A/N: Yay, on to the next case! And yes, if you are reading this in shock, saying to yourself that there is absolutely no way the EverReader managed to update all FOUR of her current projects in a twenty-four hour period, the answer is, no, I did it in a nineteen hour period, because
A. I am a BAMF
B. I am also an insomniac.
So kids, if that doesn't impress you all to the point of reviewing wildly and throwing roses and money, go read one of my other, newly updated projects, because, just to recap ALL FOUR HAVE NOW BEEN UPDATED SINCE SEVEN-THIRTY LAST NIGHT.
Seriously though, I need sleep right now like some people need Jesus.
Okay. Here we go-
"Prisoner of War"- UPDATED!( Next case, who wants to see Sam take on Constance?)
"All the Pretty Monsters"-UPDATED!( DARK DARK DARK, but kinda fun too. Check out my profile if you haven't voted on the character poll for this bad boy story yet. Balthasar has been added as a new option at a reader's request!)
"Confessions of a Boy King"-UPDATED! (I really love chapter two of this one, please check it out, it debuted last month on a Friday, and readership has been low, but I'm really pleased with it so far. CC, Sam Centric, and never any Dean bashing)
"How To Fix a Winchester"-UPDATED!(This is my newest baby, and yes, I will accept CC prompts for this one.)
Go check them out and read-read-read and then REVIEW!
Okay...need to sleep now.
As Always,
EverReader
Disclaimer: Honestly, too tired for this right now. Think appropriate non-ownership thoughts while reading this.
Prisoner of War – Chapter 10
"Writing On The Wall"
Dean closed the door behind him as quietly as he could, attempting to not wake his finally sleeping little brother.
He hadn't wanted to move Sam at all, hesitant to risk his recent recovery and to stray too far from the Doctor who had continued to grace them with regular (albeit belligerent) house calls.
John had been adamant that he needed the back up though, and Dean was also nervous that John had already been without a partner for nearly three weeks now, so he'd reluctantly loaded up his barely-better kid brother in the car. He bullied the Doctor into writing them a half a dozen more prescriptions for later use if necessary, and they hit the road. He'd stopped over night twice on the drive up, stretching out a trip that he would normally do overnight to a nearly three day project, a compromise between the demands of the hunt and his screaming need to protect his still-vulnerable brother.
Sam himself had said nothing about John's order to move on, simply packing up his duffel with slow, determined movements, shrugging off all of Dean's offers of assistance.
Sam's cough had mostly tapered off, and he hadn't run a fever in a few days, a recovery the Doctor had labeled as outright miraculous. His knee seemed better, and Dean had caught Sam taking his own stitches out the day before they'd left the motel. The concussion had long since healed, as much as any concussion ever really healed, though with Sam's recent changes in behavior, he was starting to wonder if maybe the kid really had hit his head one time too many.
Sam's stubborn, independent streak might be what started giving Dean gray hair at the tender age of twenty.
Sam had been pushing himself too hard, too fast, and Dean worried he was going to make himself sicker if he didn't ease off.
Dad didn't seem to think much of it, but Dean told himself it was just because John didn't realize how sick Sammy had actually gotten. John had never been too good with the day to day maintenance of the boys, and Dean assumed John's clueless-ness was the natural result of his demanding job.
Besides which, sick Sammy had always been Dean's department anyway.
Double checking that the motel room door had locked behind him, he jogged out to the Impala.
John was sending him over to the town library to look for murder victims in the area. John himself hadn't had any luck locating a murdered woman like the one mentioned in the local ghost story.
Normally a job like that would be Sam's division, with Dean hitting the streets with John and the fake badge he was finally old enough to use.
Dean wasn't letting Sam research on his own yet, though, so he was going to bring back whatever he could to the room, so he could keep an eye on Sammy, and try and get some food in him later.
Miracle recovery or not, Sam wasn't anywhere close to one hundred percent, and Dean had had enough close calls to last him a lifetime.
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Sam's eyes opened, muscles relaxing slowly as he heard the muffled sound of the Impala engine moving away.
He loved Dean, would die for him, would go to hell for him in a heartbeat.
But dear lord, that guy could hover.
For a dude who had an iron clad rule against chick-flick moments, Dean could take mothering to whole new, Olympian levels.
He sat up slowly, but not near as slowly as he'd been moving only a week before.
He inhaled deeply, then exhaled out again, testing his breathing, pushing his lungs. The cough came, much as he had expected, but the ache was a good ache, at least compared to the previous feeling of swimming inside his own lungs. This ache felt like he could at least pretend his health was on an upswing. He stood, stretching his back, cracking the joints in his hands, then took a careful step forward, followed by another, this time testing his knee.
He'd been waiting for Dean to leave the room, willing to pay for some privacy at this point if that was what it took.
Well meaning though he was, Dean was practically smothering him, and Sam was finding himself exhausted with the constant need to watch his every move and action. The words that circled his head continually, those devastating, damning words that would change how his brother looked at him forever were always seeking egress, and Sam felt like he had to measure every word, taste every syllable before loosing it into the air.
It was draining, and more times than not, Sam simply remained silent, unable to make small talk while battling the darker thoughts in his head. He knew it was upsetting Dean, but Sam simply couldn't help it.
He woke up every day with the need to bleed out his secrets, to shout them out, echoing and angry into the damn universe, a screaming urge to break things, to throw chairs out the windows, to shoot at the walls and set things on fire.
Sam wanted to take that stupid journal of his father's and rip every page out, shredding those stupid words into so much confetti and letting the wind blow his damnation away.
That wasn't really an option, though, so instead, Sam remained silent.
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Dean scowled in frustration, understanding why John had had no luck with locating the potential ghost.
He'd been able to locate all the same victims that John had, eighteen in all, uncovering nothing new in that area, but no matter where he looked, he couldn't find the murdered woman that the girls John had interviewed a few days ago had mentioned.
He glanced at his watch distractedly. He'd already been gone more than two hours, and he wanted to get back to Sam. It was about time for the kid to take his next dose of medicine, and independent streak or not, Dean didn't particularly trust him to take care of himself just yet.
Sam was distressingly nonchalant about his recent health scare, so Dean's big brother instincts remained in over drive.
His phone rang then, startling him and he answered "Sam? You good?" automatically, without thinking.
A pregnant pause at the other end of the line had Dean realizing his mistake, and he grimaced, bracing himself for John's disapproval.
John always cautioned them to answer their phones carefully, to be wary of any law enforcement officials or bad guys who might have somehow gotten their numbers.
One of the missing victims was dating the local Sheriff's daughter, and if their last case had done nothing else (besides nearly killing Sammy), it had brought home the fact that people couldn't be trusted, particularly law enforcement.
"It's me." John's words were terse, clipped and disproving, and Dean grimaced again.
"What have you found?" John asked, and Dean wasn't sure which was worse, that John was skipping the lecture or that John was requesting information Dean hadn't managed to locate yet.
He sighed heavily in defeat. "Sorry, Dad. You're right, I can't find a single female murder victim matching the profile, and I've gone back sixty years. The microfiche doesn't go back any further."
"You'll have to hit the stacks and start pulling hard copies, then." John said, as if Dean were a slacking employee, and Dean fought down a pang of irritation.
"What about Sam?" He asked as civilly as he could, moderating his voice to erase any trace of defiance.
"Have your brother help." Came John's reply, as if Dean were stupid for even asking the question.
Dean rolled his eyes skyward, grateful John couldn't see his attitude.
"He's back at the motel, Dad. He was asleep when I left. I need to grab up some food and go check in on him." Dean said cautiously.
The silence stretched out for a long moment, and Dean imagined his father was counting silently in his head.
"Why isn't he helping you?" John finally questioned, and Dean felt like a witness for the defense.
"Because he has pneumonia?" Dean offered, alarmed at the idea that he was actually arguing with John.
"Had pneumonia." John correctly shortly. "His stamina won't return if you keep coddling him. If he's not there, you'll have to do it yourself. There's a diner a couple of blocks from the motel. He's a big boy, Dean. He won't starve."
John hung up, the silence at the other end ringing with finality in Dean's ears and he sighed again, closing his eyes wearily.
This time he counted to ten, and when he finished, he opened his phone back up, punching in Sam's number.
Hi listened as the line began to ring at the other end.
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Sam stepped out of the shower, scowling as he nearly tripped on a pair of jeans laying on the ground outside the bathroom door. Looking around the room, his scowl deepened.
For all his demands that the boys keep their belongings in inspection-ready condition, John himself could be quite a slob when he was caught up in a case.
Piles of photos, newspaper clippings, and photocopies had spread out around the room, interspersed with gear, books and old take out containers.
For all Dean's worrying that leaving the room might make Sam have a relapse, Sam thought it more likely he would catch something from the motel room, with the way it looked right now.
Dean's pallet beside Sam's bed looked more like a nest, and Sam wasn't entirely sure where his duffel actually was.
Deciding the only way out was through, he squared his shoulders and set to cleaning, quickly filling three small trash bags. Once the trash was gone, he set to sorting out the gear into three piles, finally locating his duffel and pulling on the last of his clean clothes.
Making a mental note to hit the laundromat the next time he had access to the Impala, he walked over to the small mini-fridge, taking out a protein shake and popping the top absent-mindedly.
He made a face at the taste, but continued to drink it. His appetite was still nonexistent, but Sam knew he couldn't afford to lose as much weight as he had. The lost muscle mass alone impeded his abilities as a hunter, and Sam didn't want someone dying on his watch because he hadn't made himself keep up his strength.
Besides which, Dean was going to keep trying to feed him like a mother bird until Sam bulked back up some.
He wandered back over the the remaining piles of research, bored and needing to keep himself busy. Despite the exhaustion that was already rearing it's ugly head, Sam doubted he'd get back to sleep anytime soon. Nightmares had plagued his sleep, even before the influx of ghost children riding bloody bicycles, and Sam found himself waking several times a night, now that he wasn't doped up on enough medicine to knock out a moose.
He started sorting the various piles, matching photos to victim profiles and police reports. He taped a map to one wall, and started marking locations as he finished with each set of files. He frowned a little, racking his brain to try to remember everything he'd heard Dad and Dean discussing about the case.
John had done an astonishing amount of research in the time he'd been gone, and yet, something felt off to Sam.
John didn't normally take so long to close a case, and Sam wondered if something had happened between the time he'd left the boys and the time he'd reached Jericho to set him back.
Putting that thought aside to worry at later, he started taping photos along the wall, making a time line the way he'd seen John do before, when the research had piled up to high manage any other way.
Finally, he stood in the center of the room, appraising his work. He turned, taking in the photos, and all the locations marked on the map.
Obviously, John was right about the stretch of Highway 17 being the ghost's (if it was a ghost) hunting ground, but once again, he couldn't find the link between the victims.
They were all male, it was true, but other than that, they shared no other commonalities.
Different races, different ages, none of the men were related to each other.
He walked back over to the map, tapping his finger on the spot where he'd marked an 'x' for the most recent victim.
The car had been found, half-way across both lanes of an old bridge that crossed the river.
The other victims had disappeared from various points along the highway, but this was the third time an abandoned car had been found on the bridge.
Sam doubted that was a coincidence.
He paced back in forth for a moment, willing the memory dancing along the edge of his thoughts forward, waiting as it took shape.
Deaths and water. They were looking for a murder victim, or even a car accident victim, since all the men were in cars when they disappeared.
But ghosts were the result of any kind of violent death.
He walked quickly back over to the various photos, studying the features of each man. Never younger than sixteen or so, there seemed to be no other defining criteria for the way the ghost was cherry picking her victims.
Sam stopped suddenly as his thoughts clicked into place, glancing once more at the map and the research to confirm his suspicions.
Grabbing up his jacket, he let himself out of the motel. Blinking back the sudden shock of the sunlight hitting his eyes for what felt like the first time in days, he headed towards the road.
Sam had listened the night before when John had given Dean directions to the library, and he struck out that way, ignoring the burn in his legs and chest from the unexpected exertion.
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Dean listened anxiously as Sam's phone went to voice mail. Hanging up, he immediately re-dialed, reassuring himself that Sammy was probably just taking a shower.
"Dean!" The voice from behind Dean startled him so badly his phone clattered to the table, and he turned, hand half-way to his gun.
"Shoot me later!" Sam said with breathless grin, and Dean surged forward, guiding his unsteady brother into a chair. Sam was pale and breathing hard, with high spots of color gracing each cheek.
"The hell, Sammy! You scared the piss out of me! Why are you here? Where's Dad" Dean looked around, expecting John to turn the corner any moment.
Sam looked at him, wary confusion widening his eyes. "Umm, I think he's still interviewing witnesses, unless he told you differently since last night." He replied.
Dean's eyes bugged out. "No. No. Do not tell me you walked your ass over here, Sammy, because I might very well kick it all the way back if you do." He threatened, only partially exaggerating.
Sam paused, studying his brother. "Uhh-hmm." He closed his mouth again, looking anywhere but at Dean suddenly and Dean fought down the urge to throttle the kid.
"Come on, right now!" He ordered, dragging Sam up behind him, gathering his research up haphazardly in his arms.
Sam pulled away though.
"No, Dean, wait. I figured it out. Well, maybe I figured it out. We need to look for suicides, not just murder victims. Suicide counts as violent death, and three of the abandoned cars were on a bridge. Dean, I think it might be a woman in white, like Bobby took out a few years back, when I was staying with him for a couple of months." Sam's words were fast, his voice still sounding somewhat breathless.
Dean paused, struck as always with guilty discomfort whenever he was reminded of the fact that his time at Sonny's, though one of the best in his life, meant that Sam had been alone with John for two months.
John had promptly dumped him at Bobby's, and fortunately for Dean, Bobby had managed admirably.
But taking care of Sam was Dean's job. Dean should have been a Sam's soccer matches, should have been teaching him to bow-hunt.
Focusing on Sam's words again, he ran back over all the lore he'd ever heard about women in white. The victim profile certainly fit, but they'd need to locate a suicide victim whose children had died suspiciously right before her own death.
"And you couldn't have just called me this information over your damn phone, which you apparently left in the motel, still I was trying to call you when you showed up." Dean said in irritation.
Sam flushed guiltily. "Uhh...huh." He said, blushing. "Actually that just never occurred to me." Sam said frankly.
Dean rolled his eyes in irritation and reached out automatically, feeling Sam's forehead to make sure it was just exertion and not fever making his cheeks and eyes so bright.
Sam waved him off, ducking under Dean's hand and reaching for a stack of newspapers.
"We need to go back at least thirty years back, I'd guess." Sam was saying, and Dean shook his head, mental gears reluctantly switching back over to their case.
Knowing that Dad would be furious if they didn't follow Sam's lead ASAP, he decided the quickest way to get Sam back to the motel was to find their suicide victim. Dean wanted to get Sam back in bed sooner, rather than later, so he grabbed the next stack of newspapers, diving in with a vengeance.