5.
Another Cog In The Murder Machine
"So," Dean said slowly, barely glancing over at his brother from the TV, which was blasting some crap about the CW's newest 'network defining' show that was pulling in fewer viewers than the second Thursday night timeslot, "what's the plan?"
"The plan?" Sam asked, momentarily ceasing his search for fresh clothes to look over at his brother, "what plan?"
"The plan for the hunt. What are we gonna do about Candy's ghost?"
Sam pulled a shirt out of his duffle bag and sniffed it. Smelled good enough. "I was thinking we could just leave town and let her deal with it herself. Maybe if we get lucky, a giant clown will pop out from under her bed and try to kill her."
Dean turned off the TV and stared at him. "This sudden violence of yours wouldn't have anything to do with what we talked about last night, would it, Carol Anne?"
"Thought we weren't gonna make it a thing."
"And we weren't," Dean replied, "until you mentioned clowns. Now it's a thing. You've officially crossed it over into thing territory by bringing it up again."
"But I didn't mention it, you did."
"You implied."
"Why are we even having this conversation? Dean, she deserves it. It's karma."
"If karma existed," Dean replied, turning the TV back on and grimacing at the station's programming, "whoever's running this sideshow would have been dragged off by screaming fangirls and shot full of rock salt by now."
Sam cocked an eyebrow. "Ok. So, are we talking about Candy and cursed movies, or the CW's new fall lineup here?"
Dean sighed. "Look, we can't leave after you promised to help."
"Like Hell we can't."
"I'm not backing out with my tail between my legs. You know how to shut a bully up?"
Sam shrugged. "Tell you?"
"You need to learn how to fight your own battles, ok? No. You prove 'em wrong. We're finishing this hunt. We're saving that family."
"After everything she did to you, you actually want to save her?"
Dean shrugged. "Off-chance that karma does exist…"
"Dean-"
"She's got a kid, all right? If it was just her, I'd think about it, but I'm not leaving that kid to die. We're finishing it. That's final."
"Ok," Sam conceded, zipping his bag shut, "we'll see it through. But you're not going back there."
Dean glared up at him. "Why the hell not?"
"Because I'm not gonna let her-"
"If I could put up with it when I was a kid, I'm pretty sure I can handle it now, Sam."
"Someone's gotta dig up the history of the town," the younger man suggested, eager to spare his brother the pain of more torture without ruining his pride, "I'm usually the one to do it. Maybe I want a break."
"You want me to sit still for more than five minutes? Do you even know me?"
"Just see if the place used to be inhabited by Native American tribes, if there's any local lore, if her house is maybe sitting on some cursed burial ground. That's all I'm asking."
"And what are you gonna do?"
Sammy shrugged. "I'm gonna talk to Candy. Maybe get some specifics."
"You're gonna make this into more of a thing if I fight you on it, aren't you?"
The younger hunter grinned. "Don't I always?"
Dean returned the expression, relief crossing his face, lingering in his eyes, momentarily blocking out the joy that had been there all morning, the joy of opening up and not being shot down, the joy of being understood. "Have fun with the spawn of Satan."
o0o0o0o0o0o
Candy liked to talk. She talked about the thing haunting her house, how it only came out when her daughter was home, how it enjoyed keeping them up at night and attacking Candy, how she couldn't wait to see how the boys got rid of it.
She also liked to talk about herself. As soon as she had finished a five minute explanation on the ghostly phenomenon that was plaguing her family, she jumped straight into a monologue about how much money her rich ex-husband had to pay in child support. That led to a thrilling discussion about the family's caravan of SUVs. That led to a discussion on gas guzzlers, including the Impala.
"I don't know how your brother affords the upkeep on that thing."
"He does most of it himself," Sam gritted out through a strained smile.
"But the gas-"
"We're fine."
"Are you sure? You know, if you sold that junk heap-"
"We're not selling her." The pronoun slipped out, causing Sam to cringe. Boy, was he glad Dean wasn't there to hear that.
"But-"
"And it's not a junk heap." Ahh, that was better. "It belonged to our father."
"The deadbeat that let you live in that crappy apartment building? If I were you, I'd sell it just to get back at him."
"He's dead."
"Does that mean you finally got a proper house?"
Sam could feel his eyelid twitching. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and strangle her. Fortunately, he was saved the pain of coming up with an acceptable answer and the trouble of further restraining himself from murdering Candy as the front door opened.
Footsteps sounded down the hall, and a teenage girl with her mother's bright blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes entered the room. "Oh, we have company?"
"Melanie," Candy nodded, "this is Sam. Sam, this is my daughter."
"Hi," the girl said, pushing her glasses up higher on her nose and smiling sheepishly to reveal a mouth full of shining braces.
"So," Candy said, squinting her eyes for no apparent reason and only opening them again when her daughter had closed her mouth, "how was school?"
Mel smiled, keeping her mouth closed this time, an action that revealed deep dimples. "I got a 95 on my math test!" She gushed, jumping up and down, which was quite an accomplishment in her high heeled shoes.
"Oh."
The happiness drained from Mel's face in an instant. She looked down at the floor, her fingers playing with the bird-shaped logo on her surprisingly thin shirt. The tone in her mother's voice hadn't been one of happiness. She'd sounded disgusted. Judging by Mel's reaction, Sam guessed she heard that sound a lot.
"That's great," he said, smiling at the girl.
The teen looked up at him tentatively, biting her lip. "Really?"
"Yeah," Sam said, widening his smile and trying to ignore the horrified look that Candy was shooting him. "I was always horrible at math." It was a lie, a blatant lie, but it seemed to cheer her up a bit.
"You were?"
"Oh, yeah. Couldn't get above a C."
"What did you do?"
"Studied hard, paid attention in class, asked the teacher for help. And you know what?"
"What?"
"I started getting 90s on my tests. You know what else?"
"What?"
"I got accepted to Stanford."
Melanie's eyes bugged behind her glasses. "Stanford? But that's, like, the fourth best school in the country!"
"Exactly," Candy said sharply, cutting off Sam's reply before he could even begin to voice it, "it's not IVY League. You're not going to Stanford, anyway. You're going to Harvard. You can't get into Harvard with a 95, now, can you?"
Mel dropped her gaze back to the floor. "No, ma'am."
"Go to your room and study," the older woman commanded curtly, her eyes following her daughter's path out of the room. She turned to Sam and flashed a smile. "Kids."
Sam looked from Candy to the hall that Mel had disappeared down and back again. He was reminded of that Halloween remake Dean had forced him to go see, reminded of how a young Michael Myers had killed weaker animals before moving on to humans. It was the same thing. Candace had moved from other people's kids to her own.
"Is that it?" he asked, trying hard to keep the note of disgust out of his voice.
Candy shrugged. "I suppose so. Where's your brother?"
"Researching. He's making sure the town doesn't have a history."
The woman smirked, a malicious expression that made her normally beautiful face contort to the point that it matched her twisted personality perfectly. "Sure."
"We want to know what we're dealing with," Sam said through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowed.
Candy nodded. "Of course. You can show yourself out, I assume?"
"Yeah. Thanks for your time."
"No problem. Tell Goodwill I said hi."
Sam stopped halfway across the room, a sudden urge to put the woman in her place rushing through him so fast that he couldn't fight it. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are?" He demanded, whirling around to face her."
"Sam," she scoffed, "I have three SUVs, a huge house, the best clothes money can buy, over two hundred dollars of make-up on right now, and enough money that Mel qualifies for negative financial aid. I think I know how lucky I am."
Sammy shook his head. "No. You don't. Do you have any idea what my father did for a living?"
"Obviously not anything good," she replied, wrinkling her nose.
"He did what we do. What Dean and I do. He hunted. He hunted with guns and fire and arrows and knives. And he trained us to do the same."
"What's your point?"
"Remember what happened at Columbine?"
Candy sighed, rolling her eyes. "Spare me the My Chemical Romance song."
"I'm serious, Candy. He could have killed you. You're damn lucky he had the level of self-restraint he did back then. He could have killed you before you even knew what hit you."
"I'm sure he could have," she said, he voice monotone, disinterested, uncaring.
"And even after all of that," Sam continued, determined to finish his little speech, "he still wants to help you."
"How nice of him."
"It is," Sam smirked, "because I would have let you die." He spun around and left the house.