Disclaimer: See part 1
Beta: That Girl Six
Notes: OKay, sorry, I almost forgot to post. It is just one of those weeks where I need a clone of me. Thank you for all the kindness, and sorrry (not really) about the cliffie. Remember, if you know what's going on (because you are all very smart) then let me know privately. Hiya Ridley!
Part 3
For a home he evaluated at being about 150 years old, it was in pristine condition. It looked fresh, unusual in these types of Victorian homes, which generally would have succumbed to water stains, fraying walls, and sagging years ago. From the outside there were three colors typical in these types of homes to accentuate the ornamentation: Wedgwood blue, cream, and a red that was a mixture of red and rose. Inside, the heavy floral pattered wallpaper marked the era. Minimalism was not in fashion, yet it wasn't cluttered. There were personal effects throughout each room.
Caleb had been intrigued and amused with all the melodrama punctuated by saving Gwendolyn, the damsel in distress. He felt he was living up to his position as The Knight in a totally different way. It all seemed innocuous, an easy in and out job, then to Pennsylvania for the answer to save Dean. This hunt would allow them to blow off some of the nervous energy which had been building as weeks turned into months searching for salvation. It was the reason why teasing Sam about Clara was important. When they did save Dean from Hell, things would be reset and Sam should be thinking about girls, lots and lots of girls. If he didn't, they had done their Runt wrong.
The architectural side of him continued to admire the home. The artist side was also taking note of the choice in art — mostly botanical prints and landscapes — nothing Caleb himself would be interested in painting. It was the hunter's side that should have been paying attention.
In the bedroom the EMF wasn't needed, what with the silver brush, comb, mirror along with makeup brushes swirled in the air. John had tempered them — the normal reaction would have been to touch the items instead of studying them. Mr. Francis did exactly what was expected, and Caleb had toppled him to the ground too late.
Up close and personal to the floor carpeted with a thin pile beige rug, he followed Dean's order, heading towards the door while dragging Mr. Francis with him.
"It's Mommy Dearest all over with the wire hangers," he muttered as he reached the threshold. Caleb turned in time to see Sam and Dean coming towards him, and then Dean going down, face planting into the Oriental rug. "Sam!" he yelled out, going forward to help bring Dean to safety.
Sam and Caleb grabbed an arm, and by the time they dragged him a foot, he was already trying to shrug out of their grasp.
"Mommy Dearest says no more wire hangers," Dean muttered with a huff as they placed him in a sitting position against the wall in the hallway before they wrestled the door close.
"Are you okay?" Sam asked, his hand touching the bloody stripe on the side of Dean's temple.
Dean winced at the touch, then smacked the hand away. "Fine, probably don't even need stitches—"
"Is there a doctor in town?" Caleb turned to a stunned Mr. Francis, who was seated against the rattling closed door.
"Doc Sullivan. I'll ring him." Mr. Francis started to stand but kept leaning against the door, applying pressure.
Caleb was wondering if he misunderstood. "He'll come here?"
"Sure, house calls are his specialty."
"Wait." Dean put his hand up, so Mr. Francis stayed put, looking at Caleb and Sam for further directions. "It's nothing." The older Winchester wiped the blood from the side of his face where the wound was dripping a red trickle down his cheek to his chin.
"We should have a doctor look at it," Sam said, using what Caleb recognized as his voice of reason, which was also reminiscent of how someone would speak to a child. If it were anyone else, Dean would probably already have the guy laid out with a single punch for it, but he never seemed to mind it from Sam.
Dean looked away from his brother and focused on Caleb. "You're practically a doctor yourself."
"What?" The psychic guessed the direction of the conversation, and was relived Dean was coherent. "Because my father is a doctor?"
The injured hunter smiled. "Exactly."
"You were unconscious." Sam placed a hand on his brother's chest to keep him from moving. Rose had captured Dean and tortured him, leaving Sam and Caleb with doubts if he would recover. As far as they were concerned, they had every right to be hypersensitive to a momentary lapse in consciousness. "Just stay down."
"For a second! Dazed is more like it." Dean rolled his eyes, wincing again at the action before pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Make sure, while he's at it," he waved his hand at Mr. Francis, "that he brings up some salt."
Mr. Francis returned with a canister filled with salt and questioned Sam about its purpose. Caleb was impressed at Sam's lying skills. But they had needed all their skills to be honed in the last few months, not just whether or not they could lie effectively to the local yokels. There was determination in what they did.
The doctor came, and his demeanor put them at ease. A couple of butterflies and aspirin later, he proclaimed Dean good as new, then gave them each a lollipop. Caleb would have to suggest that to Mac.
Sam wouldn't allow Dean to drive. Caleb was waiting for an explosive fight, but it didn't happen. Dean decided to take the backseat, shoving Caleb into the passenger side. Caleb wanted to protest; there was inherent wrongness in the seating arrangement. It would never be just him and Sam. He refused to give in, but Sam had another idea.
"I'm going to cancel my date," the younger hunter announced while they were stuck behind the Best Buy truck at the entrance of the motel.
"No, you don't," Caleb replied, wanting that bit of normalcy that was lacking from having them drive in the wrong positions. He should have insisted on the backseat.
Dean pulled on his brother's hair, forcing Sam to turn around. "Caleb and I are going to have a relaxing evening of grave digging. We'll be fine."
"You'll watch over him?" Sam asked Caleb.
Caleb placed a hand over his heart, then took two fingers and tried to poke Dean in the eyes. "I'll keep him in my sights the whole time."
Dean snorted. "What happens when you two get divorced? You going to fight for custody of me?"
They were guilty of treating him like a child, but Caleb wasn't about to acknowledge it. "Truck's moved."
He hadn't thought about the reason the Best Buy truck was in the lot until he entered the shiny wallpapered room again. Gone were the VCR and television, replaced with a 30-inch flat screen mounted to the wall and a DVD player.
Dean picked up the card that was on the nightstand. "Damn, Sam, what did you promise that girl?" On the white card it said the room had complimentary wireless.
"Cool! I can look up — "
"Date, Sam. You have one. Get ready and then get going." Dean sat on the bed, rubbing the bandage until Caleb shot him a look. Dean waved his hand. "We'll try to have some fun without our ring leader."
"Are you going to dig up the grave?" Sam directed the question to Caleb. Mr. Francis had informed them that everyone was interred at the local cemetery, so it was a matter of finding the fresh grave, digging it up, burning the body, and calling it a day. He begged for their assistance and offered to pay them. Sam stayed with the party line that they were hobbyists. Mr. Francis accepted the answer, but Caleb felt he knew more, knew the truth about them. When he probed the homeowner's mind, he discovered nothing but worry over his mother. Sam added that, as a favor and for the money, they would help. It was a better way to earn money than to have Dean hustling pool games. Caleb also knew it meant Sam could spend more time with his brother.
In the car, they had decided the best way to get rid of Mr. Francis's mother was to salt and burn the bones, the sooner the better. "As much as it pains me to say this—I'll dig and he'll supervise."
"I finally get my own minion." Dean folded his arms behind his head.
"I thought that was Sammy?" Caleb replied, to which Sam gestured with his middle finger before entering the bathroom.
Sam was in the bathroom for over half an hour. His hair then took another fifteen minutes to style with Dean threatening to get the clippers out, and Caleb encouraging him to grow it longer so he could place it in a ponytail. There were days when Caleb missed his long hair. They pushed their youngest out the door, spying from the window as he made his way to the motel office.
"Marcia Brady better treat him right." Dean remained at the window a few minutes longer before turning around and leaning against it.
Caleb was caught off guard by the emotions behind the statement. Dean wanted his brother to seek his happiness. With the way he was trying to set things right, it was like a terminally ill person making sure that those who were left behind were taken care of. Whether it was subconscious or on purpose, it made Caleb nervous that perhaps Dean felt they wouldn't find a solution.
"Take a picture; it'll last longer. Better yet, draw one." Dean bent down and pulled something from under the bed.
"What's this?" Caleb looked tentatively at the package Dean thrust into his hands without meeting his eyes. He unfolded a corner, then attacked it with gusto, freeing the gift from its brown paper wrapping. It was a beginner's artist set. He let his hand rest on the box before opening it. The wood box included watercolors in primary colors, a few tubes of acrylic paints, colored pencils, and pastels. Paper was also provided. Caleb looked back to Dean, who had his hands in his pockets, looking down but aware he was being studied.
"You used to draw all the time when we were kids. Haven't seen you do anything in a while."
Caleb wondered why he was being pushed to paint. His father had mentioned it at Christmas, too. He hadn't picked up a paintbrush in a while. There was no inspiration and no time. "Sammy grew out of the 'draw me a dragon' phase a long time ago." He remembered being begged by the youngest Winchester to make facsimiles of pictures he found in books.
Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Doesn't mean you have to."
He couldn't recall ever drawing a picture for Dean. At the time, the older brother had probably been content someone else was entertaining Sam. "When?" Dean had been with him and Sam the whole time they had been in town. He picked up a tube of acrylic; it was Super Pearl White.
"Remember when I went to get some M&Ms? Bethany, the cute brunette working the concession stand, let me call the motel, and I asked them to pick it up. I'll say this about this town: they aim to please."
He placed Super Pearl White back into its slot. Caleb didn't want to thank Dean; it was uncomfortable to admit that painting was important and that he had another interest besides hunting. They were to be The Triad, and that required all his attention. Besides, the last time he had devoted time to his artwork, Dean had been injured. "I'll put this away for later."
Dean pushed away from his perch. "No, what you need to do is stop hovering. I'm here right now, and if I leave —"
Caleb stood up, ignoring the art supplies. "Go to Hell, Deuce. Because that's what I see in my nightmares, not flowers and green pastures."
"Dude, I'd be worried if I saw you painting flowers. A tree I could accept; that's sorta manly." Dean added a grin, but Caleb was immune to the joking at this moment.
Snippets of the nightmares wove their way into his consciousness. There was no Super Pearl White. Instead he saw Carbon Black, Permanent Carmine, Pyrrole Red, and Cadmium Red Light. The colors of darkness, blood, and fire. Those were the things he could imagine, but he had a feeling that Hell was unimaginable. He must have telegraphed his displeasure loud and clear.
"It's not your fault. The hovering isn't helping." Dean crossed his arms, a sign he wanted Caleb to give in.
"Johnny would be disappointed in me." Images of his mentor also infiltrated his nights, reliving his time on the misty New Gorge Bridge after drowning, but this time John was berating him instead of encouraging him.
"No, it's me he'd have the problem with." Dean rubbed a hand down his face. "He wouldn't have let me make the deal."
"You don't know that," Caleb quickly defended his mentor. John would have made a deal himself, as already proven when he saved Dean. He would have saved Sam, but not wanted to sacrifice one son for the sake of the other. However, Caleb felt as though he was more defending Dean's psyche. In his mind, he was righting a wrong.
Dean clapped his hands together and rubbed them. "And neither do you, 'cause Dad is dead, and we can't ask him."
He had fallen into Dean's well-made trap, and they had found themselves at a stalemate. "How about something to eat?" Caleb wavered onto safe ground. Food always brought them together, too ingrained from meals on the farm, he supposed.
Dean smiled. "I want to try the counter at the 5 and 10. I bet they have the best burgers."
"Are you still on that hunt?" They were killing time, waiting for some more darkness to do their job. Darkness would hide a lot.
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Sam wore a pair of khakis instead of his usual jeans, but kept a t-shirt and button down. He hadn't asked Dean for the car, figuring they were staying local. The town was compact, and he still wanted to investigate it.
He was tempted to knock on the door of the motel office, but instead opened it and let the bells overhead announce his arrival. He saw her in the backroom, her blonde straight hair falling in front of her profile, covering her visage.
"One minute," she called out to him as in one fluid movement she tucked her hair behind her ear. Sam took his time, studying Clara. She was wearing a yellow dress with daisy appliqués around the collar and hem. The dress was short, showing off her shapely legs. The white high-heeled sandals she wore finished the outfit. She lifted her hair up and twisted some of it. She picked a few bobby pins, placed them in her mouth, and tucked them each in until it was secure.
"You look really pretty," Sam said when she presented herself.
She smiled and clasped her hands in front of her. "Thank you."
Sam cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Is there somewhere you want to go? I figure since I'm new in town. . ."
Clara nodded then bent down, disappearing for a moment. "Yes, can you carry this?" As if by magic she brought up a picnic basket. "I want to take you to a special place. How does walking grab you?"
"That would be great." Sam felt so awkward, as if this was his first date. In a way it was. Sarah had been someone he met on the job; then there was Jess before that, and she had been the one forthcoming in her interest while he had admired her from afar.
She grabbed his hand as she led him to a path behind the motel where they entered a wooded area. He took notice of his surroundings to make sure he wasn't being led into a trap or to be some sort of sacrifice. But in the end, after walking for forty-five minutes at an amble, he realized she was just a girl and he was just a boy. No demon involved.
"This is my happening place. I like to come out here and think." Clara dropped his hand and gestured for him to place the picnic basket on the tree stump. It wasn't homey, but he could tell someone spent time here. An area twenty feet in diameter was clear, with logs moved into a circle around a pit surrounded by stones. There were flowers planted around the perimeter which trickled in towards the middle from white to yellow to lavender.
"Did you do all this?"
"You bet your sweet bippy." She pulled a bright floral blanket from the picnic basket, laid it on the ground, being careful to minimize crushing the flowers. "I wanted to travel, but things happen and I created something for myself." She was sort of gawky with her movements as she adjusted the blankets. There probably wasn't much opportunity to date in Ellenton. "Where have you been? What have you seen?"
"Seen?" It was such a loaded question. He had seen normal men do great things. He had seen the wickedness of life. Then there was the supernatural — death by demons and whatever else that was unimaginable. Clara noticed his hesitation and clarified her question.
"Travel, I mean."
Sam was relieved he could answer easily enough, was in fact proud he had seen the lower forty-eight. "Pretty much all of it — no Alaska and Hawaii and haven't crossed the border into Canada."
He sat down on the blanket, trying to shake the awkwardness he felt. He needed more time, like with Jess. He'd seen her first, become friends with her, then she'd asked him out. Jessica had been the person who would cheer him up, in his corner, and with a look could put him in his place when he'd crossed the line. "Tell me about your family. You're lucky they're still in your life."
Clara kicked off her sandals, then scooted on her knees behind him and touched his shoulders. "You're tense."
That was hardly a surprise. He was bearing a lot on his shoulders lately. He slouched, forcing himself to relax under her touch and allowing someone to do something for him without complaint.
She hadn't forgotten his question, and took the time as her finger pushed into a spot on his right shoulder blade. "We're connected. That's the way it has always been." She moved down towards his lower back. "You still have your family. You all seem to be close."
"Hmm?" he replied with Dean and Caleb in the furthest recess of his mind as his muscles unclenched. "You're good at this."
Clara giggled. "I know. I've been doing this for a long time."
Jess used to massage his temples and his neck when he got headaches from studying too much, but they had been nothing like this. "Are you a massage therapist?" It dawned on him that he didn't know much about her other than that she was interested in him.
"No," she again laughed. "I read a book on it." Sam felt her hands against his shirt in a more staccato motion. "I spend a lot of time at the library."
Reading and researching were good common grounds for him. "Are you going to school?"
"Every day," she replied with a slap on his back. "You should be mellow now." Effortlessly she lay on the blanket with her head by his legs. "I don't want to leave where I am now."
Sam followed her lead and lay down, looking up to the dusty sky and green foliage swaying in the gentle breeze. "Are you afraid? Don't you want to follow your dreams?" He couldn't imagine being a person who didn't take a risk; and college for him, as much as it was a safe environment, had been a big risk.
Clara sighed and rolled on to her side. "I live my dream each day. I don't think many people can say that."
He felt her eyes on him, and turned his neck to find her still staring at him. Sam wondered if it was easy to read his facial expressions and what he had given away. He surely wasn't living his dream, which had become so distant he didn't know what it was anymore. The only direction to his life he had was saving Dean from Hell. "Ahh, yeah, I mean, I don't know what to say."
She giggled again, and Sam turned his body so he was facing her. "In this day and age, it's hard to find people that are feeling groovy about their lives." Clara smiled. "I'm more than just a pretty face."
Sam smiled, too, because maybe Clara was right — and she was more than a pretty face.
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Muslims believed that the mouth was the holiest part of the human body because it was with the mouth that people voiced prayers to Allah. Dean had to agree, but for different reasons.
When he was young he hid in his silence, although in the silence there was fear — of what did happen and what could happen. It was paralyzing. He noticed talking provided a distraction, whether it was to piss of a poltergeist or entertain Sam, his father, or Caleb. It was easier to talk to them than be silent in his thoughts.
If these were supposed to be Dean's last few months on Earth, he wanted the good times burned into his mind, not the morose. It was hard to be the person to convince them to look to the sun and not the Earth since his belief system ran more towards the Winchesters being cursed and therefore fatalistic in attitude.
Sitting on the stool at the counter of the restaurant was enjoyable. He used to mark places of interest like these, but they were now few and far between where one could eat among the merchandise.
"New in town?" asked Bea the waitress with the large hair-sprayed hairdo.
"Yeah, helping out Mr. Francis," Dean answered. It seemed as though everyone knew everyone else's business, so it was better to tell the truth instead of the standard 'just passing through'. "What's good, Bea?"
Dean was verging on starving. He really hadn't been injured, was glad he didn't need stitches on his temple as he itched the bandage, only to have his hand slapped by Caleb. He was jittery around needles; being pumped full of drugs, which left him with residual track marks, made him leery. He also hadn't raided the stash of pharmaceutical grade pain killer in a while. Tylenol and Ibuprofen were fine for him.
"Burgers, fries, and a shake," she said with her pencil and pad poised. "If you're looking for something fancier . . ."
"Make it a chocolate shake and a cheeseburger and you have a deal." Dean licked his lips in anticipation of possibly eating one of the best meals in his life. If not, then there was still time to find that heavenly burger.
"Make that two," Caleb added.
"Good choice." She smiled at them.
They were both quiet, taking in the atmosphere of the open grill, the cheap items in the store, and the people at the counter and behind it. The cook was playing some sort of tune with the spatula as he flipped burgers.
Bea brought the creamy shakes, and as she set them down, Caleb opened a conversation with her. "So Mr. Francis and Gwendolyn seem to be an item. Do you know anything about that, Bea?"
She pulled two straws from her apron, looking at Caleb as she handed it to him. "Gwendolyn is what they used to call a 'charity girl'. Can't say more than that." She tapped the red counter. "Your food is coming up."
"A charity girl?" Caleb repeated the words again.
Dean was at a loss himself and tried to think about the connotations of the words. He elbowed Caleb. "That sly dog. Gwendolyn is involved in the oldest profession in the world."
Caleb shook his head with a smile. "No wonder Mom isn't a happy spirit. Can't say you'd want your son making time with a prostitute." Caleb rubbed his chin. "Didn't get that vibe from her – I mean she was definitely coming on to me, but not the same way."
Dean snorted. "I thought you never paid for sex?" He stopped the conversation when the cheeseburger-laden plate was delivered with the glowing mixture of French fries and onion rings on the side.
"I don't. Ever," Caleb replied, waving a fry to accentuate his point.
The younger hunter bit into his burger with a satisfied smile. He could only do so much with Caleb. He was older and couldn't be manipulated like Sam. Settling down to have a parcel of kids would never be in the cards for Caleb Reaves.
His stomach was satisfied; Bea also recommended the cherry pie á la mode. The buttery crust melted in his mouth. He was still thinking about the gooey fruit as he watched Caleb dig the grave. Dean was just taking a reprieve, because a little cut was not going to stop him; however, digging on a full stomach would give him indigestion.
"I always thought things would get better. We got through your dad and Jim …" Caleb stated as he tossed a shovel full of dirt near the grave marker.
"It's going pretty good right now," Dean replied from his cross-legged position. The moon was shining on them, providing them with some light. It was a cool night, but not enough for his breath to fog.
Caleb paused in his digging, leaning against the shovel. "Deuce, we're digging a grave and about to burn a body. A freshy, and those aren't easy to burn."
"You've had a front row view for some sucky situations in my life. I survived experimental drugs, so right now watching you dig up this grave is a top ten day for me." Dean stood, grabbed the other shovel. Two men would be quicker than one, and the topsoil was still loose, hadn't settled like with old graves. "Here and now, Damien — that's what it is all about."
He didn't know if his speech would work; it was more than likely a temporary remedy. However, together they made quick work of the grave, thankful the satin liner instigated the flame.
Dean patted the earth with the shovel. It was still early according to their standards, not even midnight. "What do you want to do now?"
"I don't know. What do you want to do?" Caleb swung the shovel so it was on his shoulder, looking like he knew what the answer was going to be.
"Bar," Dean concluded because they did that well—hanging out at some dive, picking up women, and blowing off some steam in a non-life-threatening way.
Caleb gestured for Dean to pass over the shovel as they started to trek to the car. "This town has a bar?"
Dean hadn't noticed one, but the town was friendly, and in order to be friendly there needed to be booze. Dry towns were never friendly; they just wanted passersby to keep on going, not even using their town as a pit stop. "Gotta. Maybe even a pool table."
In the Impala, Dean drove towards the town with eyes watchful for any signs of liveliness.
"You hooking up with anyone lately?" Caleb asked while gesturing for Dean to take a turn.
"I have commitment issues at the moment." He was in no way looking for anyone with potential long term status because he never saw that for himself when he could never imagine the kind of love his father and mother had or the way Jim used to speak about his wife, Emma.
Two streets over from the main street on a dead end stood a wooden structure with an overhanging lamp that shone on a faded painted sign proclaiming 'The Blacksmith's Ale House.' The street was crowded with cars, but they slipped into a space.
"I think it's cool that you're close to Ethan," Dean said as they walked into the night air, directed to the bar by the buzzing of music and talking in the background. He wanted to encourage the relationship for as much as it had taken him off guard earlier. "It's not like it's a bad idea."
"Ye-ah, not like Ben Affleck and Jimmy Kimmel." Caleb stuffed his hands in his pockets. "He's a good guy."
Dean nodded. Being called a good guy meant that Caleb held him in esteem. "Sam and Eli are tight, too."
"Geek fest," Caleb added.
"Probably." Dean grinned with his hand on the door of the bar.
Caleb stopped him, pulling on his shirt. "You're seriously jealous."
"Who? Me? No, just thinking." Sure, he was jealous, but for different reasons. He had brought up the conversation to illustrate a point. "If you guys can't — you know — you have to move on."
"They miss their brother every day. Every day. Don't be looking to them as an example. Gideon's dead, and you're not. Sam and I aim to keep it that way," Caleb rasped, his voice holding hostility.
"Whoa, man. Chill. I don't want you two doing anything stupid." Sam was already too friendly with Ruby. Come to think of it, both him and Caleb had been far too secretive, hiding-in-the-clubhouse kind of sneaky for months now. Even though it could mean a way to save him, Dean didn't exactly like not knowing what either of them were up to. Past experience had taught him not to trust secrets. Secrets got people killed in their world.
"All depends on what you think is stupid," Caleb answered as he opened the door.
Dean wanted to slam Caleb against the wall and find out what he was talking about, but a latent memory came to him. He was talking to Gideon during the nightmare situation with Rose. Time didn't heal all wounds. If he died, then Caleb and Sam would always miss him. Then there was the part where he would do the same for them – do whatever it takes. Either way, he didn't want to be filling their memories with anger and confrontation. So tonight, all he wanted to do was enjoy himself.
"I need a drink and you're paying," Caleb said as he led the way towards the bar, finding two bar stools in the corner overlooking the bar and the side anteroom with the pool table. This place was getting better and better.
There was a man in a set of gray overalls hunkered over the bar, speaking to the bartender who had yet to take their order as he cleaned glasses.
"Are you the mechanic in this town?" Dean asked, taking a chance that the clothing fit the profession. It was why Sam liked costumes to get them into places.
The shorter man tilted his chin up. "Want to make something of it?"
"Man, you're a genius." Dean put out his hand to the man. "Name's Dean."
"Man crush," Caleb whispered in his ear.
"Shut up and order yourself something to drink." Dean pushed Caleb off with a grin and focused his attention on the mechanic who had introduced himself as Neal.
Caleb soon joined the conversation, trying admirably to keep up with Dean and Neal. After an hour, Neal decided to call it a night after extracting a promise to bring the Impala to the garage.
"As Neal said, those two floosies still watching us?" Dean smiled into his beer as he asked Caleb.
Caleb snorted. "Of course, and here they come."
Dean turned in his seat to see the blonde curly-haired girl with the shredded clothes sidle up to him. "I love Madonna."
"I see that," Dean replied, noticing the girl was working the 'Like A Virgin' video.
The other girl was a brunette with short cropped hair wearing a beaded dress over her straight figure. She was warming up to Caleb. Sam wasn't going to be the only one with female companionship for the night.