" He asked in a tone of voice that clearly stated it wasn't actually a question.
"Yes, Sir." Dean gave the expected response, pushing away his dashed hopes that he might get his sick brother into a bed any time soon.
Well, it wouldn't be the first time a sick Sam had slept in the Impala. Dean would hit the drugstore on the way out of town, and dope him up with enough cold medicine to make even Sam's Sasquatch frame fall asleep.
He headed back to his baby, sliding behind the wheel. He spared a look a Sam, who looked troubled.
"Nothing more we can do, Sammy." He said firmly. "Drink your damn soda, then try to get some sleep. It's gonna be a long drive."
They headed over to the hotel, Dean grabbing his and Sam's duffels. John left first, satisfied that the boys wouldn't be too far behind.
"We don't need to stop at the store, Dean. I'm good to go. We can always stop later if I need medicine." Sam said mildly, mind still obviously elsewhere.
Dean snorted. "Or, we can stop now and you can get some actual sleep, and maybe be worth a damn once we reach California."
Sam froze for a split second, before turning to look out the wind shield.
"Whatever you say, Dean." He said quietly, and Dean cursed himself in his head.
He couldn't say the right thing to save his life today, it seemed.
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Sam watched the scenery fly by, the green of the trees growing darker as the the sun sank lower, the Impala's shadow stretching out before her on the road.
With every mile, though, Sam felt his muscles tense a little more. His stomach churned. He had to keep reminding himself to take deep breathes, to relax his shoulders. He felt like a piano wire pulled far too tight, ready to snap.
He felt exactly the way he had before Joe Daniels had been killed, disoriented and uneasy.
Realizing he was about to be sick, he managed a weak, "Dean," that, combined with a flailing hand gesture apparently got his point across, as Dean had immediately wrenched to car to the side of the highway.
Sam stumbled out, and promptly lost what little of the soda he had managed to drink, along with the cold medicine Dean had pressed on him less than a hour ago.
"You okay, Sammy?" Dean was asking, his voice sounding far away and Sam struggled to focus over the dizzying feeling of unreality, of wrongness that was overwhelming him.
"Something's wrong." Sam finally gasped, still hunched over, arms wrapped protectively over his tender stomach.
"What? Where? What hurts the most?" Dean was asking the questions rapid-fire, but Sam just shook his head, unsure of how to get his point across.
"We...have to go back." Sam said, swaying a little as he forced himself to straighten, pushing down any lingering nausea.
Monsters didn't care if you were sick.
"The hell we do!" Dean exclaimed, hand cupped protectively under Sam's elbow as he led Sam back to the Impala. "What we have to do is get a motel room for the night. Dad'll have to go ahead, you can't travel like this."
Sam was shaking his head, backing away from the car. "No. Something's wrong. Something's wrong with Lucas and Andrea..." He scrunched his head, trying to think past the pounding pain.
Sam tried vainly to focus on what his body was trying to tell him. "Something bad's gonna happen, Dean. I just know it."
Dean was shaking his head. "We can't just go back, Sam. The sheriff practically road us out on a rail, man."
Sam massaged his temples, physically willing the pain in his head to ease. They didn't have time for this.
"We have to Dean. Something bad's going down." He turned pleading eyes to his brother, unsure how to ask for what he knew he needed.
"Dad gave us orders, Sam." Dean said with finality.
"Okay." Sam swallowed, nodding his head.
"Okay." he repeated again, mostly to himself.
"You go ahead, I'll catch up. I'll hitch back and meet you guys in California." He started walking backwards, eyes on his brother, certain of only one thing.
He had to go back. He felt like a compass needle, swinging towards north no matter what way he was turned.
"Are you delirious?" Dean exploded, reaching out to snag his brother's arm. "You're not going back, Sam!"
Sam stopped so abruptly, that for a moment Dean nearly lost his own footing. Sam straightened to his full height, then, and Dean was forced to look up grudgingly.
"I'm going back." Sam said flatly, no emotion in his voice, no emotion in his face save utter and absolute determination.
Dean stared at Sam for a long moment.
"Shit." Dean said then, turning away and whipping out his cell.
Sam watched as Dean quickly punched a few buttons, shoulders tensing when he realized Dean was calling John.
"It's me." He announced, getting straight to the point. "Sam says something's going down back at Lake Manitoc. He doesn't think the ghost is done. We're heading back."
Sam could hear their father say some choice words, watched as Dean pulled the phone away from his ear slightly. "Yes sir...no sir...we'll meet you there, sir...".
Sam looked at Dean solemnly when Dean hung up.
"If you're wrong, I'll kick your ass myself." Dean said without fanfare, already moving back to the impala, and Sam hurried after him.
He hoped they would make it in time.