Sweet Caroline
Chapter 15
A problem. Great. That was just what Dean needed to hear.
Sam was apparently a master of understatements, but as far as Dean was concerned the most immediate problem they had was his little brother gasping like a frigging fish out of water. There were fifteen kinds of pain written all over Sam's face, and that was not okay. He gestured for Graham to get Sam something to drink, mostly to get him out of the way for a second. He watched the guy head for the bathroom with a worried frown on his face. Dean didn't begrudge him that. Sam looked like he'd just come out of a vision, unfocused and breathless. Oh, crap, please not that. Dean took Sam by the chin, turning his face upward so he could make and maintain eye contact.
"Sam, what just happened?" Dean said quietly. "It wasn't a, you know, vision, was it?"
"No, no, nothing like that," Sam said, his breathing still too shaky for Dean's liking.
He let go of Sam, or, more accurately, let Sam tug out of his grasp. He kept a hand on his brother's forearm. Even if Sam was seated, Dean didn't want to take the chance he'd fall flat onto the floor. Stranger things had happened, and not that long ago. He glanced toward the bathroom, where Graham looked around stupidly for a glass or something. These kinds of moments were awkward enough without an audience. The longer Graham stayed gone, the better.
"Dean, I don't think we're finished here."
That got his attention. He let go of Sam's arm, standing up. Dread washed over him, yet he wasn't entirely surprised.
"Why would you say that?"
"Know that thing I couldn't remember last night? Well, I remembered."
Crap, Dean hadn't had time to think about that yet this morning. Goddamned Graham. He darted another look toward the bathroom, where the guy was still putzing around. Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair again, also cursing his internal clock for not waking him up, even if that would have only meant they'd have to drive back to Morris. He needed a shower. He needed aspirin. He needed for Sam to be wrong.
"I think…last night, I think I saw Caroline's spirit."
"Yeah, I saw it, too, as it launched me into a tree," Dean said. He didn't want to hear what he already knew was coming.
"No, Dean, I mean after the statue was destroyed. I…" Sam blinked up at him, face tight and miserable.
Dean fought back irritation he knew was largely a result of his headache. It hadn't been a walk in the park for either of them, and he didn't even want to imagine what it would feel like to have the air squeezed out of his lungs. Not just a regular chokehold struggle like he'd experienced many times, but an actual weight pressing down. Frowning, he shook himself to stop thinking about it. He couldn't exactly blame Sam for not registering a tiny, but important detail when he himself had been face down in the dirt at the time. He clenched his jaw at the reminder of how lucky Sam was to be alive, how lucky he was to still have a brother.
"And this just came to you?" Dean said, forcing lightness in his tone.
"No, this came to me while I was suffocating," Sam said dazedly.
Dean frowned at that response, and at how long it was taking Sam to recover. Simply remembering something shouldn't take a physical toll, but it apparently had. He supposed if his gut felt like it turned inside out at the thought of Sam suffocating to death while he was only a few feet away, it was possible reliving the actual suffocation could be a very real experience. Like instant replay, in 3D.
"Suffocating," Dean repeated in a quiet voice, in spite of himself.
He flicked his eyes to the sample packet of pills. Of course, they couldn't be helping Sam at all. Pain meds on an empty stomach tended to make a person lethargic. When he looked back at Sam, his brother blinked at him with eyes clear and focused again. So clear, Dean could tell Sam thought he was hovering too much. He didn't much care.
"I don't think it fully registered until now."
Graham finally wandered back into the room, glass of water in hand and a puzzled expression on his face. He set the water down, next to the other full glass already on the bedside table and well within Sam's reach. He glanced back and forth between the glasses for a second before shaking his head, handing Sam a wet washcloth.
Sam squinted at it like he didn't know what to do with it before putting it on the table, unused.
"Uh, is he all right?" Graham asked Dean, as if Sam weren't sitting right there.
"I'm fine," Sam said. "It was nothing, really."
"Pills on an empty stomach," Dean added.
"Oh." Graham looked at them gravely. "If everything's all right, then I should get going. I'd recommend you guys get out of town sooner rather than later. Don't think we're, I'm, not grateful, but no one else is gonna believe this. As long as you're really positive…never mind, of course you are. It goes against everything I've been taught, but I'll cover for you as long as I can. That won't be very long."
"Don't worry about us," Dean said. "All we need is a shower, some food and then we're as good as gone. In an hour or two, it'll be like we were never here."
The only thing inaccurate about that was the timeline. Dean wished they could go take care of the problem right away, but gravedigging wasn't something that could be done in the light of day. At the mention of food, his stomach growled. If he was going to spend all damned night digging frozen ground, he was going to need sustenance. He could go through the drive-thru somewhere while Sam got busy with not looking like he was ready to fall into a dead faint.
Graham let himself out, giving them one last hesitant look.
"Dean, maybe we should have asked Deputy Graham for help," Sam said after the door shut. "I don't think I'm going to be lifting a shovel anytime soon."
That was a fair point; with Sam in no condition for digging, or in case of another go-round with the spirit, they might need an extra pair of hands. Dean hadn't relished the idea of digging a grave in frozen ground before, and now the thought made his head feel ready to explode and his ribs splinter. A salt and burn definitely would go smoother if they didn't have to stay one step ahead of the law, too, if the law was right there next to them. But Dean couldn't shake how unnatural it was for a hunter to be in cahoots with the law in any way, shape or form. He shook his head.
"No, it's better if we keep to ourselves," Dean said. "We'll be fine."
"On our own, just like always." Sam gave a dejected sigh, and then tried to cover it with a feeble smile. "Right?"
Sam was not good at covering his emotions. Dean had a feeling he knew his brother's thought progression – from wanting help from Graham to thinking about the college girls to realizing how goddamned lonely it was to do what they did. It was a recurring theme.
"Now you've got it, Sammy," he said with false cheer.
He had never been a social creature. Aside from primal human needs, he didn't seek interaction with normal people; nothing besides that came from anyone other than his father or his brother. All that mattered was family; that's where he got his companionship and love. Sam, on the other hand, had craved attention and friendships from others. It hurt him that Sam didn't feel the same way he did, even though he knew it was screwed up. He knew the typical American family grew apart as everyone gained interests of their own, but his was not the typical American family. When Dad had left and never come back, Dean'd panicked from the sheer pain of being alone. If Sam left he'd panic again.
But nothing good could come from trying to bring outsiders in, even a little bit. Dean hoped Sam would accept that one day, which he knew on some level made him a lousy human being.
"I'm going to shower and then go grab us a bite. You hungry? I'm hungry," Dean said. "And we need to be sure this time that a salt and burn will do it. Maybe the damned spirit is attached to something else."
"I don't think so. A salt and burn should work."
"Yeah, well, that's what we thought about the first attempt. I'd rather not go through this again, again."
Giving Sam one last once over to make sure he was not about to suffer some random relapse, he still didn't like how pale his brother was but he didn't look ready to fall over. He grabbed a clean(ish) pair of jeans and a fresh(er) shirt and headed for the bathroom. Sam had probably been cleaned up at the hospital last night, at least. He smelled like dirt and sweat and Sam's dried blood on his T-shirt. Gross.
The bathroom light bulb flickered, making his reflection in the mirror look all the crappier. He paused for a second to assess his own injuries, the puffiness of the facial bruise, and the deepening hues of purple along his ribcage. For them, it didn't look that bad, but to anyone else he probably looked like he'd been in a bad fight or car accident. There was nothing he'd like more than to heal up for a few days, and that right there was probably enough reason for fate to deny it.
If fate existed, all Dean truly wanted from it was a juicy hamburger and some onion rings. His stomach growled, spurring him to hurry through the shower. Though the hot water felt damned good, he thought he'd feel human again once there was something in his belly. When he left the bathroom, he expected to find Sam lying down or at the laptop. Instead, Sam had changed out of the hospital top and into one of his fugly shirts and was struggling to put the sling back on.
"What're you doing?" Dean said.
"Help me with this." Sam gave him a pleading look he could never refuse. "I can't shower for another couple hours, but I couldn't take being in those clothes anymore."
Dean nodded. He got that. He helped Sam get the sling fastened again, then steered his brother to sit at the small table. Sam was pliable for a change, not fighting him. Dean would be happy about that, except he knew it was because Sam's energy was flagging again. Along with plain concern, it didn't bode well for what they had to do later.
"What do you want to eat?"
"I'm coming with you," Sam said.
"Sam."
"Dude, I'm hungry. I don't think I can wait for you to bring something back for me. We'll eat wherever we go." Sam struggled into his boots, somehow managing a stubborn set to his jaw while looking awful.
Dean forgot that Sam had a metabolism that wouldn't quit, and had to be just as hungry as him. Hungrier.
"Besides," Sam said, "I can't research on an empty stomach. I don't know what else we can find out anyway. I don't think we can go to campus again."
In the end, Dean's own stomach was the deciding factor; it didn't have time to argue. He forfeited the fight before it began, vowing that he'd pick the food and Sam would have to like it. He also didn't want to take the time for a sit-down meal, limiting his choices to a sad few. For some reason he'd been craving DQ since they'd driven into town, and it happened to be closest to the motel.
It took them twenty minutes to get four blocks, because it was slippery out and both of them had to walk like super slow penguins to avoid falling down. It had taken five minutes alone to get to the car and on the road. Crossing the threshold into the Dairy Queen, Dean felt seconds away from passing out from the hunger. The smell of grease and ice cream helped revive him enough to endure the moderate lunch line. Sam, however, had to find a booth ASAP. As Dean waited for their food, he brought the drinks over to the booth. He bit back the urge to say I told you so when he found Sam sprawled out tiredly in the booth, but only because he hadn't actually come out and told Sam so. He poked Sam awake, setting the Pepsi in front of him and sat down until their order was called.
Instinctively, Dean scoped out the crowd. It was mostly old people, with a few fortysomething business types on their lunch break. He noticed Sam doing the same thing and had to grin. It was good seeing Sam getting back in the swing of things. Sam's eyebrows raised, and he nodded toward the door. Dean turned, watching two familiar people stroll in.
"We cannot get rid of that dude," Dean said, wondering who he had pissed off in a previous life to have such bad luck in this one. "He's like a friggin' bad penny."
"Small town," Sam said with a one-shouldered shrug.
"It's still weird."
"Order number twelve up. One half pound Flamethrower meal and one Crispy Chicken Salad," called a woman's voice.
Dean cringed at the very idea of Sam's meal. A salad was not food as far as he was concerned. He never understood Sam's insistence on eating vegetables. The only vegetable he considered worth eating was the deep fried potato.
"That's us," Dean said, sliding out of the booth with one arm cradling his ribs. He made his way to the counter, unable to avoid crossing paths with the pain in his ass. The temptation was too great to resist. He walked up directly behind Will Pendleton and nudged the back of his knee so that his leg buckled. "Oops, sorry. I didn't see you there."
Will spun toward him, but any annoyance he had switched rapidly to alarm and maybe a little fear. He backed up a step, right into his big roommate, who looked at once amused and intimidated.
"You again," Will said. "I swear to God you're stalking me."
"Don't flatter yourself, dude." Dean pulled his tray of food off the counter, winking at the aimless-looking woman behind the counter. "I'm here for lunch."
"What happened to your face?"
"Fight with a rogue spirit statue."
"Oh. Uh." Will shifted nervously, moving to an open register. "Well, bye."
Dean smiled, shoved a fry in his mouth and started back to their table. He made it two steps when the Dairy Queen…exploded. There were screams and loud clatters. As he spun toward the front of the store, Dean was nearly beheaded by a flying metal vat of hot fudge. It clanged against the wall behind him, fudge spilling out with a splat.
"Jeez," he hissed, jerking.
He parted ways with the tray of food. No need to waste it, though – he set it on the condiment bar and hoped it'd stay out of harm's way. After giving the burger a longing look, Dean reached for a weapon, but remembered he was unarmed. He dodged a steaming soup tureen, landing on his knees with a grunt. Damn, flailing around made his ribs ache like a bitch. He was one of six in the lobby area on hands and knees.
"What the hell?" Will shouted, staring at him. "What's going on?"
"Everyone keep your heads down," Dean said. "Lay low."
"No shit," someone said.
Dean thought it had been the ninety-five year old, blue-haired granny clutching onto Will's roommate, Thad. After that, he couldn't hear much beyond the terrified cries of old people and Sam shouting to watch out. Dean crawled to the counter, peering up. There was a riot of motion he could only attribute to a supernatural cause. Ice cream dispensers switched on and off. The Mister Misty machine squirted purple ooze. Toppings flew across the room and into the dining area. He could see back into the kitchen only in the small spaces of the pass-through, but he didn't really need to see to know that was the worst place anyone could be.
Glass shattered. The screaming increased. A quick glance and Dean saw chairs flying around the restaurant and into windows. At the rear of the store, a large gumball machine rocked back and forth. Dean couldn't locate his brother for a few moments. His heart raced when he did. The bowl of the gumball machine came loose, flying straight toward Sam, who was inching his way to help a petrified old man.
"Sam, down!" he shouted, hoping like hell his brother could hear over the caterwauling.
To Dean's relief Sam dropped to the floor, pulling the old man with him, seconds before the gumball bowl flew by. It shattered against the wall and sent quarter-sized balls scattering. This had to end before someone got seriously hurt. The only weapon he could think of was wrapped in individual, inconvenient packets. He glanced at the condiment bar, heading for it. It occurred to him as he started opening salt packets.
"Duh, Dean, the kitchen."
He stood and ran, no longer caring about discretion. Speed was more important. The DQ workers gaped at him from their huddled hiding places on the floor.
"Salt," he said, "Where do you keep the bulk salt for cooking?"
A lady with straw-colored hair pointed to a big, portable rack at the back of the store. Jackpot. Not only were there tubs of supplies, there were utensils. Dean grabbed the big bucket labeled salt and started flinging it everywhere. He had no idea if it'd work, but it sure as hell couldn't hurt. He took up a long pair of tongs as a defensive weapon. He'd only gotten through the storage area when there was a loud screech followed by silence in the DQ. Well, silence except for a few whimpers and the sick, soggy sound of chocolate sauce dripping onto the floor.
"What the hell just happened?" someone muttered, opening the floodgates for every single person to ask the same thing.
Dean picked his way back to the dining area, avoiding syrupy messes, hamburger patties and gobs of melting ice cream. In various confused states, the patrons were congregating in the lobby. He did a visual circuit, frowning at Sam's absence. Racing back to the last place he'd seen his brother, Dean tried to quell his panic when he found Sam was still face down.
"Is he dead?" the old man Sam had helped asked, glasses crooked, bent over at the waist as he struggled to get to his feet.
"No, he's just resting," Dean said, helping the old man to a seat before leaning over his brother. "Come on, Sam."
"Do I have to?" Sam groaned, but rolled over cautiously.
Sam's face was a whole new shade of gray. Dean clenched his teeth, helping his brother onto his enormous feet. To his credit, Sam only wavered for a second. Dean guided him to the front, propping him against the condiment bar where their tray of food sat completely undamaged. Dean picked up his burger, unwrapping it and taking a big bite.
"Well," he said with his mouth full. "I guess DQ really is something different."
A/N: I know a mother's not supposed to show favoritism, but I have to admit I love this chapter the best so far. Title options: Terror at the DQ! Death by Chocolate Sauce!