Author: Mirrordance
Title: Less Traveled By
Summary: High school is hard enough without an absentee father, restless spirits, haunted cars, a missing classmate and a sexual predator on the loose. Then again, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way. Dean is 17 and Sam is 13.
Hey guys!
First off, MASSIVE THANKS to all who reviewed the last installment of Less Traveled By (LTB). I haven't had a chance to respond individually to reviews as your queries and comments deserve for which I apologize, but I might be going away again in a couple of weeks and have just been hard at work trying to juggle RL and churn out the chapters to finish the story and post the whole fic before that time so I wouldn't keep people waiting for very long. Rest assured this sick little tale of mine is almost done and should be posted in its entirety before the year ends if the muses cooperate :) As always, your encouragement and c & c's are food and fuel, so if you can spare them, much appreciated :) If not, thanks for sharing your time by reading anyway; heck, I know life can be busy and overwhelming sometimes :) That said, without further ado, Chapter 7 of LTB:
Less Traveled By
7: Taxonomy
1997
Sam hid his face underneath a grimy, oversized cap his father had slapped over his head when the two Winchesters stepped out of their truck to go to a supermarket for a supply run. He had growled at his father in annoyance but kept it on, not really wanting to make a spectacle of his still-bruised face.
The rationale behind his father's actions, however, became clearer once they made their way inside. John, never quite one to care about his boys' physical appearance outside of threatening to shave Sam's hair off if he let the damn fringe get in the way of a good aim, had been protecting Sam from people's recognition; a couple of tabloids by the registers had dated high school photos of Sam and Dean prominently on their busy covers. Sam grimaced at them all before disdainfully turning away. Payback's a bitch, oh yes, and they were maybe just now paying for all those awful high school yearbooks he and Dean had managed to dodge. In a weird way, it was kind of karmic for their father too; he'd been trying to keep his kids under wraps for years, after all, and now their faces were all over the place.
John grabbed a large shopping cart, started pushing it with a vengeance. He went – almost viciously in Sam's eye, down the nearest corridor he could find that wasn't highly-populated. Sam trailed behind his father's slouched back, started making conversation.
"I was watching this documentary on TV," he told his half-listening father, "About prehistoric gender roles and how they may have shaped the shopping habits of men and women in the modern age."
His father was craning his neck looking at signs, dodging women and mothers and kid,s trying not to run people over with his cart.
"Men, it was theorized," Sam went on, "Tended to pursue game, so they had to be single-minded and purposeful. Women, on the other hand, were pickers of fruit and vegetables, so they had to have an eagle-eye out. Women have had to go around, look at a lot of stuff, examine them. Hence, men shopping are now more like hunters and women shoppers are more like gatherers."
"I'm hunting for some goddamn milk and bread," John told him tersely, getting annoyed by the bright bustle around him. In stark white light, their father looked like a black hole you can get lost in.
Sam sighed, "Dairy and basics are almost always at the back, dad. Dean told me it's because businesses want people to pass by the other stuff so that they'd buy more." Weirdly enough, Sam realized to himself with some surprise, Dean was more of a gatherer in the supermarket, always looking for the cheapest thing with the largest quantities. Who's the girl now...?
John led the way and snatched a gallon of milk, two dozen eggs and a loaf of white bread, grabbed some peanut butter, jam, fruit, canned meatloaf, instant mac n' cheese, cereal... he grabbed industrial sizes of what Dean usually stocked in the family cupboards, except with greater abandon. The sacks of salt, of course, dwarfed everything.
"What am I forgetting?" John asked Sam; it was Dean who usually did the shopping.
"Cooking oil," Sam told his father, adding wryly, "And you're forgetting to look at the price of everything."
His father ignored the quip, but Sam noticed he became more conscientious afterwards, had even started discarding and replacing a couple of things. The dairy was no longer organic, the brands you'd see on TV ads he switched with generic. As they spent twice the time Dean and Sam usually would in the supermarket as his father re-did many of his original shopping picks, Sam remembered something else he'd seen on TV a few days ago. He played with keeping it to himself for a hot minute, but sometimes,sometimes it was just in him to goad his father a little, push him in certain directions and toward seeing certain things.
"I was watching the news the other day," Sam narrated, "And there was this debate between two guys running for the coming elections. One of them - the incumbent - was doing really really well, until one of the audience members asked him how much milk and eggs and bread cost, you know, like in a standard market basket? It's a way to gage if a politician is aware of the realities on the ground. Boy, he was way off the mark. I really don't think he's gonna win now."
John actually paused, and looked at him pointedly but with no real heat, "You saying I won't get re-elected, here, Sammy?"
I get it already, Sam felt was the underlying message, Drop this.
"I'm just saying," Sam shrugged, but his lips quirked a little in a smile, trying to disarm his father a little, "At least you're not the only one who doesn't know this stuff."
John's eyes lightened, and he surprised Sam when he laughed. The sound was low, rumbling, like a subtle shaking of the earth, loosening, readjusting, remolding itself.
When the two Winchesters finally got to the register, John had ditched and downgraded many things, but didn't go cheap on Dean's M&M's.
"You good over there?" John Winchester asked his eldest son, tone flat but sideways glance worried. They were two minutes away from the hospital after checking Dean out, and Dean knew his father had no qualms whatsoever about turning the truck back around and shoving him inside again if needed. He pressed his lips together, not wanting to upchuck in the car, and consequently getting shoved back in the hospital.
"Dean?" Sam pressed from beside him. The three of them were squeezed into the truck, which did not have a backseat. The Impala, he was told, was getting her pretty back in an auto shop.
"I'm fine," Dean assured them gruffly. He pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself. He felt cold, a little shaky, but he was glad as hell to be out. He shifted around, found a comfortable spot, and noticed that they were following a different route home.
"Dad moved us back into the motel near school," Sam informed him, and it surprised him a little that his younger brother had been watching and noting his most minute expressions, "So you wouldn't need to drive so much. We can just walk over."
"Nerves can't handle me back so soon behind the wheel, huh, old man?" Dean teased his father wanly.
"When two fingers stop looking like four," John snorted at him, "Come see me."
"Speaking of complex mathematical equations," Dean said wryly, "When are we going back to school anyway?"
"I'm good tomorrow actually," Sam said.
The statement made Dean antsy, "I don't know, man."
"I've been out of the hospital for days," Sam pointed out.
"That's not the only thing I'm worried about," Dean said, turning his disapproval his father's way, "Is it safe? Did you run this by Vaughn and Diamond?"
"They know, Dean," John said, patiently, "It's fine. I told you, this Marcus Tenet is one of those loner types so no accomplices."
"And they just had that bond hearing for him too," Sam piped in, "Bail's set at a million dollars, Dean, and he can't afford it so he isn't going anywhere."
"Your brother's also got the all-clear from the doctors," John added, "Light activity is okay, and he's barred from gym class until he gets another all-clear in the next few weeks. But if it makes you feel better, the school nurse has Sam's records and some handy medication for his injuries in case they flare up, and the school is upping security for a couple of days."
Dean snorted, "Upping security, my a-"
"Dean-"
"Then I'm coming with," Dean resolved, "If Sam can go, so can I."
"You're dreaming," John told him determinedly, "And what makes you think this is a negotiation?"
Dean sighed, and all three Winchesters fell quiet for a few minutes before Dean broke it by asking, faux-casually, "Say dad... you going to work tomorrow?"
John's lips actually tightened to a smile, "No, you don't get to go with him behind my back, Dean-o. Nice try."
"It was an awful try, actually," Sam commented mildly.
"Shut up, squirt," Dean retorted, voice still thin from the nausea of the drive, "And here I am, risking my personal health wanting to look after you."
They drove on, and as they turned toward the motel, Dean's eyes widened like saucers and his lips curved into a massive grin when he saw his car – gleaming and back in perfect form - parked there just waiting for him.
"Oh baby we are back," he breathed, wrenching his eyes away momentarily from the glorious sight of her and turning to Sam and his father. Sam was beaming like an idiot (as if he had anything to do with it), and his father's eyes were shining even if they were focused on the road.
They pulled over next to her, and Dean noticed that the familiar sight of a snickering Bobby Singer was sitting on the hood of his car.
"Ha, ha!" Dean exclaimed delightedly as he pushed the truck door open and braced himself against it to stand. The older hunter – grizzlied and trailed by dust like always – walked on over and shook the teenager's hand heartily.
"How you doin', boy?" Bobby asked, "I heard you were just sitting around vegetating somewhere."
"I can still run marathons around you, old man."
"Not today," Bobby pointed out, "You're looking kinda green there, son."
"They just weaned him off the IV meds and switched him to the oral stuff so he's still adjusting," Sam explained, appearing beside his brother in front of Bobby. Their father had given the other hunter a cool wave before grabbing Dean's bags from the car and moving them into the motel room.
"You still hurting?" Bobby asked Dean, brows furrowing.
"I'm fine," Dean replied at the exact same time that Sam said, "He's still lying."
The older hunter just laughed, and made a show of swatting Dean's back in good humor. None of the three of them missed the fact that the touch stayed there though, as Bobby ushered Dean forward into the room carefully. Dean just suffered the assistance with a sigh.
If there was one thing that could keep Sam from going to school, it was Dean being ill or hurt. He stood hesitating by the motel room door the next morning, showered and dressed and backpack slung over one shoulder as he frowned at his sleeping older brother.
"Usually all this moving around in the morning would be waking him up," he told his father worriedly "All he ate for dinner were chocolates, he went to bed early, and he's barely moved since."
"He's fine Sam," John told his younger son, "Just let him readjust to being out. You went right to sleeping too when I brought you home."
The youngest Winchester looked unconvinced, but he heard a sharp rap at the door, signaling the arrival of Bobby Singer, who had stayed the night next door and volunteered to walk him to school today.
"I'm comin, Bobby!" Sam yelled, re-adjusting his pack and giving his father a casual wave. He looked at Dean expectantly, hoping the yelling would rouse him. It was to no avail so he just sighed and said, "I'll see you later dad. You'll pull me out of class, right, if - if anything happens that I should know about?"
"You're brother's gonna be fine, Sam," John assured him, "Good luck getting back out there. Just focus on school."
Sam gave his father a small smile, before pulling the door open. Bobby Singer stood there looking acerbic, like a date kept waiting.
"Took you long enough," he told Sam gruffly, "Done with your make-up, princess?"
"Yeah well," Sam said, taking no offense as he shut the door behind him, "Who asked you to bring me, Uncle Bobby? School's like... a couple steps away."
The two hunters started walking side by side together, "Well you can't blame your old man for wanting to make sure you're safe, what with all this crap going down in the area and all. 'Sides... he let you walk on over there on your own? And he'd have to deal with your invalid brother – who's got nothing better to do - ragging on his ear all day."
"He can be a nag," Sam agreed solemnly, "You grabbing me later too, on the way home?"
"Well apparently, I ain't welcome."
Sam suppressed a grin, "You know you are."
"Sure kid," Bobby said, "What time are you off?"
"Usually I have Latin club after class," Sam said, "But I think I'll skip that today; I wanna get home earlier to see how Dean's doing, and... and I was thinking... I was thinking if you'd come with me to the bank."
Bobby's brows rose, "What would you need a bank for?"
"I wanna open up a savings account," Sam answered, "I've come to some money, you see."
"And may I ask where from?" Bobby asked, not wanting to be an accomplice to something that would get John Winchester's beefy hands around his neck anytime soon.
"The Huntingtons gave me and Dean reward money," Sam answered, "You won't tell dad, will you? He'll just... he'll blow it on ammo and stuff like that, and... and me and Dean, we need it too. For emergencies and stuff, when he leaves us for a long time... and even... even for fun, useless things, what's wrong with that?"
He turned an eagle-eyed gaze up at the older hunter, as if he was waiting to be judged.
"It's in my name-" Sam went on defensively, before Bobby cut him off.
"Listen, Sam," Bobby began, "It's not place to tell you what to do with your money, and it sure as hell is not my place to tell you and your daddy how to deal with each other. Now I'm thinking the only reason I've been brought into this is 'cos you need an adult to open that account with you, is that right?"
Sam nodded enthusiastically.
"Then that's the end of that," Bobby said, "This is between you and me. The rest you and John figure out. I ain't saying a word."
"Thanks," Sam beamed at him, "I'm off by 3."
They walked on quietly, and the closer they came to the school, the thicker the car and foot traffic became. It escaped neither of their observant notices that people kept looking their way.
"I wish Dean were here," Sam said quietly, suddenly unsure of his decision to go back to school sooner.
"Don't you sweat all this, Sam," Bobby encouraged him, "You just do what you gotta do and get the day done with. It'll be easier after this."
Bobby and Sam stopped by stairs leading up to the large main entrance of the school. There were a couple reporters milling about, and Sam took a deep breath as he steeled himself to go inside.
"I can walk you all the way in-" Bobby offered.
"No," Sam said with a shake of his head, "We'll be old news soon, I just have to get through this day, like you said."
Bobby mussed the kid's hair affectionately, which irritated Sam into some distraction.
"Bobby!" he complained.
"It was 'Uncle' when you were asking me a favor," the older man pointed out, and nodded in the direction of the school entrance, "Get your ass in there, Samuel Winchester, I'll see you at 3."
When Sam got inside the main corridor of the school, he had to blink to get rid of the after-images of camera flashes that had blinded him on the way in. As was promised to his father by the principal, the school did up the security enough to keep the reporters from getting inside. He knew even before going in though that they wouldn't be his only problem.
As a professional new kid, he was used to people staring at him, weighing him with their eyes, looking him up and down. He let people's gazes wash down his back, like water. Their gazes hit you but it goes away until the next freak-of-the-week hits town. Or he lets his older brother deflect the attention away from him: Dean with the oily gazes, smart mouth and the slick hair, Dean with the hard-to-miss leather jacket, either basking in the attention or consciously protecting Sam from it (he was never quite sure).
So he expected some attention from this most recent debacle of theirs, sure. What he was less prepared for though, was not so much attention per se, but actual contact with people. It wasn't just people staring at him, it was about making connections, communication, people wanting to talk with him.
"Hey, Sam."
He glanced at the junior girl – a cheerleader named Jennifer who's had the locker next to his since he moved here but who had never spoken to him – and then glanced behind him just to make sure he was the subject of her attention.
"Hey..." he greeted her uncertainly, and his fingers actually fumbled on the lock before he could open his locker.
"I'm glad you're back," she told him, nodding at the bruises still on his face, "Do those hurt?"
"Not so much now," he told her as he drew his books out, left some stuff in, and then shut the clanging metal door. They stood in front of each other, and she was a head taller than him. Which gave him an unparalleled view of her most magnificent assets. He gulped nervously. She was blond too, looked a little bit like that reporter he was currently fascinated with.
"I know they look bad," he stammered, "But you know... not permanent. Which is good."
"It's a bruise, Sam," she laughed, and the sound made a home of his ears, melodic and rich, "I should hope it isn't. I get those all the time, when we have to workout for cheerleading." She pulled her skirt up a little, and it would have been fantastic (and he thinks she might have meant for it to be too), except what she showed was a black-green-purple-pink bruise half as large as his face.
He blanched, "Woah. Eww."
"Hang on a sec," she told him, because he was already turning away to go to class. She grabbed a tube of painkilling lotion from her locker, "In case you need it."
"Oh but I couldn't-"
"I got more, don't worry," she assured him as she shut her own locker, "Welcome back, Sam. Tell your brother get well soon too."
He watched her walk away, thinking, Weird.
The Lunchroom was a representation of the taxonomy of high school cliques. It was almost down to a science, how one can note the classifications of students based on where they were seated. This was the time and the place that Sam hated the most about going to school as a new kid, because new kids belonged nowhere.
Layouts tended to differ from place to place so there were no hard and fast rules, but the general principles held: if a spot had high visibility and good lighting, for instance, it belonged to the cool, rich kids. The closer to the food, the better for the jocks which meant the further away from the food, the further away from the jocks for the tamer kids who tended to be intimidated or bullied. Corners were good for musicians with all their instruments. Walls were good for the techies who needed plugs for their toys.
Sam's seat of choice was somewhere negligible in the middle of the room in the midst of many people who slid under the radar. Dean's seat of choice was wherever the flavor-of-the-month sat, who in the history of the brothers going to high school together, have spanned all corners of the lunch room at one time or another, depending on who he was dating. He wondered if Dean ever thought about finding girlfriends in every school they went to as a survival mechanism; at least he always knew where to sit. Then again, maybe he just really thoughtlessly liked girls too. Strategy and libido were interchangeable sometimes apparently.
The lunchlady wouldn't take Sam's money despite his insistence, and then he just mumbled a 'thank you' and went away, head hanging low and feeling embarrassed, especially since the line had built up behind him. He took his tray and looked out at the lunchroom crowd, finding a free table in the mass of obscure seats in the center of the room that he usually preferred. He opened his milk carton, tore at the plastic packaging of his utensils. He was preparing to dig into his cafeteria-grade lasagna of unknown origin, when someone settled in to sit across from him.
"Hey Sam."
It was Annie Huntington, looking a little pale and wan, but as neat and made-up as always. She had an uncertain smile on her face, as if she was unsure of her welcome, but her eyes were warm.
"I didn't know you'd be back today," he told her over a forkful of food. She stated picking on her salad.
"Being at home was driving me crazy," she said. She bit her lip in thought, as if the word 'crazy' naturally conjured up the memory of someone they both knew, "How's Dean doing?" Speaking of crazy.
"We checked him out of the hospital yesterday," Sam said, "He gets tired a lot and he still gets these headaches, but he's going to be fine. He'll be back soon too."
"Has he..." she hesitated, looking around nervously, "Has he been telling you about... about some nutty stuff going around on this case?"
Sam nearly choked on his food, "Nutty stuff?"
"I visited him the other night," Annie went on nervously, "And... and he didn't look so good, and he was t-talking about... about g-ghosts. So I guess I was wondering... is he okay now?"
Sam's jaw dropped, but they didn't get to speak about anything else that was related to the hunt because someone joined their table. It was a senior girl – the most recent homecoming queen if Sam heard and remembered right – who squealed and embraced Annie and welcomed her back before settling herself down and eating with them.
"Hey Sam," she greeted him brightly.
She wouldn't be the first one. Annie's clique slowly ate their way into Sam and Annie's space, abandoning their usual prime lunch spots and sitting at their table and at the tables that surrounded theirs, displacing other people, disrupting the order of things. They all greeted Sam with the same warmth and admiration, spoke with him, made inquiries on his health and that of his brother's. It was not natural, but it was warming.
Now if only Annie hadn't thrown in that bombshell out there, that his older brother had actually opened that big mouth of his and told her about the things in the dark.
"This is the true test right here," Sam was saying, as Dean sat in the kitchenette of their motel room and watched his younger brother clear away his half-finished food, "The moment you stop eating like a girl, that's when I know you're better."
Dean looked up at him blearily, "I am better-"
"Coming from unconscious, sure," Sam said, "But you are not going anywhere yet."
Dean just shrugged in acquiescence. He was still feeling poorly, that was fair, but he's also feeling more alert than he has in days. "Dad's not worried enough to be staying home from work tomorrow though, so that's good, right? And Bobby's headed back out to South Dakota tonight." It was also why the two men had gone on for a drink and probably to talk shop after having dinner with the two boys.
"You'd just better behave while you're alone here," Sam pointed out, "And really rest."
"I've been resting all day," Dean yawned, "I've been resting since I was in the hospital. I've gone to hunts in worse shape than this and you know it. Now I'm just bored. I'm booooooored."
"I'm not reassured by any of that," Sam commented as he washed the dishes, " And I'd have boredom any day, most people would. Your idea of excitement is kind of psychotic. For instance: telling nice, sensible, normal girls that there are ghosts in car trunks."
Dean groaned, "Ugh... I was gonna tell you, but dad was hanging around and stuff."
"Why'd you tell her, Dean?" Sam asked, turning to face him.
"She was feeling guilty," Dean mumbled, "I told her it wasn't her fault, and that there was nothing any of us could do because we were shoved into this thing years too late."
"She thinks you're brain-damaged," Sam told him.
"Who wouldn't?" Dean sighed, peering at Sam curiously, "So Annie's back in school too, huh? What else did she say?"
"Nothing," Sam shrugged, "Other people came over and we couldn't talk."
"You know why else I told her?" Dean asked, "She said she could hear Linda crying, and that she thinks she'll always hear Linda crying. If it's just her traumatic memories screwing with her then there's nothing we can do. But if the ghost latched onto her and is haunting her, then that's entirely something else."
"I'll sneak an EMF meter in my bag," Sam resolved, "And see if I get a read when I'm around her."
"Good idea," Dean agreed, "So uh... what else happened, back in school?"
"There were some reporters," Sam conveyed, "But just out the doors and in the morning. People were... nice, you know. This girl showed me her legs, and like the cafeteria lady at the hospital-"
Dean's eyes widened comically, "Woah. Sam, hang on a sec. What do you mean this girl showed you - "
"Just weird stuff," Sam said dismissively, "You'll know what I'm talking about when you go back. Which is like, in a week if any of us can help it."
Dean snorted at him, "The only thing I hate more than school is sitting around being useless here all day. This girl really showed you...nevermind. Bottom-line: I think I'd better get back to school ASAP, and capitalize on the freebies and all this leg-action before it gets old."
"You would," Sam snorted.
The next morning, Dean was still shaky, but with his father off to work, Sam away at school and Bobby headed back home, he had both opportunity and boredom-driven desire to go over to the Huntington house and give Jed his check back.
He knew where the house was because everyone did; the biggest in town, and it was as plain and simple as that. He drove over carefully to the iron gates of the property, marveling at the high columns and the rolling, manicured lawns, wondering what in all of the universe a three-person family like the Huntingtons needed all that damned space for.
He buzzed on the intercom, and a prim voice inquired about who he was and what he wanted.
"Dean Winchester," he said, "Here to see Mr. Huntington."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"Didn't know I needed one."
"I suggest you make arrangements to see him with his secretary," the voice told him, "Mr. Huntington is an incredibly busy man. But I will tell him you were by, Mr. Winchester..." the robotic tone of the voice drifted as Dean's name rolled off of his tongue, "Dean Winchester?"
"That's what I said," Dean retorted, beginning to get a headache in annoyance. He rubbed at his forehead in pain and exasperation, "So call his office, right? You got that num-"
The gates swung open with a low groan, to Dean's surprise.
"Go on in, Mr. Winchester," the voice instructed him, this time with much more marked warmth, "Follow the curvature of the road to the main entrance of the house, please."
A house you can get lost in without directions, Dean reflected numbly as he drove his car forward, That is just not right.
He pulled over to a stop at the rotunda, behind a deep, forest green Mercedes with its motor running, apparently waiting for someone to come out. He discovered within seconds that it was Margie Huntington, wearing a trim day-suit and rows of pearls around her long, elegant neck. There was a huge smile on her face, and she greeted him with an embrace.
"Hello, Dean," she said, pulling away and kissing the air next to both his cheeks. He's seen it done before, but never actually participated. He pursed his lips and clumsily reciprocated, hitting his nose on her cheekbones and wincing. She was gracious enough to pretend it didn't happen.
"I am so glad to see you on your feet," she said, looking at his face intently, "You look a little pale... are you all right? Would you like to sit down, have some water? Should you be driving? Should I call someone?"
"I'm fine," he assured her, "I'm good, Mrs. Huntington. Going back to school in a few days, as a matter of fact."
"That's delightful, Dean," she said, beginning to tug him by the elbow toward her waiting vehicle, "You wanted to see Jed?"
"If I could, I mean," Dean said, "I was told he's busy-"
"Nonsense," she assured him, "He's at the club. Ride with me, and I'll have Daniel drive you back here to your car after you boys have your little chat."
"I can just come back-"
She steered him to the waiting, chauffeured car, "He'll be happy to see you, I guarantee it."
He gulped nervously, but let himself be bullied inside the backseat of the car next to her. He didn't tend to do very well with resisting stubborn, motherly figures, and he was weary enough not to be willing to put up a fight he knew he was going to lose. The objective was just to give the damn check back and go home, after all.
For a moment, he entertained the idea of just giving her the check to give back to her husband. But then he wasn't sure if she even knew about it and he generally didn't look forward to getting husbands in trouble with their spunky wives.
"He's at a club, you said?" he asked, shifting in his seat as the car rolled forward. The vehicle was too damn quiet, and he wasn't very good with silence, generally.
"The Country Club, Dean," she told him primly, patting his knee, "And would you like to do lunch, dear? I have a quick meeting but I think we can sneak off to do lunch."
"Um... no thank you," Dean said quickly, he's never done lunch before, the damn lunch just gets eaten, right? "I'd hate to take up more of your time than I have to. I really just needed like, two minutes, Mrs. Huntington."
She gave him a sidelong glance, and her lips curved up a little, "I think I know what this is about. And no, you don't have to cover up for him. I know about the checks, dear. If he'd told me sooner, you'd be getting at least twice as much." She shook her head in disapproval, concluding simply, "Men."
"So can I just give it back to you?" Dean asked eagerly, ready to just spring out of the fancy car.
"No, you go see him," she said evenly, "Let him talk you out of giving it back. All young men need their own money, in my eye. And from our end... I am going to tell you something about parents, Dean. They want everything about their children to be in their control, because they just want their children to be safe. This whole thing with Annie... he's shook up about it, we both are. For Jed... once you slap a price tag on it, he finally knows how to make sense of things, how they fit in the world. We cannot quantify our gratitude, Dean, but how can we not try? So just take the money, and knock us out of our misery."
They pulled over to the entrance of 'the club', and it struck Dean for the first time that ratty old jeans, weathered boots, thousand-times-worn flannel and hand-me-down leather jacket fit in here about as much as he did. Margie Huntington put her hand at the crook of his elbow and folded his arm, latching onto him, keeping him from escape as she led him into her world.
"No one's looking for her."
Sam's head shot up at the voice that interrupted his reading. He was in the library, having been excused from the exertions of gym class while he was recovering, doing some draft work on an essay. Annie Huntington sat across from him with her urgent, excitable stage-whispering. She looked a little manic.
"What?" he asked, confused.
"No one's looking for her," Annie said again, emphatically, "I've been thinking about that, why no one has reported Linda – the one who was trapped with me in the car - as missing. Maybe it is... maybe it is an old kidnapping. Just like your brother said."
Sam glanced at her, and then at the EMF meter peeking out of his rucksack. If the thing started beeping in here, he'd be in trouble with the librarian, but then again that would be the least of their problems. It remained silent though, which indicated to him that the crying Annie had been hearing was more likely traumatic memory than a haunting. This meant that they didn't have to drag the girl into the supernatural anymore.
"Well he hit his head," Sam told her carefully, "So he knocked some screws loose. I'd take whatever he's been saying with a grain of salt."
She blinked at him in surprise, "But... but it makes more sense to me now."
Makes sense, Sam thought miserably. Dean had been right, when he said that those were so the wrong choice of words in talking about their job.
"I've let the idea sink in," Annie said, "And maybe she is... maybe she is a g-ghost."
"That's great," Sam said thinly, pinching at the bridge of his nose. This was fantastic. He was not inclined at all dealing with 'civilians' in school. What a nightmare.
"I've thought of a way I can find out for sure," she said, "I can't... I can't just let this go, Sam. It's eating at me, and I can't sleep, and I can't stop thinking of that poor girl – whether she's a g-ghost or not. It's almost secondary. I just... I don't care. I just wanna help her."
"What way?" Sam asked her, suspiciously.
"I think I can get access to the car in evidence," she told him, "I can get in there, Sam."
Sam blinked at her in a moment of stupefying surprise, "What – how -"
"The cops let your brother drive down Daffy-Ashland Way to try and remember more about what happened that night, right?" she pointed out, "Maybe they'd let me do the same thing in the trunk... let me relive the time I was in there. I'll tell them it might jog my memory and come up with more leads, and I'll take the chance to see what's really going on inside that trunk."
TO BE CONTINUED...
... In the next chapter, Dean invades a country club and goes back to school, and John gets an earful from Sam, whose teenage angst erupts into open antagonism when the hunt for Linda Carin's ghost reopens. 'Til the next post!