A/N: Yay! Next chapter of Tuesday's Child, and I'm pretty happy with it. Time wise, maybe two or three weeks since the last chapter has taken place.
Just enough time for the boys to really start missing each other...
So, my writer's inspiration quote for this update is-
"I spent the day giving birth to little words with loud cries". (Sorry, found on pinterest, and the link was dead, so couldn't follow to find author)
As Always, reviews are love. This might be my very first story to break two-hundred followers, which would be AMAZING!
As Always,
EverReader
Disclaimer: Not My sandbox
Tuesday's Child-Chapter Twelve
"Saltwater Specter"
In some ways, Book was completely, heart breakingly normal. He liked candy and cartoons and slides. He got cranky when he was tired. He was too trusting with strangers, and little old ladies had a habit of trying to grandmother him, much to Gabe's amusement, and Book's alarm.
But in other ways, he was different. He always seemed to be looking, to be listening for something that never showed up, never happened.
Gabe tried not to consider the idea that he was waiting for Dean.
Most of the time, Book handled his double life well, chattering on about this or that in that roller coaster way of all young children, who find nothing about their own lives strange, because it's always been that way to them.
But sometimes, Gabe would see Book look out the window, or pause and tilt his head a certain way, and he would wonder.
So he did hid best to fill Book's days and nights with sights and sounds and interesting people, and funny things, to leave as little of that silence as possible.
He tried to insulate Book from the glaring absence of someone Book instinctively sensed should be present.
His brother.
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Bobby sipped his coffee ruefully as he watched Dean hammer out the last of the dents in the Impala's exterior. He'd had her functional weeks back, but the last of the body work was just now being finished.
Dean had show up, two days ago, out of the blue. Dirty and tired and pissy as hell. He'd just finished a string of three salt and burns in a row, and he still hadn't heard from John.
Bobby assumed that was the reason he was so angry and unsettled he was taking it out on his Baby.
"Dean! Breakfast!" Bobby hollered, and Dean paused for a second, before resuming, his actions seeming somehow even angrier than before.
"Idjit..." Bobby murmured, as he turned to go inside.
He couldn't help but wonder if Dean's bad mood was somehow related to this "Book" character.
Dean had reluctantly admitted to him a few days ago that he had encountered Book while down in Lily Dale, and it made Bobby suspicious as hell.
There was no way the just...stumbled into each other again. Bobby was a hunter, and he knew about the only thing that didn't actually exist was coincidence. But Dean had walked away, unscathed (physically, anyway), and to Bobby's knowledge, they hadn't seen each other since.
But every once in a while, Bobby would see him pull somehow out of wallet and look at it for a moment, a musing kind of confusion on his face, bewildered and (if Bobby didn't know better) longing.
But, Dean didn't call.
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Dean didn't call the number.
When Book first turned him down, he'd felt embarrassed, rejected, almost. Then he'd been angry with himself for caring in the first place, because that was not how Dean Winchester worked.
Period.
A half a dozen times, he started to toss the number in the trash, but at the last minute, he always stopped himself.
He told himself it was because a genuine psychic was too rare a resource to waste. He told himself that every good hunter cultivated a list in contacts. He told himself that in his line of work, he couldn't afford to not save a number like Book's.
He told himself a lot of things.
But mostly, what he found himself repeating to himself over and over again was-do not call the number.
These feelings were the most legitimately confusing feelings Dean had ever encountered. Ever since he'd drove off and left Book back in Lily Dale, he'd had the nagging, haunting feeling that he'd lost something, forgot it, misplaced it.
Left it behind.
He found himself worrying about Book, where had the kid gone? Was he still alone? Was he hitch hiking? Was he eating enough, or using his powers too much?
Curious about the things Book had told him about psychics and their abilities, he'd called Pamela and grilled her. She been surprised about his questions, since most hunters were only interested in what she could do for them, as opposed to the toll it took on her, but she'd answered patiently enough.
She'd pretty much confirmed everything Book had said, and one thing he hadn't. He'd described only a little of what he had seen Book do, but that was enough to have Pamela whistling.
"Dean, that's a serious electric bill that kid was wracking up. If he was still standing when you left, he most have a shit-ton of juice." She'd said.
"Is that rare, among psychics? I mean, how many actual psychics are there, anyway?" Dean had asked, still trying to pin down where Book fell on the spectrum.
"Mild psychics? All over the place. Most of the time, they don't even know it. They just think their lucky that they never get caught in a traffic jam, or that it never rains when they don't have their umbrella. More moderate psychics are less common, but mostly because they don't know enough to use their abilities, or their scared, so they suppress it." She'd replied.
"What about you?" Dean queried.
"Well, when you're like me, or your friend Book, ignoring it isn't really an option. You learn to control it at least a little, though most don't make their living this way. A lot of them learn to block it out as best they can, and just try to live their lives." She'd said, in a voice that made Dean wonder if she wished she'd chosen that path for herself.
"But, how many are as strong as you and Book?" Dean pressed.
She sighed. "Honestly? No clue. I know of about half a dozen, personally. Historically, you see them pop up, but traditionally, they end up an endangered species if they out themselves. Among some of the hereditary witch families, and some of the hoodoo practitioners, it's a little more common, but not a ton. As far as the kind of mojo your kid was swinging around? If all he had was a nosebleed and a headache, I wouldn't want to bet against him. He could probably give you the winning lotto numbers for the next five decades."
He'd thanked her distractedly, lost in thought.
He tried to put the events in Lily Dale behind him, now that he'd known Book was telling the truth about psychics. Telling the truth about psychics and their abilities didn't mean he had been telling the truth about everything, but being able to confirm some of what Book had told him had eased his mind momentarily.
But it didn't stop Dean from thinking about him, which, quite frankly, pissed him off.
He'd had to resist the urge to call him several times already. He told himself that it was fine, that he was just checking up on the kid who had helped him. That people called other people and talked all the time.
But still, he resisted.
He was a grown man, for fuck's sake. He didn't need to have a daily chat with a bestie like some high school girl. What the hell would he even say?
'I can't stop thinking about you?'
Jeez. The kid would think he was a creeper or something.
But the truth is, Book had wormed his way into Dean's mind, and he appeared to have taken up residence.
He knew he'd been a dick lately, but he couldn't seem to help snarking and snapping. Everyone and everything around him felt wrong, felt off kilter, like he was driving the wrong way on the highway.
Like he had driven the wrong way all the way out of Florida.
Reluctantly, he put down his tools and headed inside.
"Car's about done." Dean said tersely, sitting down and digging into his food in the no-nonsense way of someone who hadn't always had enough to eat.
He felt Bobby's eyes studying him, but he ignored the older hunter's scrutiny.
He didn't feel like talking.
"Well." Bobby replied after a moment. "Maybe that's a good thing. You find any new leads on your Daddy?"
Dean stilled for a moment, resolutely pushing down his worry for John. He reminded himself that John could handle himself better than probably anyone on the damn planet.
"Nope." He said finally, in a tone of voice that let Bobby know that the subject was closed.
"So, what are your plans?" Bobby pressed.
Dean shrugged noncommittally. He'd taken on the last few hunts nearly back to back, determined to work the recent strangeness out of his system.
Two ghosts and a poltergeist later, all he had to show for it were a handful of bruises and a bad attitude.
Oh, to be a hunter.
"Find a gig." He finally replied when it became clear that Bobby was waiting on an actual, verbal answer.
"So, what, you're just giving up on the search for your father?" Bobby asked incredulously.
Dean stood up, shoving his chair back with harsh movements. "Like you said, Bobby. Dad's made it clear he doesn't want to be found. So in the meantime, I do my job." He rinsed his breakfast dishes with angry, jerky movements.
"It's not like it's the first time Dad's gone dark." This time was different, John had never been quite this dark for quite this long, but Bobby didn't call Dean on it.
Bobby cleared his throat. "Well, I might be able to help you out on the job part."
Dean looked over with shadowed, curious eyes. "What do you got?"
Bobby walked over to his fax machine, pulling off a sheet of paper. "Rufus called last night. Flagged a newspaper article from out on the east coast. He'd working a ghoul job right now, didn't have time to follow up, so he sent it my way. The story mentioned a woman drowning in her own shower."
"Jesus. What was she, a turkey?" Dean said, snorting.
Bobby rolled his eyes. "It seemed a little unusual, so I had the coroner fax me the report. Article was legit. Melissa Gunthers drowned, standing up, in her own shower. Except the water wasn't fresh water, wasn't even tap water. It was salt water."
"So, a girl drowns on sea water in her own bathroom?" Dean said, just to clarify.
Bobby nodded. "Yup."
"Sounds like a case. What's the name of the town?" Dean asked, reaching for the coroner's report to look it over himself.
"Connor's Ferry, Maine." Bobby replied. "About as north as you can go."
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Dean didn't call Book.
Book tried not to think about it. Tried not to feel rejected. This Dean had no idea that once upon a time, they had been brothers. Had no reason to wonder about Book, to care about him. To this Dean, Book was nothing more than a transient psychic.
Granted, a transient psychic who'd saved his life, but, for better or worse, virtually a stranger.
So why would Dean call? Why would Dean ever give Book a second thought?
But Book thought about Dean. A lot.
Constantly might be a better word. The ways he was the same, the ways he was different.
He moved almost constantly, trying to keep his mind off Lily Dale, and his argument with Gabe. He met up once with Anna, but she was as restless as Book, and they parted again only a few hours later.
Book felt like a tumble weed, blowing about helter-skelter. He purposefully played tourist, steadfastly avoiding anything or anyone even remotely supernatural, excepting, of course, Anna.
He told himself that it was for the best. The whole reason he had got involved was to save Dean, and he had accomplished his mission.
All that was pointless if Book just turned around and sought him out. His presence could endanger Dean, would, in fact, almost certainly put his life, and perhaps his soul in danger.
He went to beautiful places, and ordinary, mundane places. He read books and talked to homeless people and listened to people playing drums and guitars on street corners.
He tried to remember who he'd been before that one, breath-stealing moment when he looked up from Lena's table in Lily Dale to meet the eyes of his brother-who-wasn't, and felt real, for one stupid, life-changing, heartbreaking moment.
Book had felt real, like Peter Pan when Wendy sewed his shadow back on.
He'd felt whole.
But Dean's safety was more important than Books personal wants and desires, so he'd walked the other way.
He got off the bus, looking around with a determined curiosity. He'd finally decided to take another hunt, on his own, just to see if he could shake himself out of the funk leaving Lily Dale had put him in.
He resolutely forced Dean from his mind, walking down the sidewalk to the Harbor he could see in the distance.
His curiosity had been piqued by the idea that someone had drowned on salt water while in a shower. Granted, drowning in the shower was suspicious enough, but the fact that it had been salt water was what stuck in Book's mind.
It was a personal touch, almost like a calling card.
He walked onto the docks, looking around at the various sized boats.
Connor's Ferry was a tourist town, as opposed to a fishing harbor. The boats around him were yachts, not trawlers or working boats.
He walked out to the farthest edge, scanning where the ocean met the horizon. He loved the ocean, always had. It was big, the way the sky was big, but more tangible. It made him feel old and young at the same time.
Closing his eyes, he reached out gently with his mind, just to get a feel for the lay of the land.
Almost immediately, he spun around, eyes wide with surprise as his breath hitched in his chest.
At the other end of the dock, there were a few two-hour parking slots for window shoppers and such.
And there, glinting darkly in the sunlight, was a black Impala.
Dean was leaning against it, an inscrutable look on his face.
Book swallowed, fighting his out of control heartbeat, willing his breathing to steady.
Had Dean followed him? As much as Book had wanted to see Dean again, that would be bad.
Very bad.
But what were the odds that he'd show up on the same case?
Granted, it was the kind of case that caught Book's attention, which meant, theoretically, that it was the kind of case that would catch Dean's attention.
Book walked forward slowly, hand tightening on the strap of his knapsack as he approached Dean.
"Well." Dean drawled, arms crossed across his chest. He seemed almost...angry. "I guess you did head north after all."
Was he angry at Book?
Book shrugged tightly. "Well, like I said. Every where's north of South Florida."
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A maelstrom of emotions swamped Dean when he spied the familiar, lanky figure walking across the sun-weathered boards of the dock.
He'd told himself that he was nuts, That he was imagining things.
But the way the man held himself, the way he tilted his head as he looked out onto the waves slammed into Dean like a baseball bat into his guts, and Dean just knew.
It was Book.
He'd been about to leave, head into the main part of town and check out the scene of the victim's murder, but once he'd realized that it really was Book walking towards him, he'd planted himself against the side of the Impala with the immovability of a mountain.
He had thought, at first, that Book had somehow planned this, arranged for them to meet again, but the startled, almost fearful look on the kid's face had him tossing that notion as quickly as it had come.
Book was looking at him in trepidation, almost as if he expected Dean to take a swing at him.
Dean sure as hell would like to know who had hurt this kid.
Dean stood, moving away from the car. "Let me guess. You weren't sure any other hunters would show up?"
Book shrugged cautiously. "Usually, more than one body has to drop. Unless you've heard of more?"
Dean shook his head. "No, but drowning in the shower is kind of unusual."
Book looked out at the waves again. "Drowning in the ocean, while standing in your shower is even more so..." He said, troubled, a small frown creasing his brow.
Dean was already starting to acclimate to the undulating waves of familiarity that crashed over him every time Book spoke, or walked, or even just breathed.
He'd tried telling himself that he had imagined it, that he had over-played it in his mind, but here, facing the kid again, he could only shake his head in bemusement.
"Come on. Get in." Dean said.
Book didn't just hesitate, he startled, eyes going wide as he took a step back, nearly tripping over an uneven board.
Dean reached out without hesitation, grabbing Book's shoulder. "Whoa, hey. Relax, Book. I'm not gonna hurt you. Jeez, what the hell has you so spooked?"
Book looked over at him with wide, still troubled eyes. "Nothing, nothing, I'm fine. I just need...to go. You're here, so things will be okay. I..uh..."
Dean tightened his grip reflexively when Book started to pull away. "Have to be somewhere?" He asked in only a mildly sarcastic voice.
He was aggravated the kid was jerking away from him like a live wire, but more than that, he was concerned.
"Yeah." Book said. "Were...were you following me?" He asked.
Dean snorted. "I could ask you the same thing." He pointed out.
"Shit." Book said, and Dean laughed.
It took a moment, but Book began to reluctantly smile also.
"So...okay." Dean said, releasing Book's arm once it no longer looked like the kid was going to bolt.
Dean once again had the feeling he'd had back in Lily Dale, like he was trying to gentle a spooked horse. "You just got here, right? Please tell me you took the bus, at least."
Book's smiled widened a little. "I took the bus." He said obediently, and Dean scrutinized him for a moment, trying to decide if he was lying about hitch hiking.
"You better have." He grumbled. "Look, I'm not forcing you. I was about to check out the victim's house. I figured you could do your psychic super-power thing, and then we could get lunch." He peered closer into Book's face. "Unless you need to eat first?"
This time it was Book who snorted. "I'm fine, Dean. I'm not exactly fragile."
Dean held up his hands with a grin. "Hey, just trying to be helpful. So, what do you say? Wanna go find out how to drown in the ocean while standing in a shower?"
Book hesitated, physically swaying in his indecision, like a cat who couldn't decide if it wanted the freedom of the night, or the shelter of a warm house.
"Okay. Sure." Book said finally, and Dean's grin widened.
He resolutely refused to acknowledge that the tight ball of worry and confusion and wrongness was unraveling in his chest at the speed of light even as Book climbed into the passenger seat on the Impala.
He looked over at the kid, who grinned back at him, fully engaged now that he had made his decision.
"What?" Book asked after a moment.
Dean made a face, shrugging helplessly. "I was...gonna adjust the seat for you, but..."
"Oh." Book frowned for a moment. "Seems fine."
"Yeah." Dean said, looking out the windshield quickly, as he just realized, he'd never readjusted it after the last time Book had ridden with him.
Like he'd been waiting.