PUPPETMASTER
SUMMARY: As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both Winchester brothers' lives in jeopardy. Set mid to late Season 2. The story follows the events of Bridging Two Solitudes and Grave Consequences, but stands independently.
RATED:T for some cursing, including the occasional f-bomb.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. They belong to the dastardly Eric Kripke. Once again, I am encamped in his most awesome sandbox, playing with the incredible characters he created.
A/N: Again, a great big thanks to everyone for the incredibly encouraging reviews, comments and PMs – they're always appreciated. To JustaFan and CloudedSky, who I can't PM, a big thanks for your kind words. To the Amazing A's – Ann and Amy – you rock! Thanks for the beta, the encouragement and the occasional butt-kicking. Any remaining goofs post-beta can be blamed on my chronic tweaking. A big thanks, too, to Heather for the medical info which launched this story. Please enjoy.
CHAPTER 4
Sam stood hidden in the trees, studying the man 50 feet away from him.
He was tall, in his mid-50s but his dark, wiry hair showed only hints of gray at the temples. He stood beside a golf cart, phone pressed to his left ear while he impatiently tapped the ground with the club in his right hand.
His body language screamed anger long before Sam heard him speak. "No. No more delays. I need an answer by Tuesday or the deal's off the table. The bastard's just screwing around with us. He knows he doesn't stand a hope in hell in front of a jury."
The man exuded confidence that bordered on arrogance. He was used to getting what he wanted.
Sam smiled. That was about to change.
"Fine. It's his funeral." The man snapped the phone shut and tossed it in annoyance into the front seat of the golf cart before turning to his partner. "Cocky son of a bitch thinks I've gone soft in retirement."
The younger man smiled. "Relax. He'd be stupid to refuse the deal but, if he does, you know we'll chew him up and spit him out in court." He laughed softly, shaking his head. "You know, when most people retire, they actually stop working."
The older man chuckled, his professional veneer cracking briefly to reveal the man hidden within. "That's what my wife keeps telling me. But I'll stop working when I'm dead."
Sam's smile widened as he stepped out from behind the tree, rubbing his back as he walked up to the two men.
The elder of the two frowned at his approach. "Yes?"
Sam took in the gray eyes, the sharp nose, and the close-cropped hair. Except for a few more wrinkles, he had changed little over the years.
The man's annoyance with the approaching stranger's silence was clear. "Can I help you?"
Sam grinned. "No, but I can help you." The sun glinted briefly off the blade of the knife before Sam plunged it into the man's heart. He grabbed the man's shirt with his left hand to keep him standing then gave the blade a final twist. The man's eyes opened wide in shock. Sam leaned in close and felt the man's last, warm breath on his face. "There. Now you can stop working."
He pulled out the knife and blood spurted from the wound, staining Sam's shirt. He released his hold on the man, dead the moment the knife entered his heart, and smiled in satisfaction as his victim crumpled lifelessly to the ground.
The attack was over in seconds. The man's younger partner looked on horrified, his horror quickly turning to fury as the dead man fell. Sam turned toward him, knife raised to attack again, but his intended victim was quicker. He swung his golf club viciously, connecting with the side of Sam's head. Pain exploded behind his eyes as the club smashed into his temple, wiping out all sensation and sending him falling into oblivion.
xxxXXXxxx
Sam jolted back to consciousness. His head was pounding, loudly and steadily. Sweat trickled down his face but his mouth was dry. He licked his lips, then frowned at the bitter, metallic taste of blood.
His eyes slowly slid open and he found himself staring at the roof of the Impala. He was lying on his back on the floor, wedged between the front seat and the dashboard, his back arched over the transmission tunnel, his long legs bent awkwardly in the confined space.
His left arm was folded underneath him, numb from lying on it too long. He reached for the front seat with his right to leaver himself up and his hand smacked Dean's leg.
"Hey." Head still fuzzy, he smacked it again. "Help me up."
He frowned when there was no response. With a groan, he twisted his head to look up at his brother. Dean lay slumped against the steering wheel, his face turned toward the passenger side, his eyes closed. Blood trickled from a gash in his forehead, mixing with sweat as it ran down his nose and the side of his face. More blood ran down his chin from a split lip.
"Dean? Hey."
There was no answer, no movement. Sam's heart rate ratcheted up as he struggled to free himself. Clumsily hauling himself off the floor, he winced as his recovering knee protested the contortions and his back cramped thanks to the awkward position he had been lying in. His left arm was still numb, the pins and needles loudly announcing restored circulation as he began moving about.
The heat in the car was stifling and he was drenched in sweat by the time he pulled himself up onto the seat, sliding along it so he sat next to his brother. He shakily placed two fingers on Dean's neck, feeling for a pulse.
"M'not dead, Sam." Dean's mumbled response was tinged with annoyance.
"Then you should have said something." Worry quickly diluted Sam's fear-fueled anger. Dean's eyes were still closed and he had yet to move. "How bad is it?"
"Been better."
Sam rested his hand on his brother's back. "Can you move?"
"Just need a second." Dean cleared his throat. "Maybe a minute."
The longer Dean stayed still, the harder is was for Sam to contain his worry. "Dean-"
"Sam, m'okay. Just got my bell rung." Dean pushed himself weakly off the steering wheel.
Sam kept one hand on Dean's back, the other on his shoulder as he helped him lean back against the seat. He didn't miss the grimace or sharp inhalation of air. "Dude, you're a mess."
"No, I'm adorable." He peeled open one eye, his forced smile fading as he stared at Sam. "You good?"
Sam nodded. "Fine."
Dean blinked slowly, as if trying to get his vision to focus, but his eyes were locked on his brother. "You're bloody."
Sam dabbed his fingers against his mouth. "Bit my lip, that's all." He sighed at Dean's disbelieving look. "Not sure how but I'm in one piece, which is more than I can say for you." He reached over to check the nasty gash on Dean's forehead but his brother weakly batted away his hand.
"Quit it. I said I'm good." Dean squeezed his eyes closed. "Both you and your twin can quit worrying."
Now it was Sam's turn to frown. "You're seein' double?"
"Sam, chill." Dean slowly rolled his head across the seatback to look dazedly at his brother. "Just my turn for a monster headache. Why should you have all the fun?"
Sam sat back. "Not funny." His jaw clenched at Dean's sluggish reactions and he reached for the car keys. "I'll get the first aid kit from the trunk so I-"
"Wait." Dean took another weak swipe at his arm. "How's the car?"
"What?"
Dean forced open his eyes and squinted out the front window. "I can hear that's she's still running, but why is that boulder up in her grill?"
Sam followed Dean's line-of-sight. For the first time, he took in the large rock jammed against the Impala's bumper, the thick, sandy dirt that coated the hood and windows and the fact that the road was about 500 feet to their left. "We're off the road." He frowned. "I'm a little fuzzy on the 'how.'"
Dean's eyes slid closed for a moment then he turned to face Sam, fixing him with a glassy stare. "You had another seizure. I was trying to stop you from faceplanting on the dashboard when you decked me."
"I what?"
"Relax." Dean sighed. "Lucky shot, nothin' more. Those orangutan arms of yours were flailing about, caught me on the nose." He winced as he reached up to touch the gash on his forehead. "Steering wheel did more damage."
Sam pulled his hand away away from the cut, then reached into the backseat and grabbed the shirt Dean had peeled off at their last gas stop. He folded it into a ball, pressed it against Dean's forehead to stem the bleeding, then grabbed Dean's right hand and lifted it up to hold the shirt in place. "We need the first-aid kit."
"No." Dean lifted the cloth off his head and frowned at the blood that now stained it. "Don't turn off the engine 'til I know how bad she is. Might not get her started again." Dean listened to the growl of the Impala's engine, then groaned as he pushed himself up. "How long was I out?"
Sam shrugged. "Not sure." He glanced at his watch. "Half hour. Maybe less."
Dean's eyes were closed again. "How we doin' for gas?"
Sam leaned over and checked the gauge. "Just under half full."
Dean nodded. "Good. I just need a minute, then I'll check out the damage."
"You look like crap, Dean." Sam pulled a bottle of water from the knapsack he'd retrieved from the floor and unscrewed the cap. "Here, drink this."
Dean peeled open his eyes, dropped the bloody shirt in his lap and took the water bottle from Sam. After taking a long drink, he passed the half-full bottle back to his brother. "The seizure – it was another vision, right?"
Sam rolled the cap to the water bottle between his thumb and his finger, nodding tersely.
Dean's voice was steady. "Another murder?"
"Yeah."
"With you as the killer?"
Sam's nod was barely perceptible.
Dean stared unseeing out the Impala window. "Well we know it's not Chapman, and it's not you, so who is it this time?"
Sam fastened the cap on the water bottle. "It's looking more like possession of some kind."
Dean's patience, always in short supply, was rapidly running out. "Fine. Some spirit, some demon is on a bodysnatching, killing spree – why the hell are you involved?"
He could see Sam struggling to find an answer. He winced as he twisted in his seat to face his brother but his eyes seemed clearer, more focused. "First things first: You good? And no bullshit."
Sam shrugged, looking down. "Just stiff from being wedged down there too long, that's all."
"Well nine feet of Sam doesn't fit in four feet of space." Dean's eyes narrowed. "Your vision. Tell me what you saw."
Sam, twisting and untwisting the cap on the water bottle, looked up at Dean, then turned again to stare out into the desert. "There were two men playing golf. The killer listened to one of them have a phone conversation, then just walked up to him and stabbed him in the heart." Sam's voice was quiet. "There was no hesitation. I can still feel him twisting the knife…"
A slight twitch of the muscle along Dean's jaw was the only visible sign as he fought to control his building anger. "Any idea who the victim is?"
Sam shook his head. "I didn't hear any names but from the conversation the victim had on the phone, I'd say he's a lawyer."
Dean canted his head toward Sam. "A lawyer and judge. I'm guessing that's not a coincidence."
"Yeah." Sam blew out a breath. "And I think maybe the killer's dead too."
Dean's raised eyebrows were an unspoken "Why?"
"The lawyer's golf partner took a swing at the killer with a golf club," Sam said, rubbing his temple. "Connected too if the pain that exploded in my head is anything to go by."
Dean's eyes widened. "You felt the pain?"
Sam dropped the water bottle on the seat beside him. "A little. I snapped out of the vision right as the golf club connected."
Dean's picked up the wadded shirt and again pressed it against his still bleeding forehead. "Well if the murder played out like you described, it's gonna be splashed across the front page. At least then we'll know who this guy is and we can –"
"We have to try to stop it."
"How?" Dean shifted in his seat to face Sam. "We don't know the vic's name or even where the murder takes place. And, if it's anything like your last vision, it's happening in real time so it's already over." His voice softened. "I'm sorry, Sammy, but, chances are, the guy's already dead."
Sam turned to stare out the window.
Dean sighed. "Look, you had another seizure. That means we need to get you checked out. Once we get to Scottsdale, we can-"
"No." Sam's jaw set stubbornly. "No hospital. I told you before, they can't help."
"Damn it, Sam. It was a seizure. That's nothing-"
"I said 'no.'" Sam's eyes blazed angrily as he turned toward Dean. "Some spirit or demon is tapped into my psychic thing. We need to find out who it is and how he's doing it, stop him from killing people and sever that link. That's how we stop this, not with another trip to the ER."
Dean dropped the bloody shirt on the seat beside him. "Tell me again you're okay"
Sam looked up a Dean's battered, blood-stained face. "Right now, I'm better than you."
Dean scowled but nodded. "Then we stick with the original plan: talk to the housekeeper and the security guard. Maybe, by then, we'll have heard something about the second victim that will help us figure out how they're connected – other than through you."
"Yeah." Sam sorted through what he remembered of the vision. "The lawyer was retired too. Maybe he and the judge are both in Scottsdale."
Dean snorted. "It'd be a first for us if the pieces fit together that neatly, but it's worth a shot." He scowled as he stared out the front window at the nose of the Impala pressed up against the boulder. "But, right now, I need to see how messed up my baby is."
Sam reached down to grab his cellphone which had fallen on the floor in the crash. "We could call for a tow." He flipped open the phone, punched a few keys and then sighed. "Or not. No signal."
Dean pulled his phone from his pocket and went through the same exercise with the same result. "Perfect." He looked outside, scanning the open desert that stretched out on either side of the road. "And since we've been out here in plain sight for a good chunk of time, and I haven't heard a car pass us since I came to, I'm guessing flagging down help is a long-shot."
Sam motioned with his head to the road. "I was on the phone with the cops about a mile back. The signal was starting to break up but at least there still was one. I could hike back…"
Dean shook his head. "In this heat – and with everything else that's going on? Uh-uh. Let me check out the car first, see how bad it is."
He bit back a groan as he opened the door and pulled himself to his feet. Sam watched him worriedly. Dean teetered a little as he stood up, grabbing the doorframe to steady himself, but regained his balance quickly as he walked around the back of the car to the passenger side and up to the front to inspect the damage.
Sam pushed open his door and, with a groan that rivaled his brother's, pulled himself up and stretched his aching back before limping over to stand behind Dean who now knelt beside the right front wheel.
"Tire's shredded, bumper's cracked, both right headlights are toast…" Dean lay down on his back, twisting his head to look under the car. "No puddles under the rad or engine which is a good sign. Frame doesn't look too bad, but I won't be able to tell how bad the alignment's screwed 'til I drive her." He pushed himself up then accepted Sam's offered hand for help in standing. "Looks like we weren't going that fast when we hit this rock. I'll get the spare then we'll get this show on the road."
Sam nodded, rubbing his bad knee distractedly. "We should take care of that gash on your head."
Dean's voice was muffled as he pulled open the passenger door and leaned inside for the keys. "Car first." With a muttered "Baby, don't let me down," he turned off the engine and pushed himself out of the car. Walking to the rear and opening the trunk, he lugged their duffel bags out of the way and grabbed the spare, hauling it out and carrying it around to the front while Sam ferreted out the jack and the lug wrench.
Following his brother and handing him the jack, Sam waited as Dean pushed it into place and levered up the car. The desert heat was oppressive. Each brother wore only a thin T-shirt and jeans but Dean's shirt was already soaked with sweat in a deep V in the front and a wide stripe from shoulder blades to waist in the back. Sweat also glistened on his neck and bare arms as he worked.
Sam's T-shirt looked much the same. He dragged his arm across his forehead to stop sweat running into his eyes but could feel it running freely down his back.
Dean raised his hand and Sam answered the unspoken request, handing him the lug wrench. Dean made short work of the lug nuts, then wrestled off the shredded tire, rolling it awkwardly to the side. Sam moved in, picked up the wrecked tire and carried it to the trunk. Stowing it at the back, he pulled out the first aid kit then threw their duffels back in the car.
As he tossed the first aid kit on the passenger seat, Sam shivered as a chill passed through him. He tensed; it was well over 100 degrees in the desert so a sudden drop in temperature meant only one thing. He scanned the area warily, and froze.
The dark-haired man he had first seen at the pool stared back at him from the far side of the rock that the Impala was wedged against.
"Dean." Sam smacked his brother on the shoulder, keeping his eyes locked on the apparition.
Dean looked up to see Sam staring off to his right, over the car. His head snapped around to follow Sam's sightline. "What?"
The man walked toward Sam, his transluscent image bending and twisting in the shimmering waves of heat rising from the desert, his long black coat billowing around him. His dark eyes flashed dangerously and a slow, cold smile spread across his face.
Sam swallowed, eyes still fixed on the spirit. "You don't see him?"
Dean's brow furrowed. He stood slowly, his eyes darting from his brother to the far side of the car and back. "I see squat."
Sam glanced at Dean, lifted a hand to point at the apparition but when he glanced back, the spirit was gone. He gestured to where he had been standing. "He was right there. You didn't-"
"No." Dean's frown deepened. "And why the hell not? If it's a spirit-"
"Gah!" A sharp pain hit Sam suddenly, shooting from his head right down to his feet. Angry whispers again filled his head, drowning out all other sound. And in the cacophony of voices only one stood out, the same phrase playing over and over in a loop. "Stop him. Help me."
Seeing Sam waver, Dean dropped the tire iron and lunged forward, catching his brother just as his knees gave way and he slumped sideways against the car. Dean sank to the ground with Sam, gripping both arms tightly. "Sammy?"
Dean's voice seemed a long way off even though Sam could feel his hands supporting him. But inside his head there was another presence.
"Sam." The voice was soft but dangerous. "It's good to know your name."
"Who…are you?" Sam could barely spit out the words as the pain in his head threatened to pull consciousness from him. He peeled open his eyes and Dean's worried face was sliding in and out of focus only inches from his own.
The voice in his head laughed softly. "And to think you weren't even on my list…How could I have overlooked such…potential."
Sam's hands were shaking as he pressed them to his head. "Get out."
"When I had to work so hard to get in? I think not." He laughed again. "The others were easy because they were weak. But you…with you I can take this further. Do so much more."
Sam could feel Dean shaking him gently; he could see his brother's worried face, see his lips moving but the only voice he heard was the one inside his head. "Let's see…"
The pressure inside Sam's skull intensified, the searing pain behind his eyes blinding as the strange voice began chanting in a language he didn't understand but that seemed strangely familiar.
The chanting stopped and the voice grew colder, more deadly. "You're fighting me, Sam…forcing me to fight back." His chanting resumed, his voice flat, cold, all pretense of civility gone. "You won't like it when I fight back."
The whispers in his head became angry shouts. The man's chanting grew louder, competing with the voices until they filled Sam's head.
The noise was too much. A thin trickle of blood ran from Sam's nose as he fell forward against Dean. In the brief moment before unconsciousness claimed him, the chanting and the whispers disappeared and two words filled his head. "Stop him."
xxxXXXxxx
Dean's eyes widened as he tightened his hold on Sam in anticipation of the seizure he was sure would follow. It didn't. Sam simply didn't move.
"Dude, come on." His laugh was nervous, a defense mechanism to protect himself from the very real fear gnawing at him from the inside out. "What's going on?"
He could feel Sam's heart beating rapidly, hear his shallow breaths but, otherwise, he was still. Dean eased him down, laying him on his side. "Damn it." He swallowed when he saw the blood still running from his brother's nose, flashing back to the asylum in Rockford, Illinois and their run-in with Dr. Sandford Ellicott. "Who the hell is messing with your head this time, huh?"
He pushed himself up, scrambled around the car to the trunk and grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler and a towel from his duffel. Soaking the towel, he dropped to his knees, wiping his brother's face, cleaning away the blood and hoping the cool water would rouse him. But Sam remained unresponsive; the nosebleed slowed but his brother showed no signs of regaining consciousness.
"Okay, that's it." Dean's worry was quickly approaching panic. "Screw your 'no hospital' rant. ER here we come."
Dean ignored the sweat trickling down his face and his back as he hefted Sam to his feet, wrangled open the car door and lowered his brother into the passenger seat.
All thoughts of driving the Impala carefully until he assessed the extent of her damage disappeared behind the need to help Sam. Dean quickly finished changing the tire and then climbed into the driver's seat, turned the ignition and muttered a curse-filled thanks when the Impala fired up immediately. He backed up from the boulder, spun the Chevy around in a cloud of sandy dust, and floored her in a straight line back to the road. The trek across the desert was a bumpy one that roughly jostled the Impala's passengers. Dean once again found himself shooting out his right hand to hold Sam in place and stop him from being thrown forward.
He relaxed only slightly when, with one final jolt, the car left the rough desert for the cracked blacktop of the road.
Dean grabbed his phone and dialed, cursing loudly when he couldn't get a signal. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal and hit redial.
Dean glanced again at Sam, tucking his phone under his chin as he reached over and pressed his fingers against his brother's neck. Sam was breathing evenly and his pulse was steady but he had yet to show any signs of waking. Dean pulled his hand back and slammed his fist against the steering wheel in frustration – frustration that was quickly turning to fury. Something supernatural was tearing his brother apart, physically and emotionally, and he couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. There was nothing to shoot, nothing to salt and burn, nothing to throw himself in front of.
Sam had seen something, he knew that. But if it was a spirit, why the hell hadn't he seen it, too?
He shot another look at his brother as he grabbed his phone and tried again to push his call through. He had been driving for 10 minutes, losing track of the number of times he'd hit redial, before it finally began ringing.
xxxXXXxxx
Sam fought past a crushing headache to return to consciousness. He heard Dean's worried voice before he found the energy to peel open his eyes.
"No. This time there was no seizure. But there definitely was one when we went off the road.
"Yeah, there was a nosebleed but it's stopped now. Not sure if that's tied to whatever's messing with him or the crash, but he seemed okay before ... Relax, Doc … Forget I said crash … We just went off the road. The car took the brunt of it …
"Doc, I'm fine … We just need to figure out what the hell's goin' on with Sam."
Sam opened his eyes and rolled his head toward the sound of Dean's voice. His brother was behind the wheel and talking on his cell. Sam glanced out the front window and realized they were flying down the road, well above the speed limit – whatever it was.
"Slow down." Sam frowned at the sound of his own voice, which was raw and tired.
Dean's head snapped to the right. "Wait, he just came to." He pulled the phone from his mouth. "How you doin', Sammy?"
Sam screwed his eyes closed and rubbed his forehead. "To steal your line, 'been better.'"
"Headache?"
"Uh-huh."
"Scale of one to ten…"
"Six…seven maybe."
"You feel sick?"
"No." Sam gave a slight shake of his head, afraid any larger gesture would make a liar of him.
Dean returned the phone to his mouth. "You hear that? Yeah … Okay …That's the plan but he's gonna fight me on it ... Okay, I will." He glanced at his watch. "We're about 90 minutes out …Yeah, I'll tell him. Thanks, Doc."
Dean clicked the phone shut, dropped it on the seat beside him, and picked up a bottle of water, handing it to Sam. "Here, drink this. Painkillers, the good ones, are in the glove box."
"Thanks." Sam took the bottle of water and slowly pushed himself up, squinting against the bright light as he looked again outside the car and at the desert landscape flashing by them. "What am I gonna fight you on?" He turned to face Dean, then waved his hand at the discarded phone in response to his brother's raised eyebrows. "You told Doc I wouldn't go for something. What?"
"She wants you back in the hospital, so that's where we're going."
Sam's jaw clenched. "I'm getting tired of saying this: a hospital can't fix this."
Dean glanced over at his brother. "Seizures, nosebleeds – she's worried, Sammy. And she's not the only one."
Sam took a drink of water, then recapped the bottle. "Don't suppose you told her the crash knocked you out, that you're seeing double, that-"
"Don't change the subject." Dean's scowl softened. "Seriously, dude: these visions get worse every time. What the hell did you see back there?"
Sam opened the glove compartment and pulled out the bottle of painkillers. He hesitated for a moment then turned to face Dean. "It wasn't a vision – it was a warning."
Dean's hand tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. "What?"
Sam shook out the pills and swallowed them, washing them down with another drink of water before slumping tiredly against the passenger door. "This guy, this spirit, whatever he is…he doesn't like that I'm fighting him. Making him fight back."
Dean scowled. "No offence, Sammy, but from where I'm sitting he's kicking the crap out of you."
Sam took another drink of water. "But he hasn't made me kill anyone. Maybe that's what he wants." He slowly twisted the lid back on the bottle. "Maybe he wants to use me like he used Donald Chapman to kill the judge and whoever killed the lawyer. But, for some reason, he can't."
"And that's about the only good thing in this mess." Dean's scowl deepened. "Wouldn't be the first time a spirit or a demon grabbed control of someone and used them to kill. But how's he picking his puppets and why the hell are you involved?"
Sam tapped the water bottle against his hand. "I don't know but, from what he just said, I don't think I was supposed to be involved. He said, 'to think I almost overlooked you.'"
"So how' the hell did you get in his headlights?"
Sam shrugged. "My psychic thing, maybe. Not sure. But he says I'm stronger than the others, but fighting him is forcing him to fight back. That's what I think this was – him trying to show me he's stronger." Sam swallowed. "That if he keeps pushing, he can take over."
Dean slammed his foot on the brake so suddenly Sam was forced to brace a hand on the dashboard to stop himself from pitching forward. Dean pulled the car to the side of the road, shoved the Impala into park and turned to glare at his brother. "Damn it, Sam."
Sam rolled the bottle of pills distractedly in his fingers. "He's not gonna stop. He's gonna keep pushing."
Dean's eyes flashed angrily. "Then you keep pushing back 'til we figure this out."
Sam dropped the bottle of pills on the seat between them. "The second voice, was back, too. Just keeps saying the same thing over and over in a loop – 'Stop him. Help me.' Then behind it, there's all these whispers, all these voices that are angry…scared."
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "Son of a bitch. This is getting out of control.
Sam scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "It's all connected somehow. We just have to put the pieces together right."
Dean snorted. "Well right now it feels like one of those 1,001-piece jigsaw puzzles of the sky on a cloudless day. 'Where does this blue piece go?'"
Sam took in his brother's battered face, still smeared with blood, dirt and sweat. The gash in his forehead had stopped bleeding, the skin around the cut already starting to bruise and his bottom lip swollen. "Dude, you're a mess." Sam pushed the first-aid kit across the seat. "Clean yourself up. It'll be hard to charm anyone tomorrow if you look like road kill."
Dean shot Sam a look, but popped open the lid on the tin box, pulled out a tiny sterile wipe, and tilted up the rearview mirror to examine the damage closely. He scowled at the bruised and bloody face staring back at him, then glanced down at the wipe. "I'm gonna need a few of these."
"Try this first." Sam folded the damp towel beside him inside out and handed it to Dean with the bottle of water.
"Thanks." Dean poured water on the towel and scrubbed his face clean, wincing as the rough cloth brushed against torn skin. "Voice dude give you anything else we can use?"
Sam closed his eyes, replaying the spirit's threat. "When he said I was forcing him to fight back, he started chanting – it sounded kinda like Latin, but it wasn't. At least no form I recognized."
Dean winced as he used the sterile wipes to clean the cuts on his face. "So it was a spell or incantation?"
Sam shrugged. "Maybe. I can remember a word here and there so I'll do some research when we get to Scottsdale." He reached into the first-aid kit, pulled out a tube of antibiotic ointment and passed it to his brother.
Dean took it, tapping it against his leg as his focus remained on Sam. "So, to recap: we have one dead judge, killed by the late Donald Chapman. Reasons unknown. We have a soon-to-be-dead lawyer, name unknown, location unknown, taken out by an unknown killer. And we have an unknown spirit connected to both murders and to you, through your one-man psychic network. That pretty much it?"
"Pretty much." Sam shook his head. "But there are a helluva lot of unknowns in what we do know."
"We'll figure it out, Sammy. I promise you that." Dean rubbed antibiotic ointment into the broken skin on his forehead, wiped off the excess, and then accepted the three butterfly strips Sam handed him to pull the gash closed. When he was done he nodded at the mirror. "A little too Frankenstein for my taste," he grinned at Sam, "but still adorable."
Sam ignored the lame attempt at humor. He picked up the bottle of painkillers from the seat beside him. "Here, take these…"
"No." Dean shook his head as he shoved the Impala back in gear and pulled back onto the road. "We're still more than an hour from Scottsdale and those things knock me out."
Sam clenched his jaw. "You need…"
"I told you, they knock me out. What if you have a seizure, huh? What if…"
"Dean, you need to recharge your batteries." Sam slammed shut the lid on the first-aid kit. "You can't stay awake 24/7." He shrugged, changing tactics. "And you're not gonna help either one of us if you pass out from exhaustion."
Dean sighed. "I'll be fine, Sam. We'll grab some food when we hit Scottsdale, hit the hay then, tomorrow, we'll start filling in the blanks on some of those unknowns."
xxxXXXxxx
Dean awoke smiling. The bed, for once, was neither too hard nor too soft and the air conditioner worked, making the room a comfortable temperature despite the building Arizona heat outside the door. And, thanks to uninterrupted sleep courtesy of the pills Sam had insisted he take, he'd had a great dream about Jenna the gymnast, who had numerous creative uses for her natural flexibility.
And then he moved. Muscles wrenched in the crash had stiffened overnight and his head was still loudly protesting its collision with the steering wheel. He groaned and buried his face in his pillow.
Sam's voice sounded close by. "How you doin'?"
Dean's voice was muffled by the pillow. "M'fine – if I don't move."
"You wanna sit this one out?"
Dean lifted his head and opened one eye to peer up at Sam. "Sit what…oh." His brother was already showered, wearing a dress shirt and pants and straightening the knot in his tie. Right. They had arranged appointments with security guard Marty Forbes and the judge's housekeeper Isabel Stanton, under the guise of insurance investigators hired by Forbes' security firm.
Dean scowled when he saw what his brother was wearing. "No, Sam. No suits. We're in Arizona – it's like 9,000 degrees out there."
"Sorry. Insurance investigators equals suits." Sam studied his brother worriedly.
Dean frowned at Sam's expression. "Quit looking at me like that?"
Sam finished straightening his tie and pulled the collar of his shirt into place. "I'm just thinking of all the times we've explained away black eyes and split lips from a hunt as car accident injuries – and here you get hurt in a car accident and you look like you've been in a prize fight."
Dean groaned loudly as he sat up, staring at his reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite the bed. The bruising around the gash in his forehead had blossomed into a vivid array of blues, greens and purples that extended down the bridge of his nose and under his left eye. Sam had a point. He shrugged. "At least I look like I won."
Sam frowned at Dean's labored movements. "Seriously, Dean. If you wanna sit this one out, I can-"
Dean shook his head. "Nah, I'm in. Once I've had a shower, I'll be good."
Sam nodded. "Then we should get going. We're supposed to be at Forbes' house by 10:30 and we still have to clean out the weapons locker before we drop off the Impala and pick up the rental car."
Dean threw off the sheets and pulled his legs out of bed. He scrubbed a hand over his face and squinted sleepily at Sam. "Great. Suits and a sub-compact. I hate this day already."
Sam smiled. "There's a bright side; the rental will be air-conditioned."
A call to Bobby had hooked them up with an auto body shop that both handled classic cars and could get the work done quickly, and with a minimum of questions. The Impala was at the front of the line for the bodywork and alignment, and new headlights would be couriered over from Phoenix before noon. If all went according to plan, she would be back on the road by late afternoon. But that meant they were stuck with a rental car in the interim.
Dean looked around the room, sniffing the air hopefully. "Why don't I smell coffee?"
"Coffeemaker's busted. We'll pick up some on the way to the body shop."
Dean pushed himself off the bed with the groan. "Just remember, I'm no fun 'till I'm caffeinated." He looked over at Sam. His brother wasn't as pale as he had been the night before but he still looked on edge. "What about you? You get any sleep?"
Sam nodded curtly. "I slept fine."
"Headache?"
Sam shrugged. "Already took something for it."
"Change your mind about a hospital check up?"
"Nope. Now hurry up."
"Yeah, yeah…." Dean yawned, rubbing a hand through his hair as he stumbled toward the bathroom. "Gimme five minutes – ten if I have to wear a freakin' tie."
Two hours later they had cleaned out the trunk, dropped off the Impala, picked up the rental and completed their interview with the security guard.
Dean frowned as he pulled up to the curb a few doors down from the judge's house; a police cruiser was parked in the driveway. "What the hell are the cops doin' here?"
"Probably doing follow up interviews, like we are." Sam reached into the back seat and pulled his laptop from his computer bag. He settled the computer on his knees, opened it, then looked over at the judge's house. "Give'em a few more minutes, then hopefully they'll clear out. I'd rather not test our cover story face-to-face with the cops if we don't have to."
"Roger that."
Dean had bitched all morning about the nondescript sedan the rental company had given them but now he was begrudgingly grateful for the anonymity, and air conditioning, it provided as they waited for the cops to leave.
Dean sipped his third coffee of the morning as he casually scanned the street. "Forbes, the security guard, he seemed like a pretty straight shooter – no pun intended."
"Yeah." Sam smiled as he found a wireless signal to tap into and pulled up the Internet. "I believe him. He's obviously in shock over being forced to take a man's life but his story is consistent."
Dean took another sip of his coffee and frowned as he looked around the street. The judge lived in a gated community; he and Sam had had to give their names, to the security guard at the gatehouse, who allowed them in only when he confirmed they were expected. "You said there was no record of Chapman coming in through the main gate, right?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah. Cops think he snuck in across the golf course which backs onto the development."
Dean pursed his lips. "So, our spirit possesses a guy battling lung cancer, rides him halfway across the country, then hikes a few miles over a golf course and through a subdivision to kill the judge. Makes perfect sense." He glanced again at the judge's house. "And why no exit strategy?"
Sam shook his head. "He didn't need one. To him, Donald Chapman was just a disposable puppet."
Dean frowned. "But, given your second vision, he obviously had plans to kill again. Why not just keep control of Chapman and have him do all the dirty work?"
Sam shrugged. "Maybe he can only control people for a short period of time. Maybe Chapman's body wasn't strong enough. Maybe he didn't factor in the security guard showing up. Maybe-"
Dean smacked Sam in the arm. "5-0's leaving."
The brothers slid down in their seats as the uniformed officers left the house, chatted briefly on the front walk then moved to the cruiser parked in the driveway. They kept themselves out of sight as the police car backed out of the driveway and drove off down the street.
"Oh God…"
"What? They're gone." Dean turned to see Sam staring again at the computer screen.
His brother looked sickened by what he was reading. "News report from L.A: Prosecutor T.J. Renton was stabbed to death late yesterday – while golfing."
Dean leaned over to look at the screen. The report included a head shot of the murder victim. "The guy from your vision?"
Sam nodded.
"They get the guy who did it?"
Sam shrugged, reading from the screen. "Sort of. Guy's name is Jack Munroe. After he stabbed Renton, Renton's golf partner took a swing at Munroe with a golf club. Munroe sustained massive head trauma – he died en route to the hospital." Sam closed the computer. "Police say Munroe's attack was unprovoked, reason is unknown and there's no apparent connection between victim and killer."
Sam looked like someone had just kicked him in the gut.
"There's nothing you could have done, Sam. Just 'cause you're tapped into this doesn't make any of it your fault. Hey…" Dean's eyes met his brother's. Sam didn't scare easily; he'd seen too much, been through too much. Now, though, he was clearly rattled. He repeated his reassurance for emphasis. "There's nothing you could have done. We talked about this. These visions are happening in real time …"
Sam nodded miserably. "…meaning we can't stop the murders."
Dean's jaw clenched at the emotional distress painted clearly across Sam's face. "But we can stop the killer. We just have to figure out who he is and how he's doing it."
"Yeah..."
Dean's frown deepened. "You said that murder was in L.A.?"
"Yeah."
"Well, that's a new wrinkle." Dean turned toward Sam. "Angry spirits are usually tied to a specific person or place, right?"
Sam nodded, finishing the thought. "But, somehow, this spirit has managed to possess or control two different people in two different cities, hundreds of miles apart – not to mention showing up at the cabin, in our motel room and out in the desert."
Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "Even if we discount your sightings as tied in to your psychic thing, how's he managing to be in two different cities?"
"I dunno." Sam's eyes flashed angrily as he placed his laptop in the back seat. "But figuring out how he's doing it is the key to stopping him. Let's go." He pushed open the door, stepped out of the car and slammed the door shut behind him.
Dean watched Sam walk away from car, fasten his suit jacket and straighten his tie before turning and motioning for his brother to hurry up. Sam still looked pale and tired, but the fear Dean had glimpsed moments earlier had faded quickly. Now, Sam was pissed.
Dean smiled softly as he shifted in his seat, pushed open the door and stepped out of the car into the stifling Arizona heat. Anger made Sam analytical and analytical thinking got them answers. And answers were the key to keeping his brother safe.
He slammed the door, walked around the car and headed up the front path to the house, overtaking Sam. "Come on. Let's get this interview done; then we can go back to the motel and see if we can put the pieces together."
Neither brother was aware of the camera pointed in their direction, or of the man snapping photos of the two of them as they approached the late judge's house.
xxxXXXxxx
Sam screwed his eyes closed as the words on the computer screen in front of him slid out of focus. He put down the pen he'd been tapping absentmindedly on the laminate table, pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly.
Since the first seizure, his headache had been constant, varying only in intensity. While it had been a dull ache most of the day, now it was ramping up again. Sam reached for the bottle of Ibuprofen on the table, dumped out three pills, tossed them in his mouth and dry swallowed them.
Pushing his chair away from the small table, he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as he raked his fingers through his hair. He blew out a long, slow breath before glancing at the closed bathroom door, listening to the sound of running water on the far side of it.
Dean had offered Sam first shower and Sam had accepted with a simple 'Thanks.' He'd disappeared into the bathroom to the sound of Dean shouting, "Don't lock the door."
The shower had helped him relax but the respite was temporary. Now, less than 10 minutes later, his headache was building again and the knot between his shoulder blades was back, sending long tendrils of tension twisting up his neck, across his shoulders and down his back, muscles stiffening with their touch.
The housekeeper, Isabel Stanton, had been a sweet woman, obviously still in shock from the horror of witnessing the judge's murder. She had answered Sam and Dean's questions patiently, even fussed over Dean when she learned his head injury had been sustained in a car accident just the previous day. They'd had to do some fast talking when she threatened to call their boss and give him a piece of her mind for making Dean work when he should be at home resting but, as far as the murder was concerned, she had given them only one piece of new information: the two victims, Judge Matthews and lawyer T.J. Renton, were well acquainted. Both had spent their careers in the Los Angeles County legal system and Renton had prosecuted many of the cases that Judge Matthews had presided over.
As far as Isabel knew, however, the two men had seen little of each other since the judge retired and moved to Scottsdale.
Sam and Dean exchanged glances, knowing the murderer's identity likely lay hidden among the hundreds, possible thousands, of cases the two men worked on together. The information also meant another long drive back to California for Dean, and a mountain of Internet research for Sam. Given the events of the past few days, the brothers agreed to stay the night in Scottsdale, then hit the road first thing in the morning.
Sam had tried to get a jump on the research, firing up the computer the minute Dean headed for the shower, but right now he could barely keep his eyes open. He was bone-weary tired. He stared at the bed less than four feet from him. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to crawl in, fall asleep and not wake up for a week; to forget all about the voice invading his head, the angry whispers that always accompanied it and the grisly visions he was forced to watch.
As if on cue, a sharp pain flared behind his right eye. Sam screwed his eyes closed and massaged his temple with his thumb. He frowned as the room became unnaturally quiet, the running water of Dean's shower and soft hum of the window air conditioner fading away to nothing, the soft inhale and exhale of his own breathing and the steady thumping of his heartbeat eerily magnified.
Sam peeled open his eyes and glanced around the room. He was alone but he sensed another presence. Suddenly, he was aware of whispering, voices in the distance slowly becoming louder and clearer until they filled his head.
Sam pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, breathing heavily. He bit his lip as the pressure in his head increased with the volume of the voices. Suddenly the whispers faded behind the lone, familiar voice of the spirit now chanting in the same strange language he'd used in the desert. Sam could hear the words clearly this time but still didn't understand them. His stomach lurched as the pain in his head sharpened and intensified.
He glanced at the closed bathroom door. Dean needed to know what was happening. Sam took a step but his legs buckled. He fell heavily to his knees, then toppled sideways, landing on the floor at the base of the bed. His harsh breathing echoed loudly through his head, a stark counterpoint to the smooth monotone of the chanting voice.
"Get. Out." Sam jammed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, a futile attempt to relieve the now blindingly sharp pain ripping through his head.
Sam rolled onto his stomach, burying his forehead in the worn carpet and wrapping his arm around his head trying to block out the incessant chanting.
Then, as suddenly as the pain hit, it was gone. The pressure in his head dissipated and the voice was silenced. Sam opened his eyes dazedly, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling, breathing heavily.
The deep voice again filled his head. "You ready, Sam."
Sam felt sick. He rolled onto his side, again pressing his forehead into the floor. "Get…out…of my…head.
"Why would I do that? We're just getting to the fun part."
Pain flared again suddenly, pushing Sam to the brink of unconsciousness. "I'll…stop…you..."
"No…you won't. " The voice sighed, like it was tired of trying to explain something simple to an impatient child. "In fact, you'll do just what I say."
The voice began chanting again.
Sam's eyes snapped open as he pushed himself to his feet and walked easily toward the bathroom door. Only now, he wasn't in control - he was a passenger in his own body, fully aware of his actions but with no sway over them.
He heard Dean shut off the water and draw back the shower curtain. "You getting hungry, Sam? I'm starving."
Sam's heart was racing. He shouted out a warning to his brother but no sound came out; his voice no longer his to use. He felt himself press against the wall to the left of the bathroom, out of the line of sight of the doorway, as the voice droned on in his head.
"Sam?" The worry was evident in Dean's voice even through the closed door. "Oh fuck..."
The bathroom door flew open and Dean emerged in a cloud of steam wearing only his boxers.
As Dean walked out of the bathroom, Sam stepped behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Dean spun around, relaxing visibly when he saw Sam standing in front of him. "What the hell, Sam? I thought you'd had another…"
Sam's fingers curled into a fist that he drove hard into Dean's stomach. Dean doubled over, coughing, at the unexpected assault, his eyes widening in surprise. Sam stepped quickly behind Dean, grabbing his hair with left hand and pulling him backwards and off his feet. As Dean stumbled back, Sam wrapped his right arm around his brother's neck in a chokehold. With his left, he shoved his brother's head forward locking Dean's neck in the tightening 'V' of Sam's arm.
Caught completely off guard, Dean had no leverage. His bare feet slipped and slid on the carpet as Sam pulled him backwards, keeping him off-balance and taking away all means of counterattack.
Sam watched helplessly and horrified as Dean's struggles to escape the chokehold weakened before stopping completely. Dean's hands that had been pawing at the arm wrapped around his neck went lax and then fell limply to his sides.
Still Sam held on, Dean's entire weight suspended by the arm wrapped around his neck. "Let him go." Sam's voice was screaming inside his head. He stared terrified at Dean's unmoving form. "Let him go." This time it wasn't a demand. It was a plea. "Please."
The voice stopped chanting and laughter again filled Sam's head. His hold on Dean relaxed and he shoved his brother forward. Dean crumpled to the floor, landing sprawled on his stomach in front of the bathroom door.
Unable to move, Sam stood frozen in place, eyes locked on the still form of his brother.
The voice hardened as the laughter died away. "I've found the key, Sam. This is just the beginning."
To Be Continued…
A/N: Dun-dun-dun! I promise you'll get some answers to the puzzle in the next chapter, up this weekend. I hope you enjoyed, and I'd love to hear what you think. Thanks for reading. Cheers.