SIX

Dean waited but the phone line went dead. He closed his phone, picked up his duffle, and wandered down the steps to the side of the basketball court, leaning on the divide and watching. He surveyed the other people in the crowd, watching and cheering, shouting for someone or something. He sniffed, putting a hand to his face to rub it wearily.

But it stung and he hissed, pulling his hand back and looking at it. It was clean but he sighed, shaking his head.

It was a good twenty minutes and a whole game later that his phone began to ring again. He pulled it out of his pocket to find a strange number calling him.

"Yeah?" he asked cautiously, hoping it was not the police.

"Dean! Stay where you are!" Rosalea cried urgently down the line.

"What is it? Where's Sam?" he said quickly.

"He's been arrested – I'm coming to get you and we'll have to – goddamn it!" she hissed quickly.

"You're driving?"

"I've got your car, wait there!" she called.

"Woah woah woah – you're driving my car?" he demanded, outraged.

"Yes! I'm not far away, keep a look out. We need to haul ass, don't make me wait," she barked.

"Yeah yeah – no no – just keep your eyes on the road and don't drive into anything!" he said quickly. He could feel sweat breaking out down his back.

"Cheeky shit," she managed, and then the line went dead. He stared at the phone, horrified.

The world swirled, blackness encircling his head, the screech of harpies and/or banshees from Hell and all associated places off the usual tourist map making themselves heard. Blood pounded through his temples, breath rushing in and out of him faster and faster. He felt his grip on the physical world growing weaker and weaker, the sights and sounds dropping away from him alarmingly quickly. He was aware of his head tipping up, his feet trying not to stumble, the sound of his breathing hollow and lightning fast.

Something heavy landed on his back and he coughed out a breath. It pushed him to bend over and slap his hands on his knees quickly. Blood rushed back to his head and he held his breath desperately to stop himself blacking out. The thing on his back remained and then patted suddenly.

"Hey buddy, you ok? You don't look so good," came a voice from beside him.

His vision cleared and he gasped in a steady breath to try and ground himself. He straightened slowly, looking down at a scrawny basketball youth, watching him warily.

"Naw I'm… I'm good, thanks," he managed, waving him away. The lad nodded dubiously but shuffled off, not looking back. Dean looked up and around, making sure he hadn't drawn attention to himself.

No-one appeared to have noticed the young man who had almost passed out on the steps.

"Son of a bitch," he breathed, shaking his head. "I'm stranded, Sam's been arrested – and there's a chick driving my car!"

"So, Samuel, take a seat," Officer Mason said pleasantly.

Sam sat down, wondering why his hands were not cuffed and the other three policemen were waiting outside the door.

"Care for a coffee?" the officer continued.

"No, thank you, sir," he said politely.

"You see?" Mason said, pulling out the other soft chair, plonking his skinny frame into it and folding his arms.

"See what, sir?" Sam asked innocently.

"That," Mason said, pointing a finger at Sam's chest, "is how people should be with police. After all, we're only here to help," he added with a smile. "And I know you're a good boy, Samuel. I checked on you, right after Officer Michaels out there found your brother's prints on that nickel-plated Colt we found not far the dead body. I read all about your brother – faking his death, killing sprees, bank robberies, yadda yadda yadda, and then I saw your name. I read about you, Samuel. You're a good boy. You went to Stanford. You have nice friends. You haven't broken any laws, you're not wanted for anything."

"No, sir," Sam admitted, for some reason feeling a little guilty.

"Which is why I'm astounded, Samuel, absolutely astounded that you've stood by such bad company as your brother for so long." He paused thoughtfully. "He's your only family, isn't that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well I can see how you'd think that staying on his good side would be safer, and perhaps wiser in the short term. But see, your brother's in a lot of trouble, which I think you understand from doing that fancy law degree of yours. And I think you're just looking for a way to jump ship, only you've kinda been boxed in till now. Now while Dean's on the lam, you can think about… about your own life. About what you want to do. Does that sound good to you?" Mason asked slowly, with a sympathetic smile.

"Yes sir, it does," Sam said truthfully. "Having my own life… it's all I've ever wanted."

"Well. Let's say I could find a way to help you Samuel. Would you believe me?"

"Yes, sir," he said quietly, watching the table.

"And why would you believe me, Samuel?" he asked curiously.

"Because you're a policeman, sir," Sam said, looking up at the skinny officer.

His eyebrows lifted to exactly the correct angle and height, the outsides of his eyes let themselves sag, his bottom lip curved just enough to give the impression that it was about to pout. The space between his eyebrows rucked up to the optimum shape and relief, and the cleanest, purest form of innocence ever known to man, beast, spirit or indeed animal, mineral or vegetable flooded Sam's face.

The officer smiled.

"That's a good boy. Now… question is… if you knew where Dean was, would you tell me? Cos believe me, Samuel, I can make him go away for a very long time. We can help you find your own life, fit in somewhere, start to live. You'd never have to drive out of state again, or be forced to shoot these fictitious things your brother believes are killing people. He'll never be able to make you dig up some coffin again."

"I think…" Sam began, then stopped to reconsider. "No, you're right. I don't want to shoot monsters anymore, or drive for him when he's asleep, or put up with his music, or see the things we have to see. And I really, really don't want to dig up any more coffins," he said quietly. There was a firmness that Mason took to, and it made him smile.

"There, see?" he said encouragingly. "So all you have to do is tell me where your brother is. Then we can find him and make sure he doesn't keep you trapped in this shitty existence."

Sam looked up at him slowly, his eyes slightly wider. Mason wondered if it were through hesitation or longing. Then he watched the Winchester brother's face turn sad, his chin sticking out slightly in bravado.

"I… I want to but… I'm really not sure it's a good idea," he managed, deflating a little. Mason smiled.

"That's alright son, we have time. You think about this, I'll get you some coffee."

Rosalea slid the Impala round the street corner and shot down the road. She bounced her up over the kerb opposite the playground and screeched to a halt. She leaned forward and looked through the passenger window at the ballgame going on across the street.

She caught sight of Dean hurrying through the crowd toward the road, checking the traffic before dashing out and across. He grasped at the handle and yanked the door open with a reluctant squeak, sliding in quickly.

"Close it close it," Rosalea said quickly, already sliding her into gear and checking the street. She tore off again, and Dean barely managed to slam the door before they careened round the corner toward the traffic lights.

"Aw baby – you ok? Huh? Huh?" he demanded in anguish, his hands sliding to and fro across the front dash.

"I'm fine," Rosalea replied, surprised at his tone.

"Not you, ma car!" he managed, then looked at her. "But – obviously – I'm – ah – also worried you're ok after–"

"Relax," she grinned, heaving the classic round a corner.

"Slow down!" he protested, his hands trying to clutch at the dash.

"Just watch out for police. They know this car, we're might have to hide her till this is sorted out," she said quickly as she brought the Impala to a stop at the lights.

"What?"

"Just watch," she said quickly, putting her foot down as the lights went green. Dean was pushed back in his seat with the momentum, putting his hand to the window block securely.

"Alright, I'll watch – just take it easy," he said urgently. "We'll be spotted easy if you drive like a whack-job!"

"Point taken," she said, letting out a deep breath and checking the rear view mirror, easing off on the accelerator.

"Now run this by me again – Sam's been arrested, but you're here with my car?" he asked, confused.

"No, we were both asked to come to the station. Sam bumbled about to cover me making a break for this old thing, and–"

"Hey!" he protested. "She ain't old, she's a classic."

She spared him a brief glance. "Alright, calm down," she grinned knowingly, taking a corner gracefully. Dean blinked. "Look, Sam's going to do whatever he can to slow them down while–"

"Nice," he managed, surprised.

"What?" she asked, confused, her eyes still on the road.

"I said… er…"

"Don't tell me you expected me to total your car before I got to you?" she said archly. "You thought I'd get your fenders bent cos I'm a woman driver?"

Dean hesitated. "Well… you know… it's not you, it's… I don't even like Sam driving my car…"

"Really," she snorted. "My dad taught me to drive. He was a Nascar coach." Dean closed his mouth and made himself look out of the window. It was quiet for a few moments.

"So… you and Sammy got separated?" he said seriously.

"Yeah. They're probably trying to get him to tell them where you are. In the meantime, we have to find out how an armadillo fits into all this and get rid of it."

"Jinkies," he said deliberately, and if there had been a worldwide shortage of sarcasm it would have been down to one son of Winchester using it like it was going out of fashion. She looked back at him.

"What?"

"When did I die and leave you in charge?" he asked, lost.

"Early hours of Saturday morning, as I remember," she winked. He thought about it, scratched his head, and then looked out of his window.

"Right, let's get a handle on what's going on here," he said curtly, turning in the seat and reaching to the back one, taking his duffle and shaking it out. "Damn!" he hissed.

"What?" she asked, negotiating the traffic much more sedately than before.

"Dad's journal, it's not here," he said, sitting back round.

"What does it look like?" she asked quickly.

"Ah… kinda big, brown, with like a clasp thing over it, lots of newspaper cuttings sticking out the–"

"It's in room eight," she said confidently.

"Room eight? Really?"

"Yeah – it was on your bed with your March edition of some weirdo British magazine called The Fortean Times," she said with a wry smile. "You read some weird shit."

"Well excuse me, Rosie, you're the one driving my car cos I'm wanted for shooting at a spirit armadillo," he snorted, and she giggled.

"You're right. How random is that? An armadillo?" she mused.

"Look, I need my dad's diary or this is going to go tits-up very quickly," he pointed out.

"Now that's an interesting phrase," she smiled.

"Huh?"

"So we get back to the motel, you hide, I'll get the journal, we–"

"No, Rosie. We get back to the motel, you and me sneak in a window, find the journal and work out how to kill spirit armadillos," he said firmly. He paused, then shook his head sadly.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing. I just can't believe we're talking about how to kill spirit armadillos," he sighed.

"So then," Mason said with a smile, placing a large ceramic mug on the table in front of Sam. "Have you had time to think about this?"

"Yes sir, I have," Sam said guiltily. Mason smiled and went back to his seat, sitting slowly.

"And?" he asked.

"And… I'm wondering… well, I know you're a policeman and you do this all the time, but… How can I be sure I'll be safe? From my brother? I mean, he's kinda bullied me and ordered me about since I could walk. I'm just afraid that… if I have to see him again, I won't be able to do this," he said truthfully.

"That's alright son," Mason said confidently. "You won't have to see him again."

"Are you sure?" he asked plaintively.

"Absolutely," he said. "The FBI are on their way down now – should be about, ooh, three hours or so," he said cheerfully. "Once they've got him, he won't be able to escape or find you. Trust me."

"Ok," Sam breathed, sitting back slowly. Then he looked at Mason. "So… aren't you angry? At the FBI taking away your prisoner?" he asked innocently.

"Oh Samuel," he smiled, folding his arms. "It's all about sharing in this game. I agree to hand over Dean Winchester and the files tying him to yet another murder, and in return… Well, let's just say I won't have to wear this uniform to come in here anymore."

"Oh," Sam managed. "Seems fair," he mumbled, and Mason grinned.

"Doesn't it. So… tell me Sam, where is he?"

Sam picked up the mug and took a long, long sip of the coffee.

"This is good, sir," he offered lamely. Mason just smiled. Sam sniffed slightly, looked around the room, then back at Mason. "You know it's not just him, sir," he said.

"What?"

"Well, the lady I was with, sir? She's with him. She stole the car, I heard it drive away while we were leaving. So she must be going to find him now."

"Thank you, Samuel," he said happily. "We're already on the lookout for the vehicle."

"Oh. But… do you know what he's got in the trunk?"

"No, can't say we do," he said curiously.

"I'm not allowed to open it – he never lets me open it," he said urgently.

"Really… So what's inside?"

"Guns," Sam whispered, leaning across the table slightly and pinning the officer with a furtive, anxious stare. "Lots of guns."

"How many?" he asked quickly, snapping fingers at the mirror behind Sam.

"So many – I really don't know sir, I was never allowed to touch them," he said fearfully. "But if he has that many guns, shouldn't you take more policemen? Can you afford to wait three hours for the FBI to get here and find out he has an arsenal in his trunk?"

"Wait," Mason said, standing quickly. The door opened and the short desk sergeant appeared.

"Yep?"

"Get me Dispatch," he said quickly. "We need to organise everyone in the station, quickly!"

Sam sat back, sighed, and picked up his mug.

"Where is he?" Mason said quickly, greed lighting his eyes. "Where's Dean Winchester?"

"At the basketball court, corner of 3rd and 11th," Sam said innocently, with perhaps just the wisp of a smile.