AN: The beginning of this chapter is concurrent with the previous chapter. In other words, you have to wait just a little bit longer to find out what happens with the gargoyle at the library. (The literal gargoyle, not the judgy librarian!) Yes, I know you've already waited a long time! Real life, especially with Christmas break, has been pretty busy. Just a heads up – we have out of town company staying here through next week, so I may be slow for a little bit yet. Sorry.
Unlike me, Janice was NOT slow even though she had a lot of work to do on this chapter!
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The intelligent man finds almost everything ridiculous, the sensible man hardly anything.
Dean steeled himself and allowed himself one moment to wish he had Sam with him, then rang the doorbell. Talking to the construction site manager had been hard enough, as he clearly cared about the men who worked for him and was gutted by what had happened. He was frustrated, too, because they couldn't figure out what had happened to the hooks that were supposed to secure the load of logs. He adamantly absolved Buddy of any responsibility, saying he'd done things by the book and was a careful, conscientious worker.
"I'm the boss," he concluded. "Which means that whatever happened, it's on me." And when the big, burly man with the hands of a workman had swiped at his eyes, Dean's throat had tightened in sympathy.
But Dean's interviews were only going to get harder. Case in point: he was at the home of the parents of Alison Curtis, the woman who'd gone missing after her boss' death.
The two were close to the same age as the Petersons, but that was pretty much where the similarities ended. Their home was cozy and colorful rather than pristine, and the mug of coffee the missus offered was adorned with cartoon penguins ice skating. Both parents were polite while clearly hanging on to hope as hard as they could.
"Allie is so smart," Mr. Curtis said with a little, proud smile. "And so good at her job. Someday she's going to get a job in the city."
"It's the only job of the right type in the whole town," Mrs. Curtis added. "She loves the work, but…"
"But?" Dean prodded, noting how her husband had shifted closer and dropped an arm around her shoulders.
"But, while I hate to speak ill of the dead, her boss was not a good man," she finished with firm resolve.
A few pieces clicked into place in Dean's mind. "Did he, uh, hurt Allie?" he guessed.
Mr. Curtis glanced at his wife before answering. "We don't think so, not the way you're thinking. But he was constantly inappropriate. Little touches, comments. All the time. It weighs on her." He sighed. "She's been getting more and more withdrawn. Depressed."
"You're going to think I'm a terrible person, but I'm glad he's gone," Mrs. Curtis said softly but with a stubborn tilt of her chin. "Allie can finally be h-happy." Her voice broke on the last word.
"Please find her, Agent," Mr. Curtis. "We'll do anything to help. Anything."
Sometimes Dean hated his job, and that wasn't even the hardest interview he had to do. No, next he was heading to the home of the missing 12-year-old girl, Hannah.
Hannah's father wasn't home, but Mrs. Carpenter was there, and their five-year-old son Noah. The mother wasn't much help. In constant motion, she vacillated between fretting that something terrible had happened to her elder child and the (strange) belief that Hannah had gotten angry about something and run off to a friend's house or something equally benign. Dean knew better than to tell her just how unlikely such a scenario was.
Quiet, red-eyed Noah was the one Dean really wanted to talk to. He finally got his chance when he asked to see Hannah's room and Noah volunteered to show him. His mother, who hadn't stopped almost manically cleaning the already immaculate house the entire time she'd answered Dean's questions, had agreed.
Dean stepped into the neat bedroom with a shelf of trophies and a Linkin Park t-shirt lying rebelliously on the bed as if to say that Hannah was more than just the overachiever her parents so clearly cultivated. He picked up a biography of Guglielmo Marconi, aware of Noah watching closely. "I hear that you know some things about your sister going missing, Noah," he said, watching the child right back. Noah nodded. Dean perched on the desk chair and leaned forward. "Do you think you could tell me about it? It might help us find her."
"You won't listen," Noah answered dropping his face despondently. "You'll say it's my 'magination."
"Look at me," Dean encouraged. He waited until the boy was looking at him again. "I'm completely focused on you and ready to listen, see? I won't laugh at anything you say to me."
Noah studied Dean closely as if to weigh the veracity of his words. "Pinkie promise?" he asked, holding up his little hand.
Recognizing the solemnity of such a promise, having made many such pacts with a very much younger little brother oh so many years ago, Dean nodded and hooked his pinkie with the boy's. "Pinkie promise."
Satisfied, Noah began to talk. "There were these words in my head, over and over and over again. They said I had to come out to the woods because 'there is a price that must be paid.'" He lowered his voice on the last eight words to imitate a sonorous pronouncement and a shiver went down Dean's back. That wasn't something that a young child would be able to make up. He was definitely repeating something he'd heard.
"Did you go?" he asked more calmly than he felt.
"No. I mean, I was in the woods before, but I didn't go back." Noah hesitated, then spoke in a rush. "The words got louder and louder until my head hurt and I just had to go, so I told Hannah. Mom and Dad weren't here. Hannah listens the best anyway. And she said she'd go and take care of it. The words in my head stopped. And...she never came back." He sniffed.
"Can you tell me where in the woods?" Dean asked, feeling like they finally had a real direction.
Noah nodded. "By the sledding hill." His shoulder slumped. "She's gone, isn't she? And it's my fault."
"I don't know," Dean said honestly. "But I know that whatever happened is not your fault. I'm real good at finding people, and I'm going to do everything I can. What you told me is a lot of help, Noah, and you were super brave to tell me all of that. And you know what? There was no way you could've stopped your sister from going. Big sisters and brothers, well it's kind of a rule that they take care of little brothers. I'm sure Hannah wants it that way." After a second's hesitation, he laid a hand on the boy's shoulder.
Noah looked up through his bangs, reminding Dean of his own little brother back when he actually was little. "Thank you, Mr., uh…" he trailed off, clearly having forgotten Dean's alias.
"Just call me Dean, since we're friends now," Dean said. "Thank you again, Noah."
They went back down the stairs together and Dean thanked Mrs. Carpenter. Then, making sure the small child could hear him, said, "You have a great son, ma'am."
Mrs. Carpenter glanced at the boy in surprise, as if she'd never considered that anyone would say such a thing about Noah. It kind of made Dean want to slap her, but he just smiled through gritted teeth and excused himself.
Heading back to Foster's truck, Dean checked his messages. It sounded like Sam was getting the local scoop from what he called a "nosy librarian." He'd also added that Dean might have to rescue him since he wasn't sure she'd ever stop talking. Since Sam said he'd dropped Ace at the motel, Dean decided to drive there and check on the dog (but only because he didn't want it to shit in the room, not because he cared about it). He could walk to the library, as Sam must have done.
Dean let Ace out and almost took him along when the animal seemed determined not to go back in the room, but he figured there must be a reason bleeding heart Sam had left him behind. "C'mon, mutt, back inside," he grunted, nudging Ace that direction. "I'll be right back, and Sam too."
The dog obeyed with his head and tail hung low. "Stop being so pathetic. It's not working," Dean said, though he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or the dog. With an eye roll at his own reluctance, Dean walked to the old brick building that somebody a few generations back had tried to make look impressive with a stone facade and some ugly-ass statues.
Inside, he saw Sam right away. He was listening to a 30-something woman with an overbite and a dress that tried and failed to disguise her ample girth with orange ruffles. Every line of Sam's body said that he was getting desperate to get away. When he saw Dean, he wore the expression of a drowning man spotting a life preserver. The sight made Dean smile and he couldn't resist the opportunity to mess with his brother a little.
"I don't wanna interrupt anything –" he said as Sam made an obvious effort to escape. Dean knew he'd hear about it later, but it was totally worth it to see the stealth bitchface (the one that strangers wouldn't notice) make an appearance. He noticed that with the bruising on his face beginning to fade somewhat, Sam was starting to look a little less like a member of the walking dead, which also helped improve Dean's mood a little after a difficult round of interviews.
They played verbal roulette for a moment, then Sam abruptly excused himself and walked away. Smirking, Dean loudly apologized to the chick for Sam's rudeness. Getting the door shut in his face only made him chuckle.
Outside the ornate door, Dean saw a trickle of dust or dirt fall past his face, then over 200 pounds of brother was hurtling toward him. Trusting Sam implicitly, Dean didn't try to move out of the way but just relaxed his muscles the same way he would in the face of an impending car accident. (He knew from extensive experience that getting tackled by a fellow Winchester was, in fact, quite similar to getting hit by a car. Also that there was always a very good reason for it.)
The impact just below Dean's ribs was expected, but his thigh just below the hip smashing into what must be the solid stone railing lining the stairs was not. Pain exploded in Dean's leg as he fell half backwards, half sideways over the rail. It made him spasm a bit in the air, meaning he didn't manage to arrange himself to land well. Sam either was trying to protect him or was surprised by the move, because he ended up landing first, on his back, with Dean landing right on top of him.
Despite the nearly blinding pain, Dean rolled off Sam immediately. He got his gun out almost instantly just on instinct, but it took him a few precious moments to assess the threat level. The worst of the pain, which was in his hip and the outside of his thigh, was receding pretty rapidly from sharp and shocking to dull throbbing. His already sore arm hurt too, and he seemed to have an entire new set of bruises.
After glancing around, said threat level seemed nonexistent, or at least not tackle-worthy. Sam...what…?" he asked, looking around and seeing nothing out of place except the two of them.
"Gargoyle," Sam wheezed out, sounding like he couldn't catch his breath. "Roof."
Dean took a quick peek over the wall of the stairs and saw the crushed remains of something large and stone and heavy enough to take out a good chunk of four of the steps. Understanding, he turned his attention to Sam. He couldn't kneel next to him but had to sit on the ground to try to check him over. "Hold still. Any ribs broken?" he asked, a good assumption given the way Sam was cradling his torso and how badly he was panting. (And, of course, the fact that a grown-ass man had fallen from about four feet and landed on him.)
"...no…" answered Sam, sounding more hopeful than certain. The fact that he wasn't moving yet spoke volumes. "You...hurt?"
Dean grunted. "No. Hey, don't get up, moron."
Sam listened as well as usual and rolled onto his side and got up onto his hands and knees, pausing to catch his breath. "We need to get out of here. People...dying. No time for the hospital. People will be coming any minute to see what happened."
"Shit, shit. C'mon man, slow down." Dean reached for Sam, who was using the edge of the steps to pull himself to his knees. Sam wasn't wrong, but that didn't mean Dean had to like it. He grit his teeth and thought of Allie Curtis and her parents, Hannah Peterson and little Noah. "Son of a...now what are you doing?"
Sam had made it shakily to his feet and then tried to reach something on the steps, grabbing his middle and sucking in a pained breath.
"Did anything shift inside?" Dean asked sharply, pulling himself to his feet in complete defiance to what his aching body wanted. His hip twinged badly, and his leg nearly gave out beneath him.
Sam shook his head and Dean sighed in relief. They might be guilty of typical Hunter machismo when it came to admitting pain or injury, but they didn't mess around with the possibility of internal bleeding, so he knew Sam was telling the truth. "Gargoyle. Tongue," Sam said, biting his lip hard as he tried to straighten. Dean was considering forcing Sam to go to the hospital despite everything when the import of his words sank in.
Gargoyles – living ones – were real, and they were a pain in the ass to kill. You could break them to pieces and they'd come back to life like the Terminator T-1000. The only way to be absolutely sure a 'goyle was gone was to destroy its tongue in a very specific way. "It attacked or…?"
"No. I don't think so, but we have to be sure," Sam said, and he was right again. A gargoyle with a taste for human flesh would tear a bloody swath through the town. It wasn't something they could risk.
"Head for the motel and I'll grab it," Dean directed. His internal timer was telling him that they were out of time for getting the hell away from there.
Sam didn't even argue, and Dean tried not to wonder just how much more abuse they could take. He'd actually consider calling in reinforcements...if they had anyone to call.
Sam was looking back now, so Dean waved him to keep moving and picked up the mostly intact gargoyle head from its resting place at the bottom of the steps. He followed Sam as quickly as he could with the ugly thing under his arm. It was only around one corner and down a couple blocks, but it felt a lot farther as he limped painfully along. He could hear a small commotion behind him and, assuming someone had finally happened upon the mess, was grateful that he was out of sight.
Of course, when he approached the motel, Gloria came around the corner of the building carrying a short step ladder. Naturally, she couldn't see Sam waiting at the door to the room, but she had a perfect view of Dean. She slowed, taking in his mussed appearance and the leering, half-crushed stone head beneath his arm.
"Uh...souvenir shop…" Dean tried. Gloria didn't say a word, but the weight of her stare followed him until he'd limped past the corner of the building and out of her sight. Dean muttered about all his grievances as they opened the door and made their sorry way inside. "...stubborn brothers...stupid gargoyles...Gloria thinks I'm psycho…I got it. Take a load off, will you?" The last was to Sam when he reached for the stone head.
To the dog dancing back and forth between the two men, looking worried in his canine way, he said, "And you – chill. We're fine. Ish."
With a sigh, Sam went and fetched the med kit. Dean was too tired to deal with taking care of Mr. Ugly immediately, besides needing to duct tape his brother back together or something. Then maybe wrap him in bubble wrap. So he grabbed the warded bag to just toss Stoneface inside.
"Wait!" Sam yelled from the bathroom door, making Dean freeze. "There's still a squirrel bone in there. You want another mannegishi situation?"
Dean froze, then paled at the memory Sam was bringing up. Once back when they were young(er) and stupid(er), they'd failed to take a krasue skin out of the bag before throwing in a mannegishi finger bone inside. They'd only been grabbing the latter for use in a hex bag, but the combination of the two things inside the spelled bag had had frightening and disgusting consequences. Dean wasn't sure he'd ever forget the appearance (or smell) of the undead, lightbulb-shaped floating head that emerged or the half hour of bludgeoning it took to re-kill their horrible hybrid.
"Holy crap. The last thing we need is a zombie squirrel-goyle with a taste for intestines and acorns," Dean breathed, realizing his almost-error. After a moment's thought, he dumped out the blackened bone and emptied an entire canister of salt over it where it fell, uncaring of the mess he made. Then he dropped the stone-splinter-shedding gargoyle head into the bag and cinched it shut, then dropped that too.
"I'm getting ice," Sam announced, tossing the kit onto Dean's bed with a flick of his wrist, clearly avoiding moving more than necessary.
"No, I –"
"Sit down," Sam ordered tiredly. "I'm faster than you right now, which is kinda sad, actually." With a pained chuckle, Sam was out the door, the dog slipping out behind him.
Dean called him a couple names but didn't bother chasing him, just started digging through the med kit for the rib belt. Turning to get some washcloths in case there were any contusions to clean, he stubbed his big toe on the bag with the gargoyle in it. "Ah, dammit, dammit!" he yelled. His toe had been one of the few places on his body that didn't hurt. Trying to stand on his bad leg didn't go well and he fell sideways, landing unceremoniously across the burnt orange barrel chair that sat near his bed.
"Goethe!" Sam called as he shuffled his way back into the room, arms full of bags of ice. He paused at the sight of Dean draped over the ugly chair. "The, uh, the dog won't come in," he said. "You okay there?"
"Get inside. We'll find Lassie later."
"But –"
"No, I mean it." Dean was adamant. And tired. And sore. "A: the mutt's smart, remember? He'll come back when he's damn well ready. Two: I need to actually check those ribs."
Sam set all of the bags of ice on the table and little wooden chairs next to it, wearing his arguing face. Dean wondered if there were any bags left by the machine, or any ice left inside it.
"You can hardly stand up," Sam kvetched, looking pointedly at the chair Dean had landed on. He started painfully pulling off his top shirt. "I can check 'em, then I'll bury myself in ice. What did you hurt? Your knee?"
"You won't check yourself worth shit. And I didn't fall over. I stubbed my toe on the damn statue head and it hurt."
They were on about the third round of the argument when there was a firm knock on the door. Scowling, Dean limped to the door, uncovered the peephole, and looked out. "It's Grant," he reported, the posture of their visitor making him feel kind of like he was being called into the principal's office. Sam adroitly dropped his shirt over the pile of salt and pushed the warded bag under the closer bed. Dean glanced around but didn't see anything else suspicious in sight. Since the man thought they worked for the FBI, they didn't bother to remove their guns.
Dean opened the door and Grant studied them wordlessly for a moment, looking almost resigned at the evidence of the beating they'd taken. Again. "Can I come in?" he asked even as he stepped past Dean. He was carrying a first responder bag. "A witness thought you two might've seen what happened at the library. Looks like maybe somebody doesn't like you two looking around?" It was only nominally a question.
"You're probably right," Dean admitted begrudgingly. It was likely true, even if it wasn't the human kind of predator Grant thought that was after them. Come to think of it, it would be nice to know what exactly had tried to kill them. "Coincidences usually aren't actually coincidental."
"I suppose I can't talk you two into going to the hospital," Grant added a little glumly. "Would it help if I said at least 80% of the town knows you're FBI, so it doesn't matter if you have to reveal who you really are?"
"Look," Sam weighed in, leaning against the wall. "If we go to the hospital, our bosses will pull us out of here. Then even if he does send someone else, they'll be starting from scratch, and honestly? Nobody but us really believes there's a case here."
It was a good line, so Dean pushed it farther. "More likely, he won't send anyone until, oh, half a dozen more people have died. I don't really want that. You?"
Grant glared and he might have been intimidating if the Winchesters hadn't been used to facing down far worse. When they didn't budge, he sighed. "Of course not. At least let me check you over and make sure you aren't the next casualties, huh?"
Dean exchanged a glance with Sam in which they silently agreed that they trusted Grant and it was just easier to go along with what he wanted than argue. Simultaneously, they said, "Him first," pointing at each other.
Grant snorted. "I'd swear you two are brothers. Lie down, will you?"
Sam naturally asked if Grant had seen the dog, which he hadn't. He chose to look Sam over first, which Dean counted as a win.
Grant knew his stuff and soon declared Sam's ribs just badly bruised. (They'd already been bruised and, while every bruised bone sucked, bruised ribs sucked out loud. The guy had to be in pretty terrible pain.) He plied Sam with Tylenol 3, which was the strongest stuff he could legally dole out, covered him in ice packs, and looked Dean over next.
That sucked out loud, too, because he made Dean move his sore hip and elbow in every direction.
"You probably hyperextended your elbow a little," Grant decided after he'd finished the examinations and heard what had happened. "And I'd guess you briefly had a partial hip dislocation. You should probably get both of them x-rayed, but since you won't, you better take anti-inflammatories religiously every six hours for a few days, or you could get swelling inside the joints. And once that happens, especially in your hip, it just keeps getting more and more irritated because there's nowhere for the swelling to go. Ice everything, too."
"I told you to check him first," Sam bitched from his bed.
"Your ribs could have been broken, jackass," Dean snapped. "Since you felt the need to send us both off the side of the steps instead of just, I don't know, pulling me out of the way or something." He knew Sam had responded the best and fastest way possible, but that wasn't as fun as poking at his brother a bit.
"You mean you might have broken my ribs? Good thing you didn't have that second helping of bacon at breakfast."
"I think you both have brain damage," Grant grumbled.
Distracted by the triage and more than a little bit of razzing, nobody noticed that Sam's shirt covering the pile of salt was beginning to move.
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AN: Just a few comments here.
T-1000 is a cyborg and the bad guy in the 1991 movie Terminator 2: Judgment Day. When he was blown up, all the pieces came back together.
Mannegishi are cryptids from Cree legends. They're shaped kind of like small humans with long, skinny arms and legs, big heads, and no noses.
Krasue are blood-sucking floating heads from Thai mythology. Creepy, huh?
sfaulkenberry: Yup, I spread the wealth a little on this one. I figured that Dean could handle a little whump once in a while. LOL. And yeah, Sam always gets it too...no worries on that. You know me so well! There's a fair amount of Canadian influence here in the great (if cold) state of Michigan, definitely to our benefit. It makes me very happy that you like Goethe. I was missing Timothy from a different story, which is why Sam got an animal sidekick. It's possible that Laurie disapproves of everyone. Hehe.
scootersmom: Thank you! I inherited my love of reading from my mom and both grandmas, and am thrilled that I passed it along. I'm so glad you like the notes at the end of each chapter. I have way too much fun doing the research for these stories...does that make me a nerd? As for weather, I am happy to report that all of our snow has melted. I know we'll get plenty more, but for now, it's great to see the bare ground as I am not a fan of the white stuff.
muffinroo: Mrs. Olsen! That is an absolutely fabulous comparison. Yes, Laurie is a lot like her...judgy and opinionated. The gargoyle didn't actually land on either of the guys – aren't you proud of me? No word yet on what's after them, but they'll start putting together the clues soon.
sylvia37: Right? Except Sam pretty much never stays out of trouble. LOL
Colby's girl: You're pretty smart...and pretty close! I love the 'if wishes were fishes' way of saying it. LOL. We have warmed up considerably, which makes me very happy. In fact, we may actually see the sun tomorrow. Sorry that you got all caught up, then had to wait so long!
Kathy: I had way too much fun writing the gross brotherly banter. I also loved writing about what happened when they mixed things in their warded bag earlier. It's entirely possible that I'm a bit immature. Heh. And I have the strangest feeling that you'll ask about that earlier story!
Trucklady53: Aw! I bet those puppies are so so so cute! I would be such a sucker for them. I never go anywhere either, but I actually don't mind being a homebody, so I (we) tend to be the people friends and family ask to cat- or dog-sit too. Heck, I even end up feeding one friend's chickens. Not even kidding.
Jenjoremy: Man, I hate weather that cold. Grant didn't get a chance to see Ace/Goethe this time (which I'm sure is a total coincidence...or not). I like nurturing Sam too. Now I beat up both of the guys at the same time. Sorry you didn't get the update soon like you asked. Oops.
Shazza: Happy to provide! And now I beat up both of them a little more. I hope you had a Merry Christmas too!
stedan: I know, I know. You had to wait a long time! Your comment about "maybe I don't" made me literally laugh out loud!
Christine: And here I made you wait a very long time for another chapter. Sorry! I love the fact that you can reference The Monkey's Paw. It also reminds me of Twain's The Mysterious Stranger. Very chilling! This story isn't that dark, I promise.