Oh, my poor, poor readers! I'm sorry if you thought I was abandoning you! Between the Holidays and the fact that I work retail, I barely know if I am coming or going.
So here is your Tuesday's Child update, and I am sorry it is so over due! None of my Supernatural Stories are on Hiatus, just had a lot of living to do these past few weeks.
Besides, with the mid-season finale coming up next week, I need all the comfort I can get. Does anyone else feel like Sam's character has become a little bit sidekick-y these past few episodes? I get that the mark is the major storyline, but...
I don't know. I just know my show is supposed to be about both brothers, and right now, it feels a little bit like the Dean Winchester Show. Even when Sam had the big myth arc in earlier seasons, you got to see plenty of emotional Dean scenes. And I actually liked Hannah. Granted, I like her more now that she gave Caroline her life back, but I liked her on the show also, it was a bit of a counter balance. Dean's pretty wrapped up in himself right now, so having someone pay attention to Cas was nice. I seriously feel like Crowley is more worried about Cas (And Sam, actually) than Dean is. Maybe he can't, as mixed up as he is right now, but still...
Okay, end of temper tantrum. Expect some dark shit to hit the fan next week. Maybe I'll be inspired to write a new chapter of "All The Truth There Is In Me".
As Always,
EverReader
PS- Don't freak out if you see new stories hit my feed from other categories. I'm not branching out, I'm moving stories over from my old account to my new one, so I can start to get all my messages and follows under one Pen Name. You guys will see some Who and Roswell, but don't worry, I haven't abandoned SPN.
Disclaimer: Still not mine, as evidenced by my Sam being a fully dimensional character, and not a very tall, long haired prop.
Tuesday's Child- Chapter Fifteen
"Water From A Stone"
Many of Books memories came forth while he was sleeping.
So did many of his visions.
The night Book had awakened Gabe by screaming the name "Anna!" over and over again had been perhaps one of the most notable.
The child had been inconsolable, babbling on about monsters coming for Anna, and insisting that Gabe had to go get her.
Had to save her.
Three days later he returned with a three year old Anna in tow, shell shocked and half-crazed from watching the 'monsters' murder her parents.
Gabe had taken one look at her, and realized what she was.
His instinct had been to leave her at a hospital somewhere, knowing her very presence could endanger Book and himself, but Book would have nothing to do with it.
Looking into Book's sad, determined eyes, he'd reluctantly acquiesced, agreeing to attack to heal Anna's fragile psyche.
He had succeeded, and failed. Anna had come back to herself, but she had come back completely, with her angel memories.
But unlike her previous life, where she had viewed Book as a dangerous abomination, in this life, she looked up to Book as a brother and confidant, and slowly Gabe came to realize how good she was for Book.
She helped fill in the empty space where his other family should have been.
in time, she grew to be an odd mix of human child and wise-cracking angel, with the ability to hear the other angels, but a completely human body. She was adventurous and spunky, embracing life in it's extremes, and she helped pull Book out of his shell.
Slowly, the trickster found his small family starting to grow.
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Book shifted uncomfortably on the bench seat of the Impala. Though he had always been a rather patient person, the truth of the matter was, it was hard to fold up six inches and four feet of hunter/psychic/time traveling-misfit into any size container for long, even one as spacious as the Impala.
"You okay? Hungry?" Dean asked, looking over at him questioningly.
Book felt a reluctant smile creep across his face as Dean asked him that question for perhaps the twelfth time since they had begun their stake out.
He wondered if Dean even realized he did it, of if, on some emotional level, he too remembered the feeling of caring about each other.
Or Book was drowning in his own wishful thinking.
It probably didn't say good things about him, the way he reveled in the attention Dean tossed him without even seeming to realize it, but the truth was, he enjoyed it.
"Nah, just getting fidgety." He replied casually, purposefully keeping his face calm and easy.
"It's probably going to go down soon." Dean said, as if he were comforting an anxious child who was ready to leave.
Book half-smiled again before agreeing. "I think you're right. This whole place just feels..."
They both looked over at the house, a mansion really, but unlike Marsha's gracious home, this place was stark, all white walls and modern angles.
The wind had picked up, and the sky was so clear it looked like you could reach out and cut your finger on one the stars shining in the dark.
"Haunted?" Dean suggested jokingly.
Book snorted. "Well, yeah. I think the spirit is building up to materializing. But what's the play? You said Marcus gave you a pretty hard brush off earlier. You really think he's just going to let us in his house at midnight?"
Dean shook his head. "I'm guessing he's going to be pretty caught up in the process of drown." He held up his lock pick set. "I figured we'd just...let ourselves in. Oh, hey, that reminds me..." He reached down under the seat, feeling around for something.
"You don't carry." Dean stated it, rather than asking, and Book didn't bother to deny.
"No, it doesn't really work with the wandering life style. Cops stop hitch hikers, people on buses get nervous. Concealed guns are a crime in some states, and I can't hind my gear in a car like you can, so I carry my knife." Book said.
Dean sat back up, a compact revolver in his hand. "Yeah, that's what I figured. It's cool, this one's loaded and ready to go."
Sam stared at the gun, swallowing hard.
He'd never fired a gun.
Not in this life, anyway.
He's insisted on learning hand to hand combat, several types of martial arts, even knife-fighting skills. He could forge papers, pick locks, jump a car.
Hell, in a pinch, he was pretty sure he could still remember how to make ammo.
So many things he'd remembered, but everything that mattered he'd made Gabe teach him again, or find him teachers.
Everything but marksmanship.
He knew he'd been a crack shot in his other life. He had clear memories of being taught to shoot pretty much every damn type of gun in the world in his other life.
But in this life, he'd never been able to bring himself to handle a gun. Every time he'd tried, he'd been assaulted by a jumbled flash of other-life memories.
Shooting ghosts...so many memories, too many to count.
Shooting a pretty, dark haired woman point blank in her kitchen...that one had been bad. That one had been so bad that Gabe had threatened to take it away again, until Book got the nightmares under control again.
Holding a gun on the man Book knew was none other than John Winchester, knew was his own father...and yet, at the same time, he hadn't been, and Book hoped to God that he had been possessed.
Otherwise, he had been ready to shoot his own father.
"Give me my gun and leave..."
Fear, alarm, desperation, and a grim, dark satisfaction...
Those were the emotions he equated with firearms, and as he looked back up at Dean's face, he shook his head, hard, chest tightening with anxiety.
"No thanks." His voice was a rough shadow of itself, but Book didn't care.
He wasn't taking that damn gun.
Dean frowned, brows lowering in annoyance and concern. "Look, man. I'm not asking. I should have made you arm up in Lily Dale, but honestly, I just didn't know you well enough. But it was a bad call, you could have gotten hurt. A knife isn't always enough. I get that you can't keep a gun on you when you're traveling, but if you're helping me on a hunt, I need to know you can defend yourself."
Book swallowed again. "I think we both know I can defend myself, Dean. But no guns. Not for me." He got out of the car, slamming the door behind him without meaning too, then wincing at the echo in the still night.
Dean followed suit, slamming his own door on purpose. "Get back in the damn car, Book. A freaking ghost is about to pop up, and you won't even arm yourself."
Book wheeled around, glaring at Dean. "Newsflash, Dean. I don't need a gun to be dangerous. And I don't want to be more dangerous than I already am!"
"What the hell is that supposed to mean-" Dean was cut off by the lights on the porch coming on.
Marcus Travers had come out, and was standing on his porch staring at them with a mixture of anger and fear.
"What are you doing? Who the hell are you guys? You're no cop!" He said to Dean accusingly. "Not in an old car like that!"
"Hey!" Dean yelled back indignantly.
Book felt the temperature begin to drop, and he realized they were about to run out of time. "Mr. Travers, please, we are cops, we're just undercover. We think you may be in danger-"
"Just stay the hell away from me!" Marcus yelled, bolting for his car. Dean and Book were brought up short by the fence blocking the road from the Travers' property.
"Dean, it's happening!" Book said, feeling all the hair on his arms begin to stand at attention.
"Now?" Dean asked, looking around.
"Get the salt gun!" Book replied, vaulting over the fence and starting to spring towards where Marcus's car had seemed to stall, only a few feet from the end of the drive.
Behind him, he heard Dean curse and then spring back to the Impala. He raced onward, pushing himself as he sprinted towards the car.
As he ran up to the driver's side door, he saw that he was already too late. Marcus's body was jerking and twitching as he spewed forth a fountain of water. Book knew the man was already as good as dead, and he focused instead on the spirit sitting beside the man, in the passenger seat.
He was wet-dripping wet, which made sense if they were thinking ship-wreck. He had long, dark hair.
And he was missing his right hand.
Suddenly the ghost vanished, and Book spun around on instinct, guessing the spirit's intention even as the ghost materialized next to him.
"What do you want!" Book said, as he locked eyes with the spirit. In the man's gaze, he could see a mixture of hate and bitterness, and a keen, clever fury.
"Brothers..." The man muttered, and Book's own eyes widened in trepidation.
Was he referring to The Travers' brothers?
Or Book and Dean?
"Book! Down!" Book heard Dean call out authoritatively, and he dropped gracefully without the slightest hesitation.
A shot-gun blast echoed overhead, close and clarion clear, and Book felt granules of salt rain down on him as the spirit dematerialized.
"BOOK!" Dean's voice was muffled by the ringing in Books ears caused by the too close shotgun blast.
"Are you okay?" Book could see Dean's lips shaping the words, but he himself felt nothing but regret and a keen disappointment in himself.
Dean was patting Book down almost frantically, and it was too much for Book in that moment-
The dead man, drowned in his own car, Dean, invading every aspect of Book's personal space in his worry and concern, and that damn ghost, words echoing in his mind as he whispered- "Brothers."
"I'm fine!" Book said, jerking away without meaning to.
Dean paused, going stock still as his eyes met Book's. Though they were no longer touching, Book felt Dean's eyes on him, still evaluating, still searching for injury.
"We screwed up." Book said, gesturing toward the dead man.
Dean's jaw tightened as he looked in the car. "He's dead, then?"
"Yeah." Book said, turning away, unable to face his failure anymore.
"Book..." Dean said, and Book could feel him stepping closer. "You know, you can't-"
"Save everyone? Trust me, Dean. I know." Book said, putting more distance between him and Dean.
"No one knows the way I do." He muttered to himself.
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Dean slammed his motel room door closed behind him, cursing as he jerked off his leather jacket.
The whole night had gone to Hell in a hand basket, starting with his argument over Book carrying a gun and ending with Marcus Travers dying.
With a side order of angry spirit getting a little too close and personal to his psychic, and then said psychic had practically ran away to put some distance between himself and Dean.
Dean had been too far away to hear whatever the freaking ghost had said to Book, but whatever it was had made the kid go sheet white, and Dean had fired almost on instinct, deciding that the meet and greet was over.
Marcus Travers' death was hitting Dean hard, but not as hard as it appeared to hit Book. The look on the kid's face had had Dean's stomach tying in knots.
It was a familiar look, and it had reminded Dean of his father for one wild moment.
Book had stormed off, saying he needed some space to clear his mind, and Dean had had to resist the urge to hit him over the head, dump his ass in the Impala, and drive him back to the safety of the motel.
He knew he needed to respect Book's space, and vice-versa, if they were going to work the case together...
But every time that stupid kid walked away from Dean, he had to fight down a screaming sense of...of panic.
Like something bad was going to happen if he didn't keep him in sight.
His phone rang, and he answered without thought. "Book?"
"Oh dear, are the lovebirds fighting already?" The dulcet tones carried an unfortunately British accent, and Dean scowled at the phone.
"Bela, what the fuck do you want?" Dean growled.
"Such language. How do you manage to get along with Book, I wonder. The boy's practically a boy scout." Bela's voice grated on Dean's last nerve, and his grip on the phone tightened.
"Bela..."
"Relax. I called with good news. I found the ship, and all I need is you and Book to help me clear up this little mess, and I can get paid." She said, the joking tone now absent from her voice.
"Not helping you." Dean ground out.
"Well, I'm guessing from your pissy attitude that Marcus Travers is dead. That makes, what? Three losses and zero wins. Bang up job. But I didn't expect you to be resonable. I only called you because Book wasn't answering his line. Where is he?" Bela commanded.
Dean scowled. "Leave him the hell alone, Bela."
There was a pause on the other end before Bela said accusingly, "You don't know where he is, do you?. Honestly, Dean. I leave him with you for what, twelve hours and you've already misplaced him? Do you know how hard it can be to find him if he doesn't want to be found?"
"Then don't try!" Dean snarled.
"Well, one of us better." She snapped. "You haven't seen a guilt complex in action until you've met Book. And three victims is going to be hitting him hard."
"What are you saying?" Dean asked, concern coiling in his stomach.
There was a pause, and then Bela, a strange, new tone in her voice said-"Just find him, Dean. He might listen to you."
"How do you two know each other?" Dean said suspiciously.
"The lost always find one another." She replied cryptically, hanging up abruptly.
Dean stared down at his phone in consternation, trying to think of where Book would go to "think".
And just what was Bela worried about?
Dean thought back to Lily Dale, remembering how pale and sick Book had looked as he'd tried to track down Melinda Dale's bones.
"Shit." He muttered, pulling his jacket back on hurriedly.
He knew he shouldn't have let the kid out of his sight.