Author's Note in Chapter One. I understand this story format isn't for everyone.
CHAPTER THREE
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
John wakes late, with a heavy, strange feeling and a face warmed by the light of a sun that's already been up for hours. The uneasiness doesn't strike all of a sudden upon opening his eyes, but seems as though it's been around a while, gotten cozy and found a way to permeate each layer of sleep to rouse him, to warn something isn't right here.
He lays still and quiet, breathing the emotion out of the moment, and takes quick, professionally-distant stock of the situation. Beside him, the other twin bed is empty, unmade. No sight of or sound from his son. It's not necessarily an immediate concern, but it is uncommon for Dean to sneak out of a room without John noticing. It's also just as uncommon for John to sleep this late into the day. He can't put his finger on anything specifically wrong, but he has a nagging gut instinct of something left unfinished.
Exhausted more in his mind than his body, John had fallen into bed fully clothed, not bothering with anything more than toeing off his shoes. He trusts his instinct and forgoes the morning routine of a shower and shave, pauses only long enough to pull on his boots before he stands, twisting and bending quickly to work out the overnight kinks of a body beginning to show its mileage. Stiff muscles are looking to become friends, lingering throughout his body and reminding him in no uncertain terms that he's not nearly as young as he used to be.
It's quiet. Too quiet. John eyes the pistol on the bureau top, fingers flinching in that direction, but he clenches them into a fist, refusing to believe there's any need for the defense of a firearm here in Bobby's house with only his old friend and son sharing the space. Also, not trusting himself with a gun in his hand considering it's supposed to be just the three of them. If the need arises to defend himself, he'll do so like a Marine.
The fine hairs on the back of John's neck rise as he descends the staircase, and he has a fleeting sense of regret, having left the gun behind in the room. Because something unfamiliar is in the house with them, something possibly dangerous. His boot hits the dark, dusty hardwood floor and a chill cuts through him. "Bobby? Dean?"
John rounds the corner into the study and finds Dean standing at the opposite end of the room, under the archway connecting to the kitchen, backlit by a wash of late morning sunlight. The resulting shadows make it difficult to read his expression, but he seems unsteady on his feet, shaky and pale and on the verge of a sudden collapse to the hard floor.
"Hey, kiddo." Concern draws John nearer, a couple of heavy, swift steps that come to an abrupt stop as Dean raises his head to lock eyes with his father.
He's found the source of his uneasiness, and it's something right here, something within his son.
Dean's eyes are glazed over. Not the now-familiar drunk-glazed, but psycho antisocial serial killer glazed, and John brings an arm up just in time to counter the attack his instincts as his father assured him wasn't coming, but his reflexes as a hunter warned him was.
His forearm connects hard with Dean's, and he grits his teeth as Dean uses all of his weight in an attempt to drive a previously concealed knife hilt-deep into his John's face. The father within him wars with the hunter, and when Dean lets out an unholy roar and forces the knife down against John's arm, the hunter wins. The blade blazes a trail of fire across his forearm, but he can't allow Dean, or whatever's controlling him, to overtake him now.
John twists to grip awkwardly and painfully on Dean's knife arm. His right hand is fisted in the collar of Dean's shirt and he uses the leverage of his hold to get a knee up in his stomach. Dean collapses in the middle and John plants a foot in the flat of his son's gut, shoves out with enough force to send him staggering into the bookcase across the room.
Dean's foot catches on a bunch in the area rug and he stumbles on the way down. The back of his head strikes the middle shelf with a crack that turns John's stomach. The force of it is enough to knock a line of sturdy hardcover books sideways. Dean's dazed and slow-moving on the floor but it won't last. His fingers are already blindly clawing at the hardwood, searching for his dislodged blade.
John's left arm has gone quite rapidly from fire to ice and hangs numbly at his side, blood slipping in thick drops to soundlessly spot the rug. Dean has youth and stamina in his corner, not to mention some sort of supernatural driving force. He'll recover quickly and mount another attack, and John knows he has to put him down before that happens.
John stalks a cautious circle around Dean, mindful to keep his injured arm on the far side of his son. It's unclear whether Dean has any idea what's happening; his eyes won't focus and his movements are sluggish enough to cause John's mind, well-weathered with experience and rifling at warp-speed through the cryptic warnings and events of the past few weeks, to jump to the thought of possession. He dismisses the idea quickly for a much simpler explanation: last night's salt and burn of little Isaiah Turner's bones was for naught, and the spirit has decided to take the attempt personally. He swallows hard and reassures himself that's all this is, because Dean doesn't fit the spirit's M.O. Not Dean.
As he and his son stalk each other, it's not immediately clear who is hunter and whom prey, but there's a hesitation in Dean's step and John prays that whatever's happening, his boy is fighting it. Then Dean lunges, face twisted with such hatred and fury he very well looks dangerous enough to justify what John does next.
He sidesteps the clumsy attack with ease and expertly sweeps Dean's legs out from under him. The kid hits the floor hard, unforgiving boards under a thin carpet. This recovery is even more sluggish than the last, and John takes full advantage, slides behind Dean and gets him snug in a sleeper hold. His boy struggles mightily, slamming John into the wall. Blood runs warm and steady from the knife wound on his arm, washing over both of them.
"Don't fight it, Dean." John bites down hard on his bottom lip as Dean's grunts and struggles gradually weaken, and come to a stop as he gives up on consciousness. His body relaxes, a suddenly limp, heavy burden, and John slips down the wall until he thuds finally to the floor, licking away the coppery tang of blood from his lower lip. He gives Dean a tired, affectionate pat on the cheek and releases him for a moment to spill into a pile of limbs.
John reaches out and gingerly presses two fingers to his son's throat, comforting himself with the steady thrum of a heartbeat there. He lets his head fall back against the wall, a hand keeping pressure over the bleeding cut on his arm, not taking his eyes off of Dean.
A thunder of footsteps approaches and John wearily rolls his eyes. He's not quite sure if Bobby's coming late to the party or, as always, if he's right on cue. His free hand instinctively inches closer to where Dean lies motionless across his legs.
Bobby comes to a comically sudden stop in the doorway, a smear of engine oil swiped across his face. Mouth open, he takes in the torn apart room, John slumped bleeding against the wall, and Dean sprawled unconscious across his lap. A gray plastic grocery bag with the logo of some local hardware store swishes against the leg of his jeans. "D'I miss somethin'?"
"Can it, Singer."
"What the hell happened?"
"Looks like our ghost isn't resting quite as peacefully as we would have hoped. Dean came at me with a knife." John narrows his eyes. "It's awfully nice of you to stop by."
"You know I like to get an early start out in the yard. Had to run out and…" Bobby looks sheepish and sets the bag aside. He takes a step forward, thinks better of it and keeps his distance after one look at John's face. "You don't think this is a little extreme?"
"He was trying to kill me, Bobby. You'da done the same." You DID do the same. The retort is on his tongue and John bites down to keep from saying the words. Bobby's only concerned for the both of them, hasn't done anything to deserve that low a blow.
Bobby pulls a handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans and offers it to John with a nod at his arm. "That looks bad."
"Feels like a paper cut." John lays the kerchief across the cut but doesn't put additional pressure on the wound. It's not gonna kill him, and he has more pressing matters demanding attention. He tries to rouse Dean, squeezing and shaking his shoulder as discretely as possible, but his boy doesn't move.
"You stubborn jackass." Bobby retreats to the kitchen and returns with a battered tin. He sighs and crouches next to John, thankfully hasn't made any move to take Dean from his lap. John wouldn't give him up, not until he wakes. Bobby pops open the kit, rummaging for a proper bandage. "So, what happened?"
John leans forward, offering his arm but avoiding eye contact. Bobby has a tendency to see the things you'd like to keep hidden. "Like I said, he came at me with a knife. Tagged me, but I put him down before it happened again."
Bobby's brows come together as he pulls hard enough on John's arm to draw a wince. Jesus, Singer, gentle. I'm bleedin' here.
"Put him down?" Bobby spits, a mix of concern and disdain unique to the weathered hunter.
"He was trying to kill me," John repeats, something he wouldn't think needs repeating, and not a thought he's looking to dwell on. "And I know it was just that ghost gettin' in his head, but I can't keep anyone else from being hurt when my backup is aiming to gut me like a fish." John's voice rises in tandem with his defenses. He shouldn't have to explain himself like this to someone who's made all the same decisions he has.
"We salted and burned the bones, John. Isaiah's spirit should be at rest."
"Well, obviously you missed something," John snaps, his grip on Dean's shoulder tightening. "We missed something," he amends quickly, so as not to insult the man currently hard at work preventing John from needing a transfusion.
Bobby raises his eyebrows approvingly, presses a square of gauze to John's arm. "Let's get that kid someplace more comfortable."
John stops him, grips Bobby's arm nearly as tightly as his clutch on his son. "Not so fast. We don't know that he isn't going to go homicidal again as soon as he wakes up." He tilts his head, regards the room. "Bring me that chair. And find me some kind of rope."
Unsurprisingly, Bobby is the first of the three men to wake in the morning. The past seven years or so, since he really managed to somehow unintentionally cement himself as a go-to research guru in their close-knit but ever-growing community of hunters, he's had to devote the majority of time for his so-called "day job" to the hours most closely surrounding sunrise and sunset. These days the junkyard is mostly a front, sure, to keep that pesky new deputy off his back, what with all of the fake credentials and identification he's moving out of the house like contraband, but he still loves his cars. Finds a bit of otherwise elusive solitude and peace of mind among the skeletons constructed of metal, plastic and leather. Spending time with objects that can't makes demands of him and aren't aiming to rip out his heart.
It's a muggy morning, the air hot and thick and threatening rain with low, dark clouds out in the East. Should hold out through most of the daylight hours, though, and John and Dean will beat the storm, they hit the road before lunchtime. The earlier the better, that's how the Winchesters always roll out of town. Not always with a proper farewell, either, just the books John's lifted that he decides he needs but can't be bothered to ask for.
Bobby works out on the gravel lot until the sun is bursting over the tops of the tree line, the unobstructed heat beating brutally on the back of his neck. A constant stream of sweat runs in a slow, tickling line beneath the collar of his sweatshirt and he swipes with annoyance at the spot with the greasy rag in his hand. That's his sign of a full morning's work well done. The phones are sure to start ringing any minute now, and he still needs to put together that folder for John.
Bobby straightens and turns toward the house. He laces his fingers together behind his back and stretches his spine, creaking its protest at being held at an odd angle while he was digging into the guts of the baby blue GMC. A shadow moving through the kitchen windows catches his eye. Someone's up, and he'd better get back up to the house and play a proper host, get some coffee on. Winchesters aren't the most pleasant men to converse with before they're a couple cups of caffeine in.
He enters the house through the back door, wiping grease from his hands onto a red shop towel. Even without central air, the temperature in the house is noticeably cooler than outside. Dean sits at the kitchen table, rigid posture, blank expression, hands flattened in the tabletop. The info he's collected for John is stacked next to Dean's hand, and Bobby would think the kid was just some Winchester-patented combination of pissed and concerned, but the papers don't look as though they've been touched.
"Hey, kid," Bobby greets with forced cheeriness. Something is off, a strangeness invading the room. "S'earlier than I expected to see you up and about. Thought your dad told you to sleep in a bit. How's the head this morning?"
"Fine. Good." Dean's voice is listless, devoid of emotion. He turns his head to look at Bobby and his eyes are sluggish in catching up. They seem unfocused.
Bobby nods slowly, continues wiping his hands. He cocks his head, studying Dean. It's been a long few weeks, or so he's been told, and can see it for himself in the darkening circles under Dean's eyes. "You want breakfast?"
The kid shakes his head.
"Coffee?"
"No, that's okay."
"Your dad up yet?"
Dean's features contort into an ugly grimace. He wipes it away as though by eraser, replacing it with the same blank expression he'd been wearing when Bobby entered the room. "No idea."
Bobby leans over the table, lowering himself to Dean's eye line. The kid's pupils remain sluggish in focusing, but when he does, it's like something inside him snaps back into place. Dean blinks hard, shakes his head. He wipes a hand roughly over his face. "Sorry, Bobby. Jesus. I don't know what's up with me this morning. Long few days, I guess."
Bobby places a firm, gentle hand on Dean's shoulder, gives him a squeeze. "Sometimes it takes a while for things to catch up to ya. You've had a hell of a time, way I hear it."
Dean brushes off the concern along with Bobby's hand. "I'm fine, Bobby. Really."
Bobby lets his hand drop, straightens slowly, casually shifting books and papers, makes it look like anxious cleaning instead concealing what John has so clearly stated he doesn't want Dean to know. "All right. Well, I'm gonna run into town, get some car parts."
Dean nods. "Back to the 'ol nine-to-five, huh, now that the job's done?"
"'Til the next one comes along. You need anything?"
Dean turns to him quizzically, looks like himself for the first time this morning. "Any car parts?"
Bobby chuckles. "Any anything."
"No, I'm okay."
Bobby pauses, a lingering look on Dean as he moves to leave the room. "All right."
The previous night
Bobby stares in the squinty manner he has that means he's gone to thinking again, and John rolls his eyes, leans back in his chair and brings the drink to his lips. "You know, a man could die of old age, waiting on you to speak your mind, Singer."
And he takes even longer still, leaving John to swallow whiskey and listen to the thump of his heart and the crickets outside, Rumsfeld pacing on the porch with the steady thump of massive paws, a random whine of loneliness. Damn dog could make any man think he's hearin' ghosts.
"You wouldn't be happy if the job was over, would you?" Bobby speaks up finally.
John swallows what's left of the whiskey, knows his glass wasn't anywhere near full enough for a conversation that begins this way. He knocks his knuckles against the tumbler, shoots it across the tabletop toward his host. "How do you mean?"
Bobby slides into the chair opposite him, holds his tongue until he's poured a refill and a door closes upstairs. Dean just might be moving even slower than they'd realized. "You've got an idea what you're goin' after, got me up all night makin' calls and pullin' materials for ya while you're sleepin' like a babe, and that's fine. That's what I'm here for." His drawl suggest otherwise, and he pauses for a drink of his own, so John mirrors his movements. "But is this even still about Mary, John? If you ever find…if you catch this thing and you kill it, you really gonna be done? Gonna pack it all away and be nothing more than a father to those boys?"
John raises his eyebrows, not caring for the implication. "I'm a father now."
Bobby chuckles in a way only he is permitted to do. "You're a lot of things now, whatever the job calls for. Whatever's needed."
"Whatever's needed," John agrees roughly. Sometimes it's best not to disagree with Bobby; he's a decent shot. Still, he can't help but add, "They're not boys anymore, Bob."
"You think there's an age a man stops needin' his father?"
John forces a false air of detachment into his tone when he responds, "I think you made the point before, the both of us aren't exactly the right men to be answering that question."
"So you do sometimes listen when I'm talkin.'"
"I'm not thinking beyond killing this thing, Bobby. But, no." John shakes his head. "No, when I do kill it, I won't be done."
Bobby nods slowly, almost sadly. He stares into the bottom of his glass, in a way that suggests there's no bottom at all. "Well, I'll have something for you by morning, get you on your way."
A duel of emotions collides within Dean as they stand over the freshly dug grave; he can't bring himself to force his father to be the one to set the boy's bones alight, but at the same time is struck with a sudden, violent and surprising desire to make John suffer.
At the last second he steps up and extends his hand. "Let me do it, Dad."
John turns to his son with a quirked brow, the same strange, analytical expression he'd worn in the morning when he was sitting across the room when Dean woke. He hesitates a moment, then hands over the book of matches.
Goodbye and good riddance, little guy, Dean thinks, striking a single match across the rest of the row. Normally, he wouldn't have believed such a relatively small flame could carry out this task, even with the benefit of the lighter fluid, but this is a unique circumstance, a smaller set of bones than they're used to disposing of. He's transfixed by the flames, unable to tear his eyes away.
You have to stop him. He's a bad, mean man.
A whisper on the wind as it whistles past his ear. The rustling leaves of the trees behind them. Just his imagination, and Dean shakes it off.
He's not sure how much time passes before his father's call – "Dean!" – breaks through in a tone and volume suggesting it's not the first attempt to get his attention, but more like the fifth.
"Yeah, Dad, sorry." Dean shakes his head and pulls his eyes away from the fire. Both his father and Bobby are staring at him with more than a little concern.
"What did you mean?" Bobby asks.
"Huh?"
"You said 'I will,'" John says.
Dean frowns. "I don't…sorry, I was spacing out, I guess. It was nothing. Just a little tired. I'm good."
A look passes between the two older men, a silent communication they seem to have no intent of bringing Dean in on.
They return to the house in two vehicles, but Dean rides with John this time, and the Impala's interior smells like a campfire. His eyes are still stinging from the smoke, and his heart is heavy from the physical act of the salt and burn. He's still trying to shake off the voice, the murmurs echoing in his head since they left the cemetery, in the car, on the street. He can't make the voice stop, can't put a stopper on the whispers.
John holds the front door open for him, gives him an appraising, sideways glance. "You good?"
Dean nods tightly as he passes. "Good."
John lets the door smack shut in its frame, then leans a hand on the counter. "Can I get a nightcap, Bob?"
"Sure, help yourself." Bobby shrugs out of his quilted down vest and drapes it over a hook on the coat rack. "Dean?"
"No. Thanks, Bobby, I'm okay." He can't stifle his yawn. "I think I'm gonna hit the head and then hit the hay."
"Yeah, you look a little peaked," Bobby comments, shooting a glance at John.
"S'been a long couple of weeks," John says needlessly, tilting his head. "Why don't you sleep in a bit tomorrow?"
Dean frowns, confused. Unless his father intends on ditching him here with Bobby for a while, this doesn't make sense. "You don't wanna hit the road first thing?"
John's expression softens, as much as it ever does. "Why don't you sleep in a bit tomorrow?" he repeats.
A tired, thankful grin stretches across Dean's face. God help him if a little weight on his shoulders doesn't melt away, too. "Yeah, okay. Sounds like a plan I can get behind."
He turns to head upstairs and, as always, the conversation doesn't stop simply because Dean leaves the room. They don't even wait for him to be properly out of earshot. Of course, as Bobby speaks up first, that's probably the point.
"That boy needs a break, John. Needs a real spot of rest." The clink of a bottle and glasses as the men settle down for that nightcap. And presumably, a deeper conversation than they feel Dean is capable of. Or at least invited to.
"There's no time for rest."
"The job's over," Bobby argues.
"The job's never over."
John's gotten used to long drives alone, doesn't really mind them so much anymore. Didn't know he'd been spending this much time in the Impala when he bought her on a whim, still trying to convince Mary's old man he had his life well enough together to take care of his baby girl. There were times it was certainly a different story when the boys were still actually boys, poking and picking and generally pissing each other off because they didn't have anything else to do. He loves those boys but, damn, they really knew how to grate some nerves.
It's the short drives that get him.
On a long drive, two-lane highway, hayfields on either side, and no speed limit for three more towns, there's sufficient time to muse on whichever spectacularly FUBAR situation John's shit-deep in, and to properly talk himself into or out of whatever it is he needs convincing of.
A short drive, by his own standards, an hour or less, there's no time for that. He has only the time enough to get worked up about a problem, or come to an impulsive decision, and not nearly enough time to come back down.
This drive to the cemetery across town would be considered a short trip on a child's tricycle, and by the time he's throwing the Impala into 'park' inside the squat iron gates he's convinced himself that standing next to his eldest son for much longer will do little more than seriously endanger his life. Sam made a wrong call and in a bad way, but maybe he's safer where he is now than he would be with John.
He does his part in scouring the headstones the litter the yards for the name Warren, but neither his head nor his heart is really in it, and John stomps back to the car frustrated and empty-handed. He hasn't been able to distract from the spreading roots of these thoughts he's had, and his foot is back to pressing on the gas pedal like a decision to run has already been made when his cell phone trills loudly, breaking through his reverie. Dean.
John is short through the call but it isn't because of the kid, and when he snaps the phone shut he's almost exhausted himself from his musing, throws his head back against the stiff leather seatback.
Maybe it's not always the long drive and the time to think that brings John back down, maybe sometimes it's his boys.
Dean leans heavily against the door, watching the outline of trees blur as the car passes. The engine of this outdated rust bucket Bobby's scrounged up for the drive is a screaming, screeching mess. They pull to a stop at a red light with a sound like fingernails dragging across a chalkboard, and they wince in tandem.
Bobby lifts a shoulder. "So maybe I'm not through fiddlin' with the engine just yet."
The older man's deliberately sheepish nature fails this time to bring a smile to Dean's face. The light turns green, and as the car accelerates through the intersection a plume of thick black smoke shoots out of the exhaust pipe and engulfs the vehicle. The dark vapor dissipates on the wind and Dean can't help the thoughts creeping in at the sight of it.
"You're thinkin' pretty loud over there, kiddo."
Dean exhales, props his elbow on the door and turns to Bobby. "You're doing something for my dad, right? Doing some research or something?"
"What do you mean?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "I mean he got lucky there was a ghost in town killing people, because we were coming here anyway, weren't we?"
Bobby clucks his tongue dismissively. "You know how your dad is. He's always workin' on a dozen things at once." Answering his question without actually answering it. It's almost like he learned from John Winchester. Or like John Winchester learned from him.
"Yeah." Dean looks over. "He's okay though, right?"
Bobby adjusts his hands around the steering wheel, shoots the briefest of glances across the car. He's adjusting his position between the two of them, too. "You're a good kid, Dean. Yeah, he's okay."
"You'll tell me when I need to know? If I need to know?"
"Yeah, of course." Blowing him off. Bobby cares, but sometimes Dean is unpleasantly reminded of just how similar he and his father really are. Or maybe it's just another way of letting Dean know he's getting warmer without saying enough words to flat-out betray his old friend.
"We're here." With a lurch and screech Bobby turns the clunker through a large set of ornate gates, into the cemetery. There's a lot of familiarity, sadness, and regret twisting Bobby's features, etching lines throughout his face, aging him years in the blink of an eye.
"What is it, Bobby?" Asks before he thinks, and it comes to Dean as he's tentatively saying the words. "Your wife?"
Bobby nods a quick, tight confirmation, pulling the sedan to a jerky stop at the edge of the narrow winding road cutting a path like a snake through rows of headstones. "Come here every year to visit Karen on her birthday. Sometimes it take a while, walking the grounds. Working up the nerve."
There's always been more to Bobby's story, a much darker history than seems appropriate for a man who comes off as so easy-going. There's something well-hidden in his past, some awful event that cost him his wife, a healthy liver, and created the hunter they know today. Some sizeable amount of guilt weighs on him like a ship's anchor. Dad knows, but much like his own secrets, he holds another man's as well as inside a locked safe.
Bobby shakes it off and exits the car, and Dean follows suit. The door creaks loudly enough, he's surprised he doesn't see the dead rising and waking around them. "Anyway, I've grown pretty familiar with the place. There're some older family plots over in the east corner."
"We're looking for Warren?" Dean clarifies, shuffling after Bobby, the duffel over his shoulder containing all the fixings for a good old-fashioned salt and burn, just in case they find the boy's grave here.
They make their way slowly through the newest additions, covered in candles and fresh flowers, toward the older headstones Bobby's pointed out, their progress hobbled by Dean's hobbling. He's slow-moving, limping tiredly after Bobby, the weight of the overstuffed bag further weighing down his already heavy steps.
Bobby pauses long enough for Dean to catch up, gently but firmly takes the bag's straps. "Here," he says, handing Dean the Maglite. "You man the flashlight." A kind pat on the shoulder, and then Bobby is moving on, eyes deliberately focused straight ahead.
The beam of Dean's light sweeps each row of headstones. His shuffling boot catches on a low, jagged chunk of weed-covered stone and he pitches forward, loses his flashlight and hits the deck in an awkward tumble across the dirt. He groans and brushes his palm across his chin where it skipped the ground. "Son of a bitch," he hisses at himself, embarrassed to make such a jackass of himself in front of Bobby.
The older man's calloused palm and outstretched fingers appear in front of Dean's face and he grips the hand, uses the assist to haul himself back to his feet. Bobby quirks an eyebrow. "Kid, you need a vacation."
"I don't really see that anytime in my near future, Bobby." Dean stoops to brush dirt from the knees of his jeans. Bobby claps him once more on the back and Dean shrugs off his hand, annoyed. "I'm good, Bobby. I'm not a kid."
Bobby nods with narrowed eyes. "Of course you're not. Let's see if we can find this boy's grave."
They continue on through rows of headstones, Dean watching the ground before him a little more closely. The stones gradually grow wider, taller, and more elaborate as they transition to the older family group plots, and the men slow their steps, guided by moonlight and Dean's flashlight. He almost doesn't notice when Bobby stops completely, nearly walks right into the other man's back. He redirects his flashlight beam to the space where Bobby's squinting into the dark. "Whatcha got, Bobby?"
"Here it is. Warren."
"Yeah, looks like we've got a dozen or so to choose from," Dean comments, swinging the beam of the flashlight over the faces of several headstones with the surname. He finds himself drifting away, taking the beam of light with him and leaving Bobby with only the moon to assist him.
Bobby joins him in the row, stoops and squints to read the names. He moves a clump of plant growth from a flat stone, rips away a sprig of the shrub and holds it in his hand. He seems concerned, but it looks like just another ugly plant.
Dean frowns. "What is this stuff?"
"S'wormwood."
"Wormwood?" Something about that is familiar, something from one of Dad's many, many lessons, but it's taking some work to remember anything interesting enough to stand out from a snoozefest botany lecture from when Dean was a kid. Action holds Dean's attention, not words. Certainly not plants.
Bobby sits back on his heels and nods, brow furrowed, thinking. "In lore, wormwood is a plant associated with restless spirits. It can summon them, can even cause them to rise and speak if it's…" He looks around, and Dean follows his eyes around the cemetery. Bobby smiles grimly as he spots a dark, matted pile of leaves in the near corner, nestled closely to the short stone wall marking the property line. Dean follows the gaze with the flashlight beam.
"Burned," Bobby finishes, standing and moving to the pile. He drops back into a squat with the wince of a man with bad knees. "Keep that light here for a minute, will ya?" The pop of his joints is audible as he reaches out to the charred remains. He pulls a few half-burned sprigs of wormwood from the perimeter of the burn pile. "Damn groundskeeper probably didn't know what he was pulling up. Or didn't know what it would do, at least."
Dean bumps the older man with his elbow. "Score one for the glorified babysitter, huh? Now we know who, why, and how. What are you thinking, Bobby?"
"I'm thinkin' no more speculatin.' This is definitely a vengeful spirit at work."
"So salt and burn, just like we thought." Dean drops to his good knee with a hand pressed to his side and pulls the necessary items from the bag. He slides a short shovel to Bobby across the firm ground.
"Anything about that seem, I dunno, a little too easy?"
Dean nods but isn't interested in complaining about it. He's sore, tired, and still a little hung over. At the moment, he's perfectly happy with easy. "I'll tell Dad." He pulls out his phone, presses the buttons to dial his father, who answers almost immediately, like the phone was in hand. "Hey, Dad – "
"Dean. Tell Bobby this is a bust. There's nothing here, so I'm gonna – "
"That's 'cause it's here. The grave, I mean. Bobby was right about the mother's family plot. And it's completely covered in wormwood. The groundskeeper was burning the stuff in a compost heap nearby, too." No harm in letting the old man think Dean already knew what he's talking about. "We're getting ready to dig now."
A long pause, which could mean any number of things. Dean would like to assume his father is waiting for Dean to continue. Except he's shared all the information he has to share.
"Okay." John's tone of voice is a curious sigh of relief. "Good, then. I'm on my way to you."
John disconnects the call without another word and Dean is left holding a silent cell phone. He shakes his head, feeing a flash of angry heat but can't help but quirk a smile. Bobby deserves a damned cake for being right about this one. Because Dad was wrong.
That gives Dean pause. He's never before relished in such a thought. Dad was wrong? Where did that come from? That's a Sammy thought; it's not one of his.
Bobby whistles from a few feet away. "You gonna stand there and make an old man dig this hole all by himself?"
"No, I'm comin.'" Dean flexes his sore knee and tucks his phone back into his jacket pocket.
"And good evening to you, John," Bobby says pointedly, pouring the other man a glass and sliding it across the table. Dean lowers himself into a chair with a smirk. He shakes his head when Bobby gestures to the bottle. "What about you, kid?"
"No, thanks, Bobby. A neighbor in the trailer park said it seemed like your guy Mann was under the influence of something." He glances up at his father. "Doesn't have to be ghost. Could just be drugs."
"Too commonplace to fit our pattern." John brings his glass to his lips, shaking his head. "No. My gut says all of the murders are connected. Says it's a spook."
Bobby straightens in his chair and leans across the table. He pushes aside the folders on top of his pile and extracts a few loose printouts. "Then I think I might have dug up something you'll be interested in seeing. I came across this in archives." Bobby sets a sheet of paper on the table between them.
Dean leans over to catch a glimpse as John pulls Bobby's offering closer to himself.
"October fourteenth, nineteen seventy-three," Bobby continues. "Isaiah Turner, six years old, found dead in the cellar."
"How does that help us? What happened?"
"Well, why don't you pipe down and let me tell ya?" Bobby shakes his head.
Dean smiles and ducks his head so his father won't see.
"Neighbor noticed the, uh, smell, and called the police. Officers discovered the boy's father, Jacob, passed out upstairs in front of the television. He was a drunk, and the nastiest kind. Isaiah's mother died in childbirth, and Jacob never came back from it. Tended to take it out on the kid, according to the neighbors."
"Neighbors noticed and didn't do anything?" John asks, disgusted.
"Not everyone is a good Samaritan." Bobby shuffles the papers in his hands. "Jacob used to lock the poor boy in the cellar for days at a time. Eventually left him there to die."
John leans back in his chair, running a rough hand over his face.
"You think this kid is our ghost?" Dean asks.
Bobby nods. "Story fits the pattern to a 'tee.' Our victims have all been abusive fathers, in one way or another."
"This is him." John clears his throat. "You find a picture of this kid, Bobby. I'd like to see who we're dealing with."
The other man raises his eyebrows. "Yeah." He hesitates before setting a second sheet of paper over the first. "Yeah."
Dean sucks in a breath as he studies the photograph and glances at his father's face. John eyes are distant but his jaw is set, determined. There's recognition in his dark expression, and it's no wonder why.
Dean has to wonder if they're here because of the ghost or if the ghost is here because of them, because DAMN if that little boy doesn't look just like Sammy.
The sun is setting beyond the west-facing window of Bobby's small kitchen, bathing the men in a hot, harsh wash of orange light. Dean squints through the flare, studying his father's strange expression as he stares at the black-and-white image of young Isaiah Thomas.
Dean swallows. Something about this boy is tugging at the back of his mind, like a dream he's been trying to remember. It's damn frustrating, and more than the fact he could very well be looking at a picture of his baby brother.
"You okay, kid?"
Dean breaks eye contact with the photo, meets Bobby's gaze. He seems concerned, looking between the two Winchesters. His father seems more analytical than concerned, studying Dean while absorbing the information and already plotting his next move.
Dean swallows. "Yeah. Fine."
"You look like you've seen a ghost," John comments.
Bobby chuckles at what he assumes is a bad joke but Dean knows his father better than that, and hears what Singer doesn't: the accusation.
Sorry to disappoint, Dad. Dean forces a smile to his lips. "No. M'fine. What's our next move?"
John crosses his arms. "If it's a spirit, we need to find the bones."
"So it's a simple salt and burn."
John gives Dean an amused, sideways glance. "You ever seen a simple salt and burn?"
"Guess not."
His father returns his attention to Bobby. "You find out where the Turners are buried?"
Bobby wraps his calloused palms around the back of the chair between them. "The paper says the mother's family claimed the body, had the boy buried in their family plot, right here in Sioux Falls."
"Papers are wrong all the time. We should check out the Turners."
"I think Bobby's right," Dean puts his two cents in, earning a glare.
"Then why don't we check out both plots," John grits.
"Both plots are in yards here in town. Maiden name was Warren," Bobby supplies helpfully.
"Dean, go with Bobby. Check the mother's family plot."
Dean nods, not feeling the love in the shove-off to Bobby. "Yeah."
"All right." John claps his hands together. It's time to get down to business. "Why don't you pack up the bags?"
"Sure."
Bobby stands by the table and watches John stares at the pictures as Dean goes to their pile of bags in the study. "You feel bad it's a kid?" the older hunter asks.
"S'not a kid, Bobby. It's an it. And it needs to be ended."
Earlier that day
Bobby throws open the car door and exits the vehicle into a cloud of dust kicked up from the spinning tires. Rumsfeld wags his tail and woofs a deep hello from his shady spot on the porch, and one of the phones in the house is ringing; he can hear it through the open kitchen window. He scoops up the stack of books from the passenger seat and rushes up the steps and through the creaky screened door, stopping to eye the bank of phones. FBI, CDC, Homeland Security. He rules them out one by one before realizing the source of the ring is the house's landline. A rarity these long, lonely days.
Bobby tucks the materials from the library under his arm and grabs up the receiver. "Yeah." He squints, listening a moment. Oh, for the love of… "No, ya idgit, you have to cut the head off. Shooting it will only piss it off." He shakes his head. "Seriously, how are you not dead?"
Bobby replaces the phone and sighs, contemplates the bottle on the counter, shoots a glance at the clock ticking on the wall. Before he can reach for it the phone rings once more. The landline again. He snatches it quickly. "Damn it, Rufus, if you can't – "
"You mind not screaming in my ear, Bobby?"
Bobby smiles and sinks into a chair, forgetting about the liquor. "Hey, Ellen. Sorry about that." He sets his research aside on the table, props his boot up on a second chair. It's been too damn long since he's heard her voice. It wraps around and warms him like a fleece blanket, or a steaming cup of tea.
"You're about to be sorry for a lot more than that. S'John Winchester there with you?"
Bobby's brow wrinkles. "The hell would make you think – "
"Don't play games with me, Singer. He called me yesterday. I've got some redneck kid just started renting the room out back, keeps talking everyone's ear off about how he went to M.I.T. Finally told him I'd clear his tab if he could prove it, got him to run a back trace on John's call and it came up as a payphone in your area code. Now why don't you tell me what the hell is going on out there?"
"Ellen –"
"And don't lie to me. He called me talking about demons, of all things."
Bobby sighs, rethinking a few of his more recent choices. He reaches across the table, knocks asides the file folder he'd discarded, and drags the previously bypassed bottle of whiskey closer. "Yeah, he showed up here saying the same things. He's got me puttin' together whatever I can find for him."
"What do you mean, whatever you can find?"
"Exorcisms, summoning spells. The whole enchilada."
When Ellen speak again, her tone is somber. "Bobby, we've both known John a long time, and he's as private a man as they come. He's talking to you. He's talking to me. As much as I'd like to think we're special, there must be others. He's putting out a damn APB on this demon."
"On ANY demon, is more like." Bobby tips the chair back on two legs, snags a glass from the drying mat on the counter behind him.
"Then it's not going to be long before the demons put a hit out on him. It's not exactly stealthy, and it's not like John."
"This is personal, Ellen. It's about his family."
"Yeah, he said they're after the boys."
"One of 'em dressed up as a pretty girl. Came onto Dean at a bar and took a swipe at him. John doesn't think it was about the kid."
"He thinks they wanted him?"
"Wanted him to stop sniffing around, is more like." Familiar with John's sense of timing, Bobby is suddenly paranoid for an appearance, checking the doors and windows for sight of the man's return. "Of course, being John, that only encouraged him to sniff around more. I figure it's not gonna hurt much, giving him a hand."
Ellen lets out a long, stressed breath. Her tension is painfully familiar to his own state of mind. He wishes they spoke more often, under other circumstances. "I'll do whatever I can do, Bobby. But I've got my own family to worry about."
"Of course. You'll keep this to yourself?"
"Who're you talking to, Singer?"
Bobby holds up a calming hand, like she's in the room with him. "You're right, you're right. Just…keep your ear to the ground."
"I always do. And, Singer, one more thing? Next time, don't wait for me to call you."
Bobby keeps a hold on the receiver, listening to the dial tone. A familiar rumble outside, the metallic groan of the Chevy being thrown into 'park.' He studies his near-empty glass. Better make it two. And after another moment, or three, although he'd rather see Dean acting like a kid again, drinking milk or soda. Dean isn't his son, but he feels the growing pains, all the same.
John bursts through the door with hurricane force, as usual and as expected. He skips the greeting, going immediately into, "Mackey's story was just as expected. Guy was an asshole to his son and his son tried to kill him."
Harrisburg, South Dakota
Earlier that day
John paces outside of the liquor store, a place he figures it isn't uncommon to see such erratic behavior, certainly not uncommon enough to get the local LEOs called on him. The phone rings in his hand, and the screen reads, Private Caller.
He squints, and his nostrils flare. He brings the phone up and forgoes the formality of a greeting and goes straight to information-gathering. "How many of you are there?"
"As many as it takes. They're my children."
"Your what?" he asks, in disbelief.
"So traditional, John. No, not in the strictest sense, I suppose. But there are a lot of lost souls in Hell, and they turn to me for guidance."
John rolls his eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry. Were you still talking?"
"You can laugh now, John. I wonder if it will still be so funny when it's your children we're talking about."
"We're not going to talk about my children," John hisses, with fire and disgust. "You're not going to have anything else to do with them."
"Such authority. It's almost as though you're overcompensating for something."
"Was there a point of any kind to this call?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. I wanted to make sure we were still on the same page. Because, John, I thought we'd had a talk about short leashes and straying pups."
"I think this is the last talk we're going to have. Next time I talk to you, it will be to let you know I'm about to kill you." John snaps the phone shut and grips the plastic tightly in his fist. He wants to toss it, walks over to the stinking trash can outside the swinging glass door and everything, but pulls his hand back before he makes the toss, angrily stuffs the phone back into his pocket.
John's a horrible bluffer, doesn't know how he gets a damn thing past anyone.
He drive the Impala back across town in a no-nonsense sort of way, comes up quickly behind Dean shuffling along the street, hands stuffed into his pockets. He honks the horn once as he drifts closer to the curb, jerks her to a hard stop that draws an eyebrow raise from his son. "Hey, kid. Let's motor."
Dean hops up the short set of steps to the trailer. The aluminum creaks underfoot and he has a fleeting concern that his weight will be enough to rip the stairs away from the rest of the home. Bouncing on the balls of feet, he deems the steps sturdy enough to not cause him immediately bodily harm, and raps quickly on the frame of the screened door before hopping back down to the relative safety of solid ground. He can't help the feeling that this isn't so much an important interview as it is an excuse for Dad to ditch him.
The front door jerks open but the middle-aged woman inside the trailer stops at the screen. "Yes?"
"Mrs. Leavy?" He plasters on a smile so fake it hurts. "Hi, I'm Dean."
She's unimpressed, almost impressively so. "And you are?"
"Fact-checking, the accident that happened next door. Uh, class assignment. Journalism."
"What happened to…" She trails off, decides it's more polite to simply point to his face rather than say it.
Dean grins, the bruises bringing out a dull throb at his temple and cheekbone as the skin there tightens. "Uh, car accident."
She winces in sympathy and props open the screened door, and Dean suddenly misses his little brother. Sam was so much better than this. He'd be inside picking cat hair off his shirt by now, not getting this suspicious, quirked eyebrow. "You're a student?"
"Yeah. Yep. We had to pick a local news story and conduct a follow-up interview with an eye witness. You're the one who called 911, right?"
"Yeah, I was the one who called." Despite the warmish weather, she's dressed in a cable-knit sweater and hugs herself tightly. She still doesn't invite him inside, but does step completely out of the trailer, finally putting them at the same level and allowing Dean to feel less like an unwanted creep. She extends a hand. "Kathy."
Dean gives her hand a quick, professional pump and draws Dad's notepad and pen from his back pocket. "Hi, Kathy. Could you tell me a little bit about that night, from your perspective?"
"Yeah, sure, but can we make this quick?" She waits for Dean to nod before continuing. "I was washing dishes after dinner. My husband doesn't get home from the warehouse until late, so our schedules are a little non-traditional."
"You heard the gunshot?"
She nods. "My father was a hunter. Just deer, nothing illegal…but I knew it was a shotgun."
"Not something you usually hear around these parts?"
She gives him an odd look. "No, not usually."
Dean jots a few notes onto a small pad, partly for show, partly to have something so his father won't think he was just dicking around out here. "Did you happen to see Steven enter or leave the trailer?"
"You're starting to sound more like a cop than a journalism student."
Dean grins easily, holds up on the note-taking for a minute. "I get that a lot. Kinda wanted to be one when I was a kid."
She returns the smile. "So did my son."
"Yeah? He make that happen?"
"Middle school math teacher."
"Just as dangerous, if those kids are anything like I was."
She nods, finally warming up. There's a learning curve on not being an asshole to complete strangers. Dean's no natural. "Yeah, I saw Steven leave. We've been neighbors his whole life."
"And as a kid, he was…"
"Quiet, small. Micah, my son, was a little older but they were friends. Steven used to come over most afternoons. I'd make the boys chocolate chip cookies and they'd watch cartoons. I don't think he had a very enjoyable life at home."
"What makes you say that?"
"I used to hear Phil, Steven's father, yelling. Almost as loud as the gunshot. Steven stayed in that house too long. Only moved out a couple of weeks ago."
Dean nods. "Back to that night, how did Steven seem when you saw him?"
"It was very strange. He seemed…Steven was always a good kid but it looked like he was under the influence of something."
"How do you mean? Like drugs or alcohol?"
"Like…I'm not really sure how to say it. After I heard the shot, I grabbed the phone and ran to the window. I saw him leaving the house, dragging the shotgun behind him. His eyes were…he just had a weird look to him."
"How did you see him so clearly?"
Kathy nods out to the street corner, and Dean follows her gaze. "Streetlights. And it was a pretty clear night." She digs into the deep pocket of her oversized sweater, pulls out a wrinkled package of cigarettes. "Does, uh, does any of that help with your assignment?"
"Huh?" Dean tucks the notepad back into his pocket. "Oh, yeah, it does. Thanks a bunch."
She lights a cigarette, takes a long drag and nods as she blows a plume of smoke. "Where're you studying?"
"Hmm?" Dean's already scanning the narrow street for any sign of the Impala's return, having wanted to extricate himself from the immediate area before this very thing had a chance to happen. "The community college."
"Which one?"
Dean pulls his dark, silent cell phone out of his jacket pocket and presses a button, anything to make a light or noise. He begins backtracking toward the sidewalk. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Leavy. I don't mean to be rude, but I've really gotta take this call."
"Yeah." She scrutinizes him a moment longer before turning to step back up into her trailer. "Yeah, no problem."
Sioux Falls
Bobby takes out the sedan, Black Beauty, as Dean dubbed her. There's no rattle left to be heard; kid did a good job with the belt. The brakes, though, they scream like a tea kettle when he pulls into a parking stall outside of the public library, drawing the attention of anyone in a city block, including a pair of Sheriff's deputies.
Balls. Bobby grabs up his notebook from the passenger seat and lurches from the car. For show, mostly, because if the cops in town are talking about his drinking, then they aren't talking about the other stuff.
One of the deputies is unfamiliar, a taller gent with graying temples, gnawing on a toothpick like he's straight out of one of the movies Bobby used to put on for Sam and Dean when they were kids. The other, though, well, she's becoming a regular, ambitious young pain in the ass. "It's been awhile since we've had you in at the station, Bobby," she says by way of greeting. "We're starting to get a bit worried about you."
"Worried?"
She smiles, tight and professional. "You been drinking today, Bobby?"
Bobby shuts the car door, fiddles with the keys. "No, ma'am, Deputy Mills. Just research."
She cocks her head, stuffing fists into the pocket of her brown coat. "Lemme guess. Monsters again?"
Her partner laughs, and Bobby just shakes his head. He'd long ago cemented his reputation in this town. Earned it, too. There's no point in being insulted now. "I'm writin' a book."
"Sure, sure." Deputy Mills bobs her head with a patronizing look, then tosses a shank of brown hair from her eyes. "You let me know when you find a publisher, and I'll buy two." She leans around Bobby to check out the car behind him. "I wouldn't find anything worth knowing about that junker if I wanted to run those plates, would I?"
Bobby shrugs. "You askin' me if it's stolen when I'm standin' right next to it? I ain't that stupid."
"Why don't we just check and see then?" her partner asks with a comically villainous sneer, drifting away towards their patrol car.
Balls. Bobby's trying to remember which cars are registered to him and which cars actually are stolen, when Deputy Mills holds up a hand to stop him.
"Carl, hold up. I think we've taken up enough of Mr. Singer's time for today."
Carl drops into the passenger seat of the patrol car with a sigh, like she's spoiled his fun. Bobby raises his eyebrows. "You tryin' to make Sheriff or something?"
"Someday, maybe." She smiles easily, then narrows her eyes. "For now, I'll settle for safe streets. You do your research and get back on home, okay?"
Bobby sighs, dips his head with a tap to the brim. "Yes, ma'am."
Harrisburg
Dean stares down at his cell phone, the casing warmed from his holding it for…well, since his father disappeared into the Mackey house. He feels alone, and lonely, and somehow uniquely capable of distinguishing the two. John saw fit to bring him here, bring him along to Bobby's and the house here, but he has yet to contribute. They're supposed to be partners. They have been, ever since Sam first climbed onto his high horse.
A harsh tapping at the window next to his right ear draws Dean's attention in such a manner he's sure to have whiplash. The hand with the phone retreats reflexively to his pocket, but the smirk on his father's face from the other side of the glass lets him know he needn't bother; the damage has been done.
Dean swallows as John saunters around the front of the car. He uses the brief moment to compose himself, put up the wall. Be a Winchester. "What did you find out?" he asks amicably as John lowers himself into the car.
"Enough to confirm my suspicions a bit about what's going on here."
"Which is?"
John starts the car, shaking his head. "Not ready to share just yet, without knowing what's relevant and what's…just crap."
"Yeah, okay."
"Got one more stop in town before we head back to Bobby's. Think I'll let you handle this one."
Dean frowns. "Thought you said I couldn't be trusted to – "
"Dean." A low tone. A warning, so Dean clamps his jaws shut around the smartass remark and takes what he's been given.
"Okay, yeah. Whatever I can do, Dad."
His father tugs an old motel notepad from the pocket of the car door and tosses it into Dean's lap. "You got a pen?"
Dean pats his jeans pockets. "No."
John sighs, continues to steer one-handed as he searches next for a pen. He finds one inside his jacket and tosses that next into Dean's lap.
"What am I doing?"
"Witness statements."
"No offense, mister, but I'm done talking to reporters about this."
Plan A goes out the window right out of the gate, but that's okay because John packed his pockets with multiple options. He brings up a hand to keep the door from closing in his face. "That's all well and good, sir, but I'm not a reporter." Keeping a firm grip on the edge of the door, he swiftly maneuvers past those credentials and wrests his false badge from inside his jacket. "Just looking to clarify some details. Fresh eyes on the case."
"I dropped all of the charges against my son."
That's new information, and a sure sign of a guilty conscious."That may be," John improvises, tucking the badge away. "But this rash of murders in the area over the past several weeks, new light is being shed on the nature of the attacks. What led up to them, and if anyone may have been influencing your son's behavior."
"You think someone forced my son to attack me?"
"Would that set your mind at ease, Mr. Mackey?"
"Yes, I suppose so." The man sighs but relents, steps aside to allow John inside. "All right."
John turns back to the car, catches Dean's eye from where he's sulking in the car and gives him a curt nod before stepping through the door. The house has little to no curb appeal, but it is much homier, nicer inside than it appears from outside. Sparsely decorated with stylish furniture and floral drapery on the windows, walls painted with soft, calming shades. A woman's touch, though it's not immediately clear whether or not that woman is still in the picture. John notes the presence of a simple gold band on Mackey's left ring finger. "Mr. Mackey, is your wife home?"
Mackey seems to have something in common with his home; his nature has softens considerably since stepping over the threshold. He takes a few moments to quietly tidy up the main living space while speaking with John, straightening a stack of Golf Digest magazines on the coffee table and lining up the remote controls. "Oh. Uh, no, it's just me. Lorraine, my wife, passed away three years ago. Aneurism."
Sudden. Sure, John can relate to that. Poor son of a bitch. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you." Matthew wipes his hands on his khakis and looks around the room. "Can I get you some coffee or something?"
"No. Thank you." John's bullshit-o-meter is suddenly spiking off the charts. It doesn't fit the pattern, this seemingly pleasant nearly-a-senior-citizen and widower being attacked by a vindictive son for no earthly reason. Doesn't fit the pattern, so either this attack isn't part of the pattern, or Matthew Mackey is putting on one hell of a show.
The man gestures for John to take a seat on the couch, but John chooses to remain standing. "Mr. Mackey, can you explain to me what happened, from the beginning?"
Mackey does take a seat on the couch, rubs a hand over the two or three days' worth of salt-and-pepper stubble on his face. "Well, Louis was supposed to come over for the game, South Dakota State, my alma mater. When he didn't show I gave him a call…" Mackey pauses, shakes his head. "And he started shooting his mouth off, saying all kinds of crazy bullshit – excuse me. All kinds of nonsense about…things he says happened to him as a kid."
"Things?" John's sure sniffing one out here, and it's getting good now. He's not sure how far he can push, but knows he won't get any information, any REAL information, without doing so. He might not be as good with new people as Sam is, but he can read them well enough, and he recognizes the vibe he's getting from this guy.
"Yeah, you know how kids need discipline." Mackey sniffs. "You got kids?"
John stiffens but nods. He'd like to keep his sons out of this, but he's afraid that's already out of the realm of possibility. "Boys."
"Boys are tough."
John feels he's supposed to nod, so he does. Not that he would know how more or less difficult a baby girl would have been to raise.
"They need to be broken."
Broken, eh? John squints. "So how did Louis end up here with a gun?"
Mackey hesitates, and John pounces.
"You don't have anything to hide here, right, Mr. Mackey?"
"My son tried to kill ME. What would I have to hide?"
How about a motive, Mackey. "Then let's keep this moving. How did Louis end up here? How did he get the gun?"
"You know, when he was shouting nonsense and waving it in my face, I didn't stop to ask him where he got it."
"Mr. Mackey, I would expect a man in your position, with nothing to hide, to be a little more cooperative."
"I don't have anything to hide. What Louis said, whatever he's told you, whatever you've heard, it didn't happen."
That's quite a lot of qualifiers. "Why don't you refresh my memory? What did he say exactly?"
"Said I used to hit him. When he was a kid."
Breakin' him in, huh? John nods, balls his right hand into a tight fist at his side, resists the urge to slug the man. He may have given one of the boys a smart slap to the back of the head when they shot their mouths off, but never more than that. "There any truth to any of that?"
"Of course not." Matthew Mackey smiles, too big and toothy, like he's plastered a sticker over his lips.
A rush of fire shoots up John's chest, a reverse effect of the whiskey from the night before. This is guilt, simple as that, and pure as the driven snow. He has an itch to the show this man exactly what happens when someone waves a gun in your face and knows what to do with it. He just might have, if he wasn't needing to focus on other matters.
The spirit's MO is coming out in high definitions, bright and beautiful colors, big block letters easy to read. Seems these boys each have reason enough for wanting to permanently rid himself of his father, but not everyone can take that step. Someone or something is helping them along, giving them a push.
A boy; they're looking for a young boy, deceased at least twenty years based on the designs and patterns of the clothes John remembers.
There's a pattern, and at its center is that boy he saw last night with Dean. If he and Dean are to be the next piece of the puzzle, then there must be some underlying similarity, or in the least, the son of a bitch in front of him is how Dean is seeing his father these days.
John can't react in anger or he risks exacerbating the situation. Can't ignore it, either. This is a great lead that's fallen into his lap. His cell phone vibrates in his jacket pocket, and he drags the device, checks the text on the screen. "I'll call in thirty minutes. Get somewhere private." He returns the phone and can't help but scan the room, narrow his eyes at Matt Mackey. They haven't spoken in several minutes, and John can practically feel the man's anxiety.
John grits his teeth, fights the urge one last time to slug this bastard. "Thank you for your time."
Sioux Falls
When Dean opens the bathroom door, releasing a cloud of steam into the much cooler hallway, his father is standing holding out his boots and jacket. He's dressed in street clothes, himself, not the stiff suit from the day before. "Let's go."
Dean's in the car, yawning into his fist, before he remembers Bobby's cryptic mention of the day's plans and thinks to ask, "Where're we going?"
"What's it matter where we're going? You wanted out of the house, right?"
"Yeah. Just wondering."
John gives him the kind of sideways glance he used to give Sammy. Equal parts amusement and annoyance. "Well, I was kinda thinking we'd solve this ghost problem, if that's okay with you."
Rhetorical, and yet somehow not. Dean settles for a single, slow bob of the head, then frowns. "You know for sure it's a ghost?"
John stiffens, keeping his eyes on the road. "Gut instinct. Could still be any one of a dozen things." His eyes tick over. "Gonna talk to some folks who might be able to give us a better idea of what's going on. See if we can't find out what's making these boys kill their fathers."
Dean shrugs. "Teenage angst and resentment," he suggests drily. "Emo music."
The earlier sunshine of the day has turned to cloudy skies with pockets of rain and gusts of wind fighting John for control of the muscle car.
"What were you and Bobby talking about the other night?" his father asks, in a much slower drawl meant to lower Dean's defenses.
Dean might be hungover, but he's still a hunter, still has both natural and well-honed observational skills, and recognizes what his father is doing. "Stuff," he responds, one of Sammy's favorite blow-offs, and sure to ruffle some of his father's feathers.
"You know what…" John lays a heavy boot in the brake pedal and shifts the car into 'park' outside of a small gray aluminum-sided house. "Now that I'm thinkin' about it, maybe you should stay in the car."
"What?"
"I can't risk your attitude, or your mouth, blowing our chances of getting these people to talk to us."
Dean gapes, hand on the door handle, collar already turned up against the chilly drizzle outside. John gives him a long look, almost daring him to argue. It's becoming a very unsettling pattern between the two of them. When he bites his tongue and doesn't oblige, John throws open the door and stomps up to the porch.
It's raining harder now, and Dean's eyes track the drops one by one as they slide down the windshield and out of sight. He isn't thrilled about being left behind in the car like a six-year-old, even if he has to admit he is pouting like one.
Up the short gravel drive, John's standing in the doorway, shoulders hunched nonthreateningly as he speaks with a tall man with a full head of thick gray hair. Not nonthreateningly enough to actually be so immediately invited into the house, Dean notes with a smirk. Bet he wishes Sammy was here. Sammy could always get an invite inside. He'd bat those eyelashes and be sipping hot cocoa in three minutes flat.
Dean scans the bench seat, finds nothing that grabs his attention and moves to try the glove box. He discovers it locked, and sits back with a huff before spotting the keys dangling in the ignition. He drags them out and locates the small key to match the lock, pops the compartment and finds his father's notes inside, the articles Bobby found. His eyes go back and forth between the notepad and the numbers on the mailbox outside his window until he matches an address. The man his father is speaking to Matthew Mackey. His twenty-four-year-old son had shown up two weekends ago with a loaded gun.
Dean sighs and stuffs the papers back in the glove box just how he found them, then adjusts carefully on the seat, mindful of his injured rib and itchy stitches. He stares at the keys in his hand. His hand flexes in the direction of the ignition, thinking about bringing the car back to life and turning on the radio, drowning out his thoughts with familiar bass thrums and drum beats, but he pauses. It would annoy his father, him sitting in the car, listening to music while he did all of the work. Even though sitting in the car wasn't his choice. He'd been told to stay behind much like a younger, huffy Sammy always was.
He fidgets, feeling a warm flush creep up his neck making him uncomfortable. He folds down the collar of his jacket and takes slow breaths. He cranks the handle and opens the window an inch, allowing a wash of fresh air to enter the stuffy car and his strange, sudden flash of anger to leave. He looks up in time to see Mackey nod and step back, holding open the door. John turns and gives a barely perceptible bob of the head when he sees he has Dean's attention, then follows Mackey into the house.
"Harvelle's."
Her voice is a familiar comfort, tearing at a piece of John's heart that he hasn't felt in quite some time. There's noise behind her, much more so than he would expect, given the hour. He's not likely to get the intimate conversation he was aiming for, but he's not coward enough to hang up now. "Yeah, Ellen…it's – "
"I can't hear – Hello? Who's this?"
"It's John."
"Wha – who?"
"It's John, Ellen."
A long pause. "What the hell do…Jo, sweetie, see if those two at the bar need anything, will you?"
John swallows. "How is Jo? I'll bet she's a heartbreaker."
"Oh, she would be, I ever let one of these boys sniff around long enough. She's already looking at schools for next year. Has her heart set on 'as far away as possible.' I've got no problem with her going to college. God know I would've, I had the chance. But I'd like her close. What about those boys of yours?"
John can't help but smile, eyes drawn to the photo of the three of them tucked into the visor. "Dean'd make you laugh. And Samuel's smarter than any ten men. Too smart for his own good. You should meet them. You'd like them."
"Well, that would entail you coming around here again, wouldn't it?"
"Yeah."
"John, I'm a bartender. I can do small talk til the cows come home. We both know that's not why you called, so spit it out."
"Ellen, I know I have no business calling you – "
"No, John, you really don't."
"I know how much I owe you."
"What you owe me is the chance to say goodbye. You didn't even bring me a body to grieve over or bury, just a box of Bill's ashes."
"Ellen, I…I couldn't let you see him like that."
"And when exactly will you…" Ellen takes a breath, grips the receiver of the phone. When exactly will you stop deciding what's best for people? she wants to ask. Stops herself, because she knows he's likely to hang up if he feels cornered and she'll never hear from him again.
All of it is right, and John hates both the fact that's how he's known and the fact that's who he is. "And I know I'm probably the last person you'd expect to be hearing from."
"Even after years of unreturned phone calls, John, the last person I'd expect to hear from is my dead husband."
"Yeah." A lump forms in John's throat. He's not typically prone to guilt but even he has to admit fault in this instance.
For maybe the thousandth time, a shot rings out in his head and bright red flashes before his eyes, a hopeless spray of arterial blood against the dry, dead leaves under their feet.
Between pain and screams and sharp intakes of breath, Tell my girls…
They know, Bill. I will.
"John? You still there?"
"Yeah, I'm here."
"Well, out with it, Winchester. I assume you didn't call just to say 'hello.'"
"Wish I did." Wish I could. "Ellen, something's after my boys. And I think it could be a demon."
"Then that's some serious shit you've stepped in, John."
"You hear anything like that recently?"
"Anything like demons? No, that's not a very common takedown."
"Will you…could you keep an ear out? For the boys?"
"Yeah, I can. For the boys."
"Ellen, I…"
"Don't, John, just…don't."
"Yeah."
"You know, if you're anywhere near South Dakota, there's a few suspicious murders around."
John rolls his eyes. This world seems to be growing smaller and smaller by the day. "Yeah, tell me something I don't know."
To be continued...