Chapter 8

The house was white and suburban. A lawn, a basketball hoop, polished numbers on the gatepost. And a name: Acorn Cottage. Sam looked around for oak trees and couldn't see any. Shook his head laughing as he strode up the driveway.

Dean had tried to come with him to visit Mike, even got as far as pulling on his boots and tying them up with trembling fingers. Sam had just watched, arms folded. But when he asked the question with pursed lips, You gonna wear any pants with those, dude?, Dean had finally groaned in defeat and flopped back onto the bed. Shit. Fine. Be careful.

Sam looked around before reaching up to ring the sparkling silver doorbell.

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The woman who answered the door was tall, and beautiful. Long black hair fell away behind her bare shoulders. When he looked down past her flaunted bellybutton to her long, naked legs, he imagined the grin that would be on his brother's face right now. The nudge of an elbow in his side.

Yet here he was, alone. Again.

"Mrs Johnston?" he asked, readjusting his feet as he realized he was stood slightly to one side. The empty space next to him hovered for a moment, then retreated to the recesses of his mind.

"Um... yes," the woman replied. Sam tried to focus on her scarlet lips as she spoke. Not, not, on the parts of her anatomy that her tight top was trying to draw his attention to. "Sarah. Can I... help you?" Her face flitted between friendliness and fear. But in the end a smile fixed itself, only faltering at the corners.

Sam reached into his inside pocket to pull out his FBI ID, feeling a little like a schoolboy with a fake student card. Feeling, in fact, like he had the time Dean had dragged him, aged seventeen, into a bar with ID that said he was a boob-inspector (sadly still prominent in their collection) and thrust him into the path of the biggest breasted barmaid he'd ever seen.

He corrected his gaze as his eyes slipped south.

"I'm Agent Manns, with the FBI," he announced, flipping the ID open. Laughed a little too loudly when Sarah's frown and tipped head told him he had it the wrong way up. He fumbled it the right way round and her long red fingernails reached out to stroke the plastic. "I'd, uh, like to talk to your son, Mike," he said, watching a slender finger trail down the side of his laminated face. "I, I spoke to him at his school a couple of days ago and I need to speak with him again, to, uh, clarify a few things."

The smile twitched and disappeared, hand pulled back. "Mike didn't tell me that."

Sam snapped the ID shut, hard. "He probably didn't want you to think he's in any trouble," he said firmly, regaining his composure, then saw the alarm that crossed her face. "Oh, he's not," he quickly reassured her. Bad cop to good cop in three seconds flat.

Her hand leapt back to lightly touch his arm. "Oh, god, you're here about the grave desecration, aren't you? I can't believe such an awful thing happened in this nice town."

Sam coughed and hoped she didn't feel him flinch. "Um, I do want to talk to Mike about Tim Wilkins," he confirmed, "but not about the, uh, desecration of his grave. When I spoke to Mike about the fires at the school he mentioned Tim's death. I got the impression there was something else he wanted to tell me about it."

"Oh?" Sarah's mouth was open for a few seconds before she closed it and nodded. "Please... please be gentle with him?" Sounding less like a seductress and more like a mother.

"Of course," Sam smiled.

"It's just, he's still upset about it, I think he's having nightmares. I can't imagine what he's going through, seeing his friend die. He's not himself any more." Then she stepped to the side to let Sam in.

Seeing his friend die? "Mike saw the accident?"

Sarah gestured for Sam to follow her into the living room and carried on the conversation over her shoulder. "Yes, didn't the police tell you? You read their report, right?"

"Uh, yeah. Thanks," he said, sitting in the armchair he was maneuvered towards. Looked around at the pictures on walls, Indian rug, lilies in vases. Coffee table with a glossy nature book on it that had clearly never been opened. "I must have skipped that part."

Nearly slapped himself then, because feigning ignorance wasn't really what he'd intended when he'd decided he needed to be more like Dean. A sudden flash across his thoughts: what had happened to the cocksure, trigger happy Dean he had wanted to be like? These days his brother would stare at nothing while his hands quietly shook, and then turn to Sam and smile. I'm good, Sammy.

If Sarah had noticed Sam's sudden lack of federal competence, she didn't show it, just disappeared to knock on a door somewhere.

Sam scrubbed his hands over his eyes as he tried to get Dean's face out of his head, Dean's sleeping face, pained face. Dead face. He reached for the book on the table and opened it at a random page. Tree frogs, cute and big-eyed. When he let go the stiff spine slammed the pages shut.

He could hear a hushed conversation between mother and son, then footsteps padding down the stairs. A couple of minutes later Mike was sat hunched forward on the sofa to his left while his mother perched next to him, exposing her cleavage as she leant forward.

Sam saw how the kid's left leg trembled, moving up and down from the heel.

"I told you what I saw in the canteen last time," he muttered, before Sam even had chance to ask his first question. His only question.

"I'm not here about the fires again, Mike, not directly. I want you to tell me what happened when your friend Tim died. What did you see?"

Mike continued to look at the floor, heel drumming harder. "I already told the police." That old line. Then nothing.

And Sam didn't blame him for the silence, because who would want to talk about seeing someone they loved die? When saying the words meant reliving the moment when life had emptied itself from the open eyes?

Sarah filled the silence with high-pitched chatter. "Oh, it was such a terrible tragedy." She put her hand on her son's shaking knee. "And Mike saw the whole thing happen. The boy just stepped out-"

"You know what, Mrs Johnston," Sam interrupted, smiling, "Sarah, I could really use some coffee." The smile felt a little too wide, a little too fake, but there was no going back.

Sarah glanced towards the kitchen and then back at Sam. He noticed her hand grip tighter on Mike's knee, and then relax. The leg was still shaking, like Sam's lips.

"No problem, Agent," she beamed, then turned to her son. "I'll be right back sweetie, you just answer the man's questions, okay?"

The long legs looked even longer now she was standing and Sam was sitting, heels teetering as her tight buttocks disappeared out of sight. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second before looking back at Mike.

The boy was still hanging his face down, though the trembling had lessened to a silent twitch. Sam clenched his hands together, shifted his weight forwards slightly. He coughed gently to release his best soft, coaxing voice, paused while he rehearsed his opening in his head. But as soon as the kitchen door swung shut Mike said it. Quietly, but firmly. "Someone pushed him." Then a deep breath and a sigh, like something had just been released.

Sam took a few seconds to process the new information, and as he did Mike swept the hair out of his eyes and lifted his head to look at him. Sam kept the wide eyes in his direct gaze as he spoke. "You didn't tell the police that, Mike." Trying not to sound too stern. "Why not?"

Mike looked around the room and his eyes landed on the door to the kitchen. Running water spluttered on the other side.

Sam frowned, considered his words carefully. "Did your mother tell you to lie, Mike?"

"No!" The kid looked up, startled. "No," he whispered, "she doesn't know." Emphasis on the she.

She doesn't, but someone else does, Sam thought. Someone who can influence this kid more than the police. Then a memory of stern glances and uncomfortable silences. Too much smiling. More afraid of his school principal than the FBI.

"Did Principal Weaver tell you to lie?" Sam asked incredulously.

Mike's eyes closed briefly in what looked like relief. "Uh huh," he nodded, licked his lips before he carried on. "He said it nice at first, but then he got real nasty, grabbing my shirt and shaking me. He said it would be real bad for the school if anyone found out Tim was pushed. If I told anyone I'd fail all my classes and never go to college." He suddenly sounded so young. "I want to go to college, you know?"

"Yeah," Sam pursed his lips, "I know." Cleared his throat, then: "Did he say anything else?"

Mike let out a long sigh. His leg was still now, calm. "Just that he had a reputation to uphold, and he didn't want stories about bullying getting out."

Sam noticed the plural, stories, and raised an eyebrow. "Is there a lot of bullying at the school?"

Mike nodded. "Some." Then he answered Sam's question before he'd asked it. "Tim was bullied a lot."

Sam remembered the bruise on Tim's face. Angry and purple, and glistening with ghostly tears. "Who by?"

"Everyone. Even teachers," Mike shrugged.

Everyone. Ghost's face turning to rage. His heart clenched as he remembered Dean lying on the ground, eyes open and terrified.

"What about Mr Cruickshank, the teacher who died?" Sam carried on, refocusing on the task at hand. Realizing that the invisible thread between ghost and victim was suddenly becoming visible.

"Yeah, he was always real nasty to Tim. Called him short bus when he got answers wrong in class. Sometimes he, uh, smacked him round the head, in front of everyone. People laughed."

Sam nodded to himself. "Any others?" He thought for a second, back to the fires that had brought them here. "A gym teacher, maybe?"

Mike shook his head. "He did get a lot of stick in gym though, pushed around 'cause he was small. And in the showers. People teasing him because of the size of... you know. Jostling and stuff."

Sam managed an embarrassed smile. Heard Dean's voice in his head saying Poor kid.

His thoughts were leaping from conclusion to fact and back again. It wasn't the most complex of patterns, but it was there. The spirit of a child, angered by bullying, torching the places - and now people - associated with his torment. Within the thankful confines of the building he was attached to.

Two more hits would confirm it.

"What about lunch times?" Sam asked, imagining his fingers crossing instead of actually doing it.

Mike thought for a second. "He used to sit by himself in the canteen. Other kids threw stuff at him."

Bingo.

And finally: "What about out in the yard? He ever bullied there?"

"Not really," Mike answered, and Sam's heart sank. "He kind of avoided going out there. Used to spend recess in his home room." Kept on sinking. Without a reason for the fire last night, the fire, his whole tentative theory was falling apart.

From the kitchen, cups and cutlery began to clink, cupboards opening and closing. Sam was almost distracted when Mike spoke again. "But, there was this one time, these two jocks tied him to the tree." Sam almost jumped up at the word tree. A memory of a tree burning, branches spitting. Mike continued: "They were just joking, they didn't, like, leave him there. He got a black eye though, when he struggled. Didn't stop crying all day."

Sam had to repress the smile that was threatening to break through, felt his dimples twitching. His hand was already in his pocket, fingering his cell phone, Dean's number flashing in his mind. They had their motive. All they had to do now was talk to Tim again armed with the new info, make sure this was over before anyone went back to the school tomorrow.

"Thanks, Mike," he said, looking at the teenager, who was now slumped back in his seat. "I, uh, think I've got everything I need."

Mike nodded. A heavy silence hung around the room, and Sam noticed the trembling returning to the kid's knee.

"Don't worry, it's going to be okay," Sam reassured when the boy's eyes began to well up.

Mike closed his eyes and opened them again. "When am I going to stop seeing it?" he asked wearily. "Stop seeing him dead?"

Sam gulped. "I don't know, I'm sorry. I wish I did," he told him honestly, trying not to choke on his words. His hand grasped tighter around the 'phone in his pocket, the knowledge of his brother's number saved in its memory reassuring him that Dean was really here. Not here, not right now, but alive and breathing somewhere not too far away. And Sam wanted to get back to him.

As he got to his feet and started buttoning his jacket, Sarah emerged from the kitchen with a tray full of cups and cakes. "I'm so sorry, Sarah," he gushed convincingly, "I really have to go." He turned towards the door. "Don't worry, I'll show myself out."

But then turned back, because he'd realized there was one question he hadn't asked: "Who was it, Mike? Who pushed Tim?"

"What?" Sarah asked, clattering the tray down onto the table.

Sam didn't answer her, just waited.

"I don't know," Mike answered, shaking his head, "I swear I don't."

"It's okay, Mike, I believe you."

"What's going on, Mike?" Sarah's voice was shrill. She picked up a coffee and took a huge gulp.

"'Cause there's nothing I'd like more than to see whoever did it get what they deserve," Mike said, folding his arms. His mother spluttered.

Sam nodded silently and said his goodbyes again, raised voices erupting as the door swung to behind him.

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He started the engine and looked at his watch. Four o'clock. Still plenty of time.

And if talking again didn't work? They couldn't risk letting people back in that building now that Tim had improved his game enough to kill people. If Tim wasn't on the right side of the veil by midnight, that school was going down in flames.