BLOOD ON THE TRACKS

- Chapter Two -

"Jack Daniels," Dean said. He withdrew the top of the bottle from the crumpled brown paper bag until just the top of the label showed. It gleamed beneath the streetlights, his hand strategically placed to hide the uncapped top. Acquired from a trash can rather than a liquor store, Dean employed his best poker face to make it seem more than it was.

The man eyed the bottle, his lips parted and pasty tongue flicking with unabashed eagerness. He reached out. Dean withdrew the bottle and tucked it back into the bag. "We talk first."

"Nothing to say."

"Who's Melanie?"

Bloodshot eyes fixed on the brown bag and the tongue flicked nervously. "No-one."

Dean flattened his palms against his thighs and leaned close, his nostrils flaring at the highly pungent odor of unwashed and unkempt humanity. "She your wife? Girlfriend? Sister?"

"Why aren't you in jail?"

Dean drew back, scanned the darkened sidewalk, the shadowy park and the distant subway station, bright and lurid against the murky night. Emergency beacons lazily slapped red and blue against the concrete in a horrific distortion of phantasmagoria. It churned Dean's gut.

Two hours had passed. Two hours without Sam. Not long – but in essence an eternity because Dean really did not know if he would ever get his brother back.

The rail authority had an intensive search in place. His assistance and presence unwelcome. Technically prohibited – he had been physically removed twice. Warned off going back, and smart enough to know when not to push his luck. Useless over there, he had the drunk instead, and the memory of a wispy something that looked supernatural. He figured the supernatural thing and the drunk were connected.

"You shot up my carriage. Why aren't you in jail?"

Dean's attention jerked to the man, held for barely a second then snapped back to the station. He licked his lips and swallowed against the dryness in his mouth. "Security cameras don't work."

"You closed down my line. Took away my carriage." Spittle started flying as the volume increased. "It's my carriage. Mine. Not yours. You had no right."

Dean forced a tight lipped smile as several people looked across. Buzzards drawn to the scent of human tragedy, their eyes sparkling as the emergency beacons lit their faces. He looked away, shoved a trembling hand through his hair. "Sorry," he said, his tone clipped. "Can you keep it down?"

"Why?"

"Jack says so," he dropped his hand and nudged the brown bag. "Jack knows best, right?"

Eager lip licking again and the man lowered his voice. "What's your name?"

"What's yours?"

"I asked first."

Dean dropped his head, his thumb caressing the cell phone. "Dean."

"And the kid?"

"He's twenty-three years old, he's not a kid."

"I'm sixty-seven years old. He's a kid."

"Sam." Dean sucked in a breath. He blinked against a sudden sting. "My little brother."

The man nodded, his rheumy eyes growing suspiciously moist. "Damn." His gaze cast back to the brown bag and his pasty tongue flicked over chapped lips. "What do you want to know?"

"Your name would be a good start."

"Ted."

"And Melanie?"

"Daughter. You really going to give me that?" Ted gestured to the bag, his fingers claw like in the darkness. "You're not just yanking my chain?"

"You'll get it."

"Even if I know nothing?"

"Yes."

"Then you're an idiot."

Dean shrugged and his focus swung back to the closed subway station. An idiot was too generous a descriptor. "Melanie was not one of the nine victims," Dean said hoarsely. He cleared his throat and continued. "So why are you riding the rails?"

"She's down there."

Dean leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

"I need a drink," Ted said as he reached over and plucked at the bag. Dean slid it out of reach. "No, not until you tell me about Melanie."

"Hungry too."

Dean stared, his jaw tense and frustration burning his veins. He clutched at the phone, glanced at the screen, at Sam's name. Still no movement at the station. Still no call. No Sam. "I don't have food."

"There's a 24/7 burger place over there." Ted thumbed over his shoulder then scratched at his stringy hair – repositioning fleas and any number of other follicular friends.

Dean didn't work too hard to hide his disgust. "So?"

"Don't take a subtle hint, huh?"

"I'm not freakin' welfare."

"I'm not freakin'…" Ted paused, thinking and scratching. Stained and gnarled fingernails slid down the side of his face to prod at the unkempt beard. "…a walking encyclopedia," he finished, smirking. "I need food."

"You need a hell of a lot more than that," Dean muttered.

"I ain't deaf either."

"You're a pain in the ass."

"You want your brother back?"

Dean swallowed and stilled. His eyes locked on the drunkard as his heart beat out a dizzying tempo.

"Well maybe I can help or maybe I can't. You won't know unless you feed me." He grinned and Dean grimaced as rotted teeth and bleached pink gums leered at him.

"Fine. But you're coming with me."

"They don't like me in there."

"I don't give a fuck what they like. You're coming with me."

Two burgers, a half bucket of fries and a bottle of soda later, Ted belched and lay flat on his back on the grass. His legs swallowed by the shadows, his eyes dark sockets against translucent skin. Animated death, Dean thought sourly. "Jack now," the talking corpse said.

Dean paced, breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists. "No Jack."

"No Sam."

Dean prowled to the reclined man and towered over him. "Do you know anything? Anything at all?" His voice broke. He scrubbed at his face and stepped back, his eyes burning.

"She killed herself."

"Figured as much. Don't tell me, she jumped in front of a train?"

Ted sat up, his shoulders slumped. "I was a bad father."

"Yeah, well." Dean started pacing again. "Where's she buried?"

"Cremated."

Dean stilled, his brow knitted. "All of her?"

Ted's face creased in pain. "You're all heart."

"I'll take that as a no." Dean crouched beside the older man. "She topped herself in the tunnel, right?"

Ted regarded him cautiously and his red rimmed eyes sparkled with wetness. "Yeah, she did. Hit the emergency button and forced the door. Got off the train without the driver knowing. No chance in hell of a train stopping that deep in the tunnel."

Dean swallowed back bile. Incomplete cremation – bits of the body would still be in the subway. Freakin' fantastic. "Why'd she do it?"

"Bad father."

"Usually more to it than that."

"Lonely. Confused. Typical twenty four year old."

"Bit old to be getting the pubescent blues."

"She was a good kid."

"She has my brother. What the hell is she planning on doing with him?"

"I don't know."

"See, that right there." He stabbed his finger at the older man. "Isn't Jack-worthy."

Ted's eyes widened. "What? But you promised."

Dean ignored the drunkard and punched the redial button his cell phone. The illuminated screen glowed in the darkness, Sam's name and number a bright pain all its own. Sucking in a breath, Dean crushed the phone to his ear as his free hand gouged against his thigh. It rang five times before Sam's voice came over the line. Recorded message. Self-torture, Dean realized as his throat constricted. He punched at the phone and ended the connection. His vision swam so badly that he could no longer see the subway or even the phone in his hand. Cursing, he wiped at the tears and turned to face Ted. "How can I get into that subway once the trains start up again?"

"They might find him before then."

"And pigs might fly. How do I get into the tunnel?"

Ted's grimy brow knitted. "Not going to do you any good."

"Not your problem. How do I get in?"

"On the train."

"Really? Originality plus," Dean said sarcastically. "Any other way?"

"Walk through the tunnel."

"Too far."

"Then you go the same way that Melanie did," Ted said quietly. "They'll start the trains back up tomorrow morning then—"

"When?"

"What?"

Dean clenched his fists. "The trains – what time will they start up?"

"Bit after five."

"Three hours from now?" Dean couldn't keep the stunned incredulity from his voice.

"You're the one with the Rolex, you tell me."

Dean's breath left in one shuddered exhalation. Three hours – too long… and not long enough. For a moment he considered challenging the rail authority to delay the reestablishment of train services. The option momentarily warmed him, sizzled and grained hope through his veins. It dissipated quickly, leaving him with the brutal realization that it would only waste time and change nothing. He had to take action, but not like that.

He abruptly stood, wavered and hugged his arms around his stomach. Queasy sourness licked the back of his throat. He swallowed convulsively and said, "Get up."

"I want Jack now."

"Get. Up."

A quick lick of the lips and a pendulum glance between Dean and the bottle. "Jack?"

"He's taking a walk. You're coming with."

"No."

"Not up for discussion." Dean pulled the older man up by his grimy lapels and steadied him until he found his balance. Ted's eyes widened and his jaw went slack. Warm fetid breath fanned Dean's face. "I'm not going to hurt you. But we're taking a walk, grabbing some stuff and…" he turned his face away, "we'll get you some breath mints. That breath of yours could kill."

"You think yours is any better?"

Dean's brow creased and he stepped back, rolled his shoulders. Took one last glance at the subway station then waved the bottle at Ted. "Jack's this way."

"I'm not a donkey and that's not a carrot," Ted said indignantly as he followed, his salivating gaze firmly locked on the brown paper bag.

"No, course you're not," Dean muttered under his breath.

They walked in silence, Dean driving a brutal pace while Ted puffed and grunted to keep up. Time passed with callous indifference. Somewhere far behind lay the subway station… and Sammy. His heart twisted. Well aware that Sam may already be dead, or too close to it to be saved. He shoved the thoughts aside. Straightened his shoulders and lengthened his stride. Ahead, the Impala, weapons, rituals and his little brother's only hope. Maybe he should have caught a cab. Glanced at the sweating, gasping and putrid man beside him, and realized that had not been an option.

Dark shadows loped like beasts against the sidewalk – malevolent and dangerous. The Glock rested against the small of Dean's back. The clip empty. The knife against his calf. He had gone in armed, prepared to protect himself – protect Sam. It had all gone to shit. Now Sam was trapped somewhere, probably hurt… possibly dying… maybe dead, because Dean had thought riding the rails for something that took one victim a year might be a good idea.

"You ever tried it?" Dean said suddenly, unable to stay alone in his head for a moment longer.

"Tried what?"

"Getting into the tunnel? Looking for Melanie?"

"Once."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the older man, but did not slow his pace. "And?"

"Rats." Ted shuddered and grunted. "Hate rats." He scratched at his thigh and then his stomach.

Separate flea colonies, Dean surmised.

"I chickened out," Ted added, his breath puffed and shallow. "Saw her though. Or thought I did."

"And you did nothing. Just let her go on taking people. Killing them!"

"I tried. Told people. They thought I was nuts."

Dean clenched his jaw as anger heated his face. He pulled in a shuddering breath. "How's she do it? How's she get them off the train? The power stays on, the doors don't open. So how does she do it?"

Ted's step faltered and his eyes shifted uneasily. "Don't know."

"You have some idea though," Dean pressed.

"No." Ted shoved his hands into the long pockets of his soiled overcoat and hunched his shoulders like a turtle retreating into its shell. "Not crazy. Saw what I saw. Not crazy."

"Ted—"

"No." Ted stopped abruptly, raised both hands away from his body, palms out. "Give me Jack. Now."

Dean licked his lips and scanned the quiet street. The Impala was parked a half block away and Dean could just see her. Right where he and Sam had left her. He forced his attention to the drunk and readjusted the bottle between his chest and elbow. "You'll get Jack," he said soothingly, "but I need to know what you saw."

"Nothing. I saw nothing." Ted's bloodshot eyes bored into Dean's hand. "Jack. Give me Jack."

"Ted, please."

"Not crazy," Ted said, then grimaced and shoved his hands back into his pockets. "Jack, gimme Jack."

Dean leaned in, grasped the older man's skeletal arms. "How does she do it? How did she take Sam?"

"Jack."

"Ted."

"Jack."

"Dammit." Dean let go, stepped back and locked his knees to keep himself upright. He grasped the neck of the bottle and held it forward. It shook, made a ghostly dancing shadow against the wall from the overhead streetlight. Ted made an uncoordinated grab for the liquor and Dean whisked it back. He forced a pallid smile.

"Jack's this way," he said, then spun and broke into a sprint, confident that his drunkard donkey would faithfully follow. He had a bag of weapons, packed with anything and everything he thought may work, before Ted stopped beside the car.

"Jack now," Ted said expectantly, his words clogged by an emphysemic wheeze.

"Later."

"Now."

"Get in."

"Nice car."

Dean hesitated and raked his gaze over the disheveled figure.

"Give me Jack and I'll walk back," Ted said, as though able to read Dean's mind.

"Get in and try not to stink too much. And don't touch anything."

Ted grimaced, tottered on shaky legs to the passenger door and slumped into the front seat. He had a cassette in the deck and the music up before Dean slid in behind the wheel. Dean stared, slack jawed, at his passenger.

"Good song," Ted yelled over the music, "but The Stones were better."

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean muttered. He turned the key in the ignition and gunned the engine. Left a smear of rubber on the pavement as he took off. Ted chortled, swiped up the volume and began singing along to Foreigner. Dean knew then that he had lost more than his kid brother – he had lost his mind. No way could any of this be real.

Reality crashed back when he parked the car a block from South Central station and shut off the stereo. He stared dumbly at the station, unable to react to the absence of lights or of activity. The search had been terminated. They had not found Sam. He should confirm it, but couldn't move. Could barely even breathe.

"The trains will start in an hour. I can show you where you need to get off," Ted said cautiously, his too bright eyes showing more intelligence and compassion than they had all night. "The place where she died – where your brother disappeared." He paused and licked his lips. "Would that be Jack-worthy?"

"Yeah," Dean said against the lump in his throat. "That'd be Jack-worthy."