2
May Adams came around, knocking on their door and entering before they had a chance to reply. She was exactly as Sam had described; a woman who had a lifetime of toil etched on her face. Her age was a mystery. "Hello boys. Just thought I would advise you of my rules. No guests, no dogs, nuthin other than tobacco. And keep it quiet, thank you. Now, if you're hungry, there's snacks and such at the post office, and you got a hot plate there, but there ain't no restaurants or nuthin til Bradford. Now, I will have a nice stew done by evening, you can have a couple of bowls for $5 apiece. Just let me know." She smiled briefly, at least that was the intent; they couldn't be sure, as it came across more like gurning. She left before they had a chance to respond.
When she was safely out of earshot, they couldn't help but snicker. Dean was game; he was hungry now and stew, no matter what the hell was in it, sounded pretty damned good. Sam was a little concerned that there'd be porcupine quills in it.
"Aw don't be such a princess, Sammy. Stew's great, no matter what. It's like anything; just don't over-think it and you'll enjoy it."
Sam made a face. His philosophies were polar opposites to those of his brother. He vowed to make lunch himself at least. He settled on his own bed, stretching out. "So...now what? Snooze?"
Dean shook his head. "Nah, I'm too wired. You can snooze if you want. I might take a drive over to that lot. Maybe I can see if there's anything worth staying around for."
Sam raised up onto an elbow. "Do you even know where it is?"
"I thought I heard something about the highway; they said something about Molly's. Wasn't that the name of that restaurant that was closed up?"
Sam couldn't remember. "I don't know. Why don't you just relax, Dean? We'll meet up with Bobby in a couple of days; there's hardly any time to chase anything right now anyway."
Dean slumped back onto his bed. "Yeah, maybe. Bobby seemed pretty keyed up. I don't want to get in the way of whatever he was looking into." He sighed and fiddled with the band at his wrist. The reality was, he'd give anything to avoid addressing whatever Bobby was researching. Hell, all he'd gotten was one damned year; couldn't he just revel in his little victory for a while? He lay, wide-eyed and anxious, while Sam's breathing evened out into soft snores. It had been a long drive.
He almost drifted off, when May returned. She entered with her usual abruptness, one knock and no other warning. He made a mental note to push a dresser in front of the door in future.
"I almost forgot. Got a wake to go to tonight. If you want that stew, you'll have to serve yourself, it's on low on the stove. Just go on round to the front if you like, but mind Angus, he's nervous about strangers. I'll be at Munro's 'til nine or so. Poor man. Don't know how Alice will make do now." She turned to go again, but Dean stopped her.
"Ma'am, we heard about the accident. We're sorry about your friend; sounds like he met up with some bad luck." It was a calculated attempt, he figured she was either going to be closed-mouthed about it, or a gossip. Luckily, it was the latter.
"Oh my, yes! Poor man. You know, we all told him he was playing with fire with that piece of land, after everything. Sure, he got it for a song; back-taxes, you know...but you couldn't pay me enough to set foot up there. Some things are just better left alone."
Dean would have loved some further clarification, but she swept out again. He exchanged a look with Sam. "So? Enough to go explore a little..?"
Sam shrugged. "I told you Dean; you go right ahead. I'm staying here and crashing for a while. I'll go with you later if you want, but not right now."
Dean huffed with annoyed impatience. "God you're a pansy. I can't sit still after that last couple of coffees. Stay here then, get your beauty sleep. I'm going to go for a drive."
Sam raised his head. "Stay in touch, at least. And don't stay away too long; come back for three and I'll have some lunch ready."
Dean discarded his jacket, as it was too warm for anything other than his long sleeved tee. "Yes, dear. Bye, honey." he grinned as he left.
"And don't piss any more people off!" Sam yelled after him.
It was acknowledged with a middle finger salute.
Sam lay awake for a while. He worried about his brother, about his state of mind. Sam was so conflicted; the sacrifice Dean had made, selling his soul to return Sam to the living world...it was too dear, and one that Sam wasn't sure, deep down, that he would have made in the same situation. That admission filled him with a guilt that cut so sharply that he turned his mind away from it. And he knew exactly how his brother's mind worked. Anytime he was worried or bothered, he sought out some distraction, often with less than ideal results. Some female companionship would have been a good thing for him, but so far, the only woman they'd met was May Adams. But this little foray seemed safe enough, at least it kept him occupied and out from under the unfriendly scrutiny of the locals.
He was looking forward to talking with Bobby, alone. Genius came in odd packages sometimes, and Bobby always had a way of putting things in perspective, of slowing it all down and clarifying it. Sam needed that, because right now he was so damned filled with guilt and anger and stomach clenching turmoil, and the last person he could open up to was Dean. Everytime he looked at his older brother, he wanted to simultaneously hug him, and punch the daylights out of him.
He sighed for the hundredth time and finally gave in to exhaustion.
Dean cursed, annoyed that he would have to leave the Impala behind and walk in. The road was just too rough; only recently forged through the forest. He parked it and got out, surveying the place. Lots of trees, maples, birch. The forested mountain rose sharply ahead, but the ground here was rolling. Here and there were flatter spots, edged by small ravines. It was beautiful country, perfect for some massive log house. He opened the trunk, retrieving the EMF unit and a salt gun. If something weird was going on, he didn't want to be caught unprepared. Same reason stood for the handgun at his waist; living or otherwise, they were all pretty damned odd and unfriendly around here.
He trudged along the rock-strewn road. Half way, he came across the disheveled pile of logs that had broken loose from their transport. They were damaged and muddy, but he could see the fine workmanship; each skillfully coped and dovetailed, ready to be snapped together like Lego. He whistled in admiration; the logs were huge, some more than two feet wide. Definitely not local trees. One of the yokels had said they were trucked all the way in from the west coast. The new owner obviously had some money. He leaned and picked up a section of broken chain. Heavy, solid steel links; they were of a size that he would have thought impossible to break under any circumstance. He dropped the piece and continued on.
The leaves were only just starting to show hints of turning, and everything was still predominently green. The air was warm, and smelled spicy and fresh...woodsy. The sun made bright, dappled patterns where it shone through the trees, and if it weren't for the whining halo of midges following him, he might have actually enjoyed the hike. As he neared the end of the steadily rising road, the land opened up. There was a clearing here, but it wasn't recent. He stood and scanned, looking for the backhoe, but it wasn't visible. He could see that this must have been some old homestead. The grass was tall, and golden with late season maturity. There were lines of stone peeking out of it; walls, or old foundations. Here and there, he could see collapsed piles of weathered grey wood that used to be outbuildings. There was no evidence of a house standing, just a rectangle of stacked stone. It was fairly flat and level; there really wasn't any reason for trucks to be snapping axles on this terrain. The EMF remained silent. He walked through the grass, noting the remains of some old, small orchard. There were a few trees left, gnarled and twisted now with age. They hadn't been properly pruned for decades; thick sucker branch growth obscured their original form. But they still had healthy crowns of leaves, starting to speckle with brown. Yellow apples, stunted and pock-marked, hung from the branches. He reached out and pulled one off, and bit off a chunk. Despite its homely, un-tended appearance, it was perfectly ripe and sweet. He ate the good parts, avoiding the spots that looked occupied, and tossed the core away.
Now he could see where the clearing work was being done. A swath of level, fresh earth was carved beyond the apple trees. It extended to the clearing's horizon, where a ravine defined the edge. He followed it, and peered down the shadowy slope. The rusted yellow backhoe was there, lying on its side at the end of a scraped scar running half way down the ravine's side. It was pure luck that it had stopped where it was; a few slender trunks were all that held it from grinding all the way to the bottom. Dean wondered what the hell the guy was thinking, driving that machine down a slope like this. It was obviously too steep for that kind of equipment. He decided to look more closely at it and he stepped over the edge and slid down, grabbing the edge of the backhoe bucket to keep from skidding into the creek at the bottom. It shifted and moved a few inches at his touch, and he let go in a hurry, in case the wreck decided to acquiesce to gravity and head all the way down. The machine was dented and scraped, and smeared all over with soil; it had obviously rolled a few times. The stink of leaking diesel fuel surrounded it. He circled it, examining it for damage. It was an old John Deere, pretty much at the end of its useful lifespan. Well, now, for sure. He could see shovel marks, where they'd dug the poor bastard out from under the it. There was still blood spatter crusted on the yellow paint. -Oh yeah...closed casket- Dean thought grimly. Nobody could have survived that. He paused at the place, and knelt, examining a curiously organized little pile of the yellow apples from above. -maybe some rodent's stash- He made his way around to the front again. The big earth trough was dented; there was a piece of grey stone stuck in the rusted edge. Dean pried it out, stepping back nervously as the machine shuddered and ground a further few inches down the slope. He peered at it closely. It was marble, and showed a mason's tool marks. It was too smooth for a foundation stone. He turned it over, and saw the distinct shape of incised carving. Half of an 'S'. Oh yeah; this was definitely part of a headstone. Dean had his ah-ha moment.
It was a little clearer now just what could be behind the rash of bad luck. It seemed somebody didn't want to be disturbed.