A/N: Okay, let me just say something to start off-
samulet-samulet-samulet-thank you Jesus, Dean has a copy of the samulet hanging in the Impala, RIGHT NOW!
Okay. Sorry. But if you didn't jump up and down, silently, breathlessly fangirling when he hung the faux Samulet from the Impala's rear view mirror, you need to go back to S1E1, because you are watching the damn show wrong.
Also, nothing he said disproves my own personal head canon regarding the Samulet (Quite the opposite, in fact) which you can read, if you haven't. The story is complete and can be found on my profile, titled "The Samulet Confessions" and I will be forever grateful to the writers for the moment when Marie told Dean not to be a jerk and just take the damn thing.
You go, Marie. Fan girls everywhere are thanking you!
Okay, okay.
Really, I'm okay.
So, next chapter of Tuesday's Child. A reviewer suggested I get Bobby on the phone, and this is how it played out. Don't worry, there will be plenty of Book/Bobby feels later on, but right now, Bobby only knows Dean, and he's naturally protective.
So much angst and feels to come, hehehehehe!
Anyway, Reviews are love, they have sort of slowed down on this project, which is worrisome. Are we still liking the story?
As Always,
EverReader
Disclaimer: No my sandbox.
Tuesday's Child- Chapter Fourteen
"Worth The Risk"
"John sold the house, packed Dean up in the Impala, and headed north.
He couldn't stand to stay there, haunted by all the memories.
All the pain.
Missouri had told him of a man by the name of Singer, Robert Singer, who lived in North Dakota, of all places. The man was supposed to be a hunter, and a damn good one, the kind John needed.
Not just a shoot-first-questions-later kind of hunter, but a knowledgeable one, someone who understood research and the value of information.
Missouri had made it clear to John that this battle would not be won with luck, or even just skill. John needed to plan a campaign, needed to gather intel, and grow his own skill.
Bobby Singer was apparently the man to go to, if you wanted to learn hunting from the ground up.
As badly as John wanted it over, wanted his child back, wanted his revenge, he knew he needed to lay his foundation carefully, because when the time came, he'd only get one shot, and he couldn't afford to waste it."
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Dean studied his face wearily in the mirror, taking note of the shadows under his eyes, the day-old stubble he was a little too tired to care about at the moment.
He'd slept poorly, haunted by half-remembered dreams that frankly, didn't make a lick of sense.
He knew he'd been searching for someone, his father perhaps. That would make sense, he supposed, since he still had no idea where John Winchester actually was.
But there was something else...
Someone else?
A shape in the shadows, familiar and comforting...
A knock at his motel room door had him startling out of his reverie, and he shook his head, shaking loose the last remnants of his restless night.
He opened the door to a grim looking Book.
"What's wrong?" He asked immediately, alarmed the upset look on the younger man's face. He looked around instinctively, ensuring there was no adversary looking in the half-full parking lot.
Wordlessly, Book held a newspaper out to Dean, and he took it as he ushered Book inside. "Grab some coffee." He urged, jerking his head towards the room's little coffee pot, and after a moment, Book started making himself a cup as Dean settled in to read the front page.
Soon, his own lips had compressed in a thin line of dissatisfaction, and he huffed, leaning back unhappily as he tossed the newspaper down. He met Book's unhappy eyes.
Another victim, late last night. Again, drowned in the bathroom, though this time, the tub and not the shower.
A tub apparently filled with salt water, and the press had already taken to calling the deaths the work of the 'salt water specter'. They'd even interviewed Marcia, the old lady from yesterday, who'd taken such a shine to Book, and Marcia hadn't hesitated to share her own personal speculations.
Book was restless, pacing around the room anxiously, and Dean guessed he must be feeling as guilty as Dean always did when another victim popped up after Dean had started in on a case.
Normally, Dean would be right there with him, with the added bonus of a healthy dose of cursing and maybe some broken furniture.
Dean hated to lose, hated having a body count come into play after he had made the scene, because dammit, he was there to put an end to that shit.
And every new body was just another person he had failed.
But watching the guilt and self-recrimination on Book's face was enough to cool Dean's own anger, because damned if the kid didn't look just as miserable as Dean was feeling, and they didn't both need to feel that way.
"We didn't know, Book. Hell, how could we? You said it yourself, there's over a hundred and fifty shipwrecks to research. You weren't going to find anything in one day." Dean's voice surprised himself, the gentle cadence unfamiliar.
Something (yeah, try everything) about this kid managed to tug on Dean's heartstrings, however.
Book sighed, the sound so sad it sent an arrow piercing through Dean, and he stood gracefully, walking over to the kid.
Book looked at him, shrugging, a half-grimace on his face. "I'm a psychic, Dean. What's the point of me if I can't help people like that man?"
"No way, Book. You can't think of it like that. That man was already as good as dead, if you hadn't shown up, he would have died anyway. You can't count the losses, you have to count the wins." Dean said, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could.
Book arched a brow at him, shrewdly. "So, that's how you do it, huh? You weren't sitting there, beating the hell out of yourself?"
Dean flushed, caught out by Book's good guess. "Well, it's different. I'm a full time hunter, a professional. You said it yourself, you only show up when you don't think anyone else is going to. You're trying to help the people no one else would. That's different."
Book just shook his head. "I don't think so. So, what do you want to do?"
Dean chewed his lip. "Well, breakfast, obviously." He said, startling a laugh out of Book. "Then we'd better head over to the newest crime scene. Shit, that mean's I'd better shower. I'm going to have to rent a damn suit..."
Book started towards the door. "I can head over, try and get the lay of the land."
"Whoa, whoa. Hold your horses. You ate already?" Dean said, grabbing the kid's shoulders.
"Huh? Oh, I'll grab a power bar or something." Book shrugged easily.
Dean just stared at the kid in disbelief. "Dude, that doesn't even count as food. Just wait here, I'll only be a minute. If you're going to be doing your 'psychic thing', you gotta eat right. You're the one who told me that."
Book wavered for a moment, before nodding reluctantly. "Yeah, sure. Okay. Lemme just grab my laptop from my room."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Ten minutes." He promised, meeting the kid's eyes. "Just give me ten."
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Book scrolled down the website, chewing his lip nearly bloody.
Despite what Dean said, Book knew this latest death could be laid squarely on his door step, because unlike Dean, Book knew they had done all this before.
Book just couldn't remember, and every death from this point forward was his own damn fault.
He looked over, startled, as Dean's phone started ringing. The caller id portion in the front read 'Bobby'.
Immediately, Book felt his breath catch, his stomach tensing into knots.
Bobby was calling, and he reached out, fingers literally itching to answer it, to hear that familiar voice, the rough-hewn country twang that hid an incredibly intelligent mind.
His hand paused, hovering over the phone, knowing that no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't answer it.
He closed his fist, hand dropping to the table as the phone finally stopped ringing, and he swallowed, forcing past the tightness in his throat.
He shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be he, couldn't be here.
This was dangerous, more than dangerous, it was stupidly, incredibly deadly.
He was going to ruin everything, just like last time.
He stood, panic and indecision warring within him. His innate urge to flee, far and fast until the memory of everything that had never happened could no longer catch up to him battling his guilty conscious at the thought of abandoning a case that Book had already helped solve once, and should be able to solve again.
The phone started ringing again, an insistent shrill that drilled straight into his mind, into his heart.
"Book?" Dean's voice was muffled through the bathroom door. "Is that my phone, man?"
"Y-yeah!" Book stuttered over the word, voice still tight, but thankfully, Dean couldn't hear that through the closed door.
"Answer it for me, will ya? It's probably Bobby, checking up on me?"
Shit-shit-shit-
Book closed his eyes, marshaling his composure.
Quickly, no longer allowing himself to hesitate, he snapped open the phone. "Dean's phone." He said, knowing that it was wrong, to identify Dean, even to another hunter like Bobby, but he couldn't bring himself to say 'hello', the way he remembered doing in his other life.
He needed something to stop the overwhelming feeling of sameness that was swamping over him with that one, simple answer.
"Who the hell is this?" Bobby's gruff voice came over the line, and Book couldn't stop the mental picture that was forming automatically.
"Um, Dean's in the bathroom, hold on, I'll see if he's done..." Book trailed off uneasily.
"Who is THIS!" Bobby's voice was demanding this time, and Book looked longingly at the closed bathroom door.
Taking a deep breath, he replied as evenly as he could. "This is Book. I'm a..." He trailed off, uncertain how to describe his relationship with Dean.
"Yeah, I know who you are. Where's Dean?" The question was harsh, suspicious, and while Book didn't blame Bobby for being protective of Dean, it hurt anyway.
"Um, he's, he's right here. Hold on." Holding the phone against his chest, he banged on the door, louder than he intended.
Dean jerked the door open, one half of his face still covered in shaving cream.
"Everything okay?" He asked instantly, brows coming together in worried confusion when Book shoved the phone into his hand and bolted, not even bothering to scoop up his laptop.
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"Yeah!" Dean said gruffly into the phone, trying to figure out once again what the hell had spooked the kid.
"Dean, how nice of you to answer yer damn phone. There something you forgot to tell me?" Bobby growled the words sarcastically.
"Bobby, man, what the hell did you say to Book? He just took off like a cat with a dog on it's tail!" Dean said, hurriedly trying to shave the second half of his face while juggling his cell phone in the other hand.
'What did I-" Bobby sputtered indignantly. "How about you telling me what the hell that guy's doing there, Dean. Is he following you, ya idjit?"
Dean frowned in the mirror, knowing intellectually that Bobby was correctly, yet also knowing instinctively that he was wrong.
"That guy, Bobby, is just a kid. He's freaking twenty-two, man. And no, he's not following me. Hell, when he saw me, he looked like he was going to piss himself. I think he thinks I'm following him." Dean muttered, wiping off the last of the shaving cream.
"So, what the hell is he doing there, then?" Bobby demanded, and Dean rolled his eyes. "Working the case, same as me."
"Dean, no way the two of you just meet up again, out of the blue. Who the hell is this kid? Dean, you've been hunting long enough to know something about this isn't right." Bobby insisted adamantly.
Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Bobby, I know, it's hinky. And I'm not sure I'm getting the whole story out of him, but, God, Bobby, if you could see him. Half the time he looks like the puppy I tried to hide under your porch that one year, and the other half he looks scared to death. And he's psychic like you wouldn't believe." Dean lowered his voice, watching the door to make sure Book didn't walk back in in the middle of his sentence. "I think something's happened to him, or someone's after him, just...something, Bobby. Every time I see him I have this stupid urge to bundle him in the Impala and drive away like a bat out of hell."
"And that don't smell fishy to you?" Bobby said, a thread of worry coursing through the sarcasm.
"Hell yes, it's fishy, Bobby. But I'm telling you...he doesn't want to hurt me. I'm a hunter, Bobby, and a good one. I have good instincts, they've saved my ass more times than I can count, and I'm telling you, he's not a bad guy." Dean said, searching for words to describe this strange, intangible thing between him and Book.
"Dean, that don't mean he's a good guy." Bobby pointed out.
Dean laughed humorlessly. "I know, Bobby. But, there's something about him. I don't know what it is, but I won't figure it out unless he sticks around." Dean sighed. "Of course, whatever you said to him had him bolting out of here so fast I'd expect him to be half-way to Canada if his laptop wasn't still here."
"I didn't say a damn thing to him." Bobby grumbled, then sighed. "I guess, I maybe...was a little...gruff." The older hunter finally admitted grudgingly.
"Well, next time, make nice, okay? Whoever he is, he's handier than hell to have around. And I meant what I said earlier. I think someone hurt him." Dean said, a low intensity sneaking into his voice.
"Well, just remember what happened to that pup you tried to hide from your Daddy. I never seen him so mad. What the hell was that dog's name, anyway."
"Sammy." Dean said lowly, his voice muffled as he continued getting dressed one handed.
"Anyway, you were right. It's definitely a case. Another vic popped up this morning, another indoor seawater drowning. Book was researching half the night last night. Apparently a ghost ship has been making the rounds at the harbor hereabouts. Problem is, Book's already located about a hundred and fifty wrecks that fit the profile. I about had to toss him over my shoulder to get him out of the library and get some food into him."
"Likes the lore, huh?" Bobby asked.
"Dude, you have no idea. I was still trying to find the right drawer on the card catalog, and he was half-way through his third book. It was like being pit crew at NASCAR." Dean said with a grin as he checked his weapons.
Bobby snorted. "Now I see the real appeal of this little bromance of yours."
Dean snorted too, it was no great secret that Dean hated the research part of the job.
"Listen, if I give you the victims names, can you see if you can find a link? That way, Book and I can concentrate on locating the ship?"
"Yeah, sure kid. Hit me with what you got."
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Book looked up warily as Dean came out of his motel room, Book's laptop slung under his arm.
"Uh, hey. Sorry for bolting. Got a little claustrophobic, I guess." He said awkwardly, running his hand through his hair, not meeting Dean's eyes.
Dean shrugged easily. "It's cool, man. That was my Uncle Bobby, I told you about him back in Lily Dale, remember?"
Book choked down a frantic laugh. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I remember. You guys get everything sorted out?"
Dean nodded as they climbed into the Impala. "Yeah, Bobby's going to look into the two victims, try and find a connection, so we can focus on the ship."
"Okay, sounds good." Book agreed, trying to slow down his frantic heartbeat. He was still unsure that staying was the right thing, but the knowledge that he had worked this case before made it impossible for him to leave.
After breakfast, they hit a suit rental place, and then headed over to the newest crime scene. Book hadn't bothered renting a suit, as he didn't have the correct fake credentials to use it anyway.
He stood in the crowd of onlookers, watching as Dean interrogated the newest victim's brother.
He felt, more than saw, Bela come up behind him. Walking slightly away from the crowd, he turned to face her. "What do you want, Bela?"
She pouted. "Oh, surely that's not how you speak to an old friend." She said. "Though, it does appear you've made a new one. I wonder, what does he think of your...family."
Book pushed down a swell of anger. Bela was a con artist and a grifter, but she was excellent at it, and she wouldn't hesitate to use Book's own emotions against him if he wasn't careful.
"What do you want, Bela?" He asked again, determined not to play her games.
She sighed. "Honestly, now I remember why Anna was always my favorite. You really are boring."
Book rolled his eyes, starting to turn away.
She reached out, snagging his arm and stopping him. "Alright, alright. Cards on the table. I may have a line on this 'ghost ship', but I need some help."
"No way in hell." The voice came from behind them, and they both glanced over to see Dean stalking over. "We're not helping you con some old lady out of her retirement fund."
Bela sneered back at him. "I wouldn't sound so high and mighty, if I were you. You're a hunter, and we both know what that means. Besides, perhaps I wasn't talking to you. Book is more than capable of helping me."
Dean stepped forward, invading her space, and Book could literally feel the tension in the air. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, you-"
"Whoa, whoa. It's okay, Dean, it's cool" Book said, stepping forward in between the two of them.
Dean eyes flashed at him in annoyance, and Book let go of his shoulder as if burned. Immediately, Dean backed down a little, though, as if realizing that he had upset Book.
Bela shook her head. "Tsk, tsk, Dean. Haven't you realized by now, Book doesn't do drama? He's a bit skittish."
Book closed his eyes, praying for patience. "Bela."
"Look, Book. You've obviously decided to help this hunter." She sneered the word hunter, and Dean's lips curled back ferally. "But what you actually care about is making sure no one else gets hurt. I can help you."
"No need." Dean said, invading her space once again. "I already know the next victim."
"You do?" Book asked in surprise, racking his mind to see if any other latent memories were emerging, but so far, nothing had.
"Yeah. The guy's brother saw the ship too. My guess is, he's got until midnight." Dean said, smirking at Bela. "So, thanks but no thanks."
She snorted delicately. "We'll see about that. Don't worry about finding me, Book. I'll find you."
"Don't bother." Dean said, subtly moving to position himself between Bela and Book, blocking Book's line of sight.
She walked away, the click of her heels on the pavement echoing as she went.
Book arched a brow at Dean. "Feel better?"
Dean flushed a little. "Uh, yeah. Sorry, she just...rubs me the wrong way. She's just looking to use you, I can tell..."
Book shrugged, knowing Dean was right. "I know."
Dean searched his eyes. "Then, why even talk to her?"
Book looked away, mumbling under his breath.
"What?" Dean asked, moving closer.
Book sighed, trying to phrase his thoughts as well as he could.. "I just...can't risk not listening. I mean, it's one thing if you got something, but if you didn't, I'd have to try something. The last time this thing came around, eleven people died before it was done."