Fork in the Road

Summary: A ghost is killing golfers, forcing Sam and Dean to pose as caddies... Post It's a Terrible Life.

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Chapter Two

Mr. Warren closed the door behind them with a decided snap, happy to be rid of them. Sam scowled. He had a sudden desire to walk to the car and leave this place far behind them. If the guy couldn't even be polite when asking for their help, he didn't really deserve the help. They had an entire world on the brink of destruction, not just this jerk.

"Dude, your shoulders are up by your ears," Dean observed. "Relax. If I can put up with this stupid get-up, then you can deal with a jackass telling us how to do our job. We ignore him like we ignore everybody else."

"Dean, we-"

They both turned at the sound of Ms. Nichols delicately clearing her throat. "Gentlemen?"

Dean frowned, eyeing the woman again. "Don't worry. We're leaving." He walked around Sam and headed for the door. Sam noted that as was often the case since Dean's return, he didn't touch him. Before Dean would have given him a brotherly shove toward the door, or bumped his shoulder, something to get him moving. But not now.

Sam didn't know if it was because Dean subconsciously shied away from touching anyone these days, or if it was more than that. Dean said he didn't care that Sam had been tainted with demon blood, but Sam was afraid that deep down it made a difference, that he was too closely related to the monsters now for Dean to get too close. Whether Dean wasn't comfortable with physical contact in general since coming back from hell, or whether it was just Sam, the result was the same. Sam felt left out in the cold.

"Please, wait," the secretary said, and Dean stopped with his hand on the door knob. He and Sam both turned to see the woman holding out a piece of paper. "Take it."

"What is it?"

"A list," she nervously looked toward her boss' closed door, "of every person who's died or who's had a heart attack in the past six months, even the ones no one is supposed to know about."

Sam stepped toward the desk and took the sheet of paper, seeing that it was exactly what she claimed it to be. He recognized the names of the dead men they'd already looked into along with about twenty others, more even than Mr. Warren had guessed.

"You're really here to stop this?" she asked, as if hardly daring to believe it.

"Yeah," Dean said, peering around Sam to look at the paper.

"How?"

"Apparently in a very swanky, tactful, and invisible sort of way." Dean smirked. He took a step away from Sam and looked up. "You knew he wouldn't give this to us?"

Ms. Nichols gave them a strained smile. "Mr. Warren is... predictable in many ways."

"He's a prick, huh?"

The woman's lips twitched like she wanted to laugh, but was too well mannered to allow the sentiment. "The last few months have not been easy. He is under enormous pressure because of the problems. The health department is threatening to shut us down. They think there must be some sort of contaminant we're using on the course."

"Well, thank you for these," Sam said. "It's a big help."

The phone on her desk buzzed and she picked it up. "Yes, sir, I'll be right in." She set the phone down and started gathering up files from different stacks on her desk. "I've called down and arranged for you to caddy Tom Hubbard and Ed Driscoll. They have a 2 o'clock tee time." She headed toward Mr. Warren's door. "They're the biggest gossips in the club. If anyone can help you, they can."

Sam wasn't sure if he was appalled or impressed. It might be a mixture of the two.

They'd met Tom and Ed for their tee time and Dean had walked right up to the two guys who both looked to be 120 years old and said he knew absolutely nothing about golf. He'd told the two that he needed someone to show him the ropes or he was going to get fired on his first day. Within two holes, Tom and Ed's twosome had turned into a threesome and Tom and Ed were imparting every last bit of knowledge they had ever learned about the game of golf and how it was to be played.

At first, Sam could only stand by in amusement as Dean studied the two old men. He'd watched their grip on the club, and carefully copied it. He made them go through why they chose each club for each shot, and had them happily discussing which would be the best club choices for Dean as well since he was about a foot taller and strong enough to break the old codgers in half. The two old men had obviously known each other for 119 of their 120 years and they argued and groused and generally complained about each other and the other's choices the entire time, all the while, each patiently tutoring Dean in the basics of the game.

Sam might as well not have existed. Mr. Muscles, as Tom and Ed quickly started calling him, was very kindly allowed to manage both of the golf bags, and encouraged not to interrupt.

It took several holes, but as Sam had seen over the years, Dean was a quick study. He was strong and steady, determined, focused. Sam had worked and worked to become the hunter he was, and he was physically stronger than Dean now, but it had never come naturally like it had to his brother. Dean just had a more deft and instinctive touch at any physical endeavor, and he was showing all of that off now.

"He's a natural, Ed!" Tom proclaimed for about the fiftieth time. "You see that putt? He used the roll in the green like he was born to it!"

"Darndest thing I've ever seen, Tom," Ed answered, also for about the fiftieth time.

Dean was practically glowing. He was also having fun, something else that Sam hadn't seen in a long time. Training with their dad, or learning whatever skill he'd had to teach them, had always been life and death, an endlessly serious pastime. Every once in a while it had turned into a three stooges routine, but that had been a rare and precious deviation in the training schedule.

"That's even more impressive than Jim Middleton stealing Patterson's wife right out from under his nose. I've always said that was the slickest move I've ever seen, but I may have to reassess." Tom cackled, then looked at Ed. They both paused and then simultaneously said, "Nah."

"It was pretty slick, though!" Ed added, joining in Tom's laughter, although more quietly than his buddy.

Sam just rolled his eyes. Ms. Nichols hadn't been kidding. The entire time they were playing, he and Dean had been regaled with every sordid bit of wife-stealing, embezzling, drinking, crazy-wife, crazy-kid, embarrassing illness, habit, or incident, the two ancient golfers could come up with. They knew they had a captive audience and, better yet, an audience that hadn't already heard their stories a million times.

Dean kept skillfully guiding the two back toward the names on the list, occasionally coming to stand beside Sam just so he could pull another name or two off of it to prompt the geezers toward their real area of interest. So far, all they knew was that Dean was a natural and the men on the list were a hodgepodge of good and bad; some even-tempered, some bad-tempered, some decent businessmen, or doctors or lawyers, etc, while others were known to be downright crap at their chosen professions. Some had big distinguished families. Others were part of dying lines.

In short, they had a big load of nothing.

As they approached the 17th hole, Sam ordered all of his errant thoughts away and focused on his immediate surroundings. He noticed that the group playing in front of them simply bypassed the entire hole, driving their cart right on to the 18th.

All of the deaths had been halfway down the fairway near the small lake. Sam wasn't sure why no one on the other side of the water was ever bothered. The victims were all on this side, on this hole, and all suffered from apparent heart attacks. Honestly, Sam wasn't sure exactly what had killed them. Heart failure was a nice cover for a whole lot of problems.

"How brave are you, Dean?" Tom asked as he got out of their cart.

Dean, too, was now focusing on his surroundings rather than chatting up the two old men, or worrying about his golf game. The question, however, seemed to give him pause, although if Sam hadn't happened to be watching him, he doubted he'd have even seen it. Dean had spent forty years in hell, he'd come back to face what he'd done wrong, faced everything they had in the past few months, and yet Sam saw him pause.

"Yes, Dean." Ed eyed him. "Just how brave are you?"

A cheesy grin spread across Dean's face. "I kill't me a b'ar when I was only three." Sam snorted. Apparently Dean was going old school to impress the two men.

Ed rolled his eyes, but Tom cackled again happily. "You hear that, Ed? He's the king of the wild frontier."

"Everything but the camping," Dean added, gazing carefully into the trees that edged the small lake. "Hate camping."

"Well, it's a good thing," Tom said. "This hole has apparently decided it doesn't like golfers anymore. It's killing them off right and left."

"You trying to get the course shut down?" Ed chastised. "Too many fat old businessmen running around on the course these days. They get all excited and then they're surprised when they have a heart attack. In my day…"

"Oh, quit whining about the old days, you old coot. You're up." Tom turned to Sam. "Make yourself useful, Muscles, and find Eddie his driver."

Sam gritted his teeth, and did as he was asked. They all remained silent while Ed teed off, and then Tom. "Your turn, Dean."

"You guys go ahead." He smiled ruefully. "We're getting too close to the clubhouse. If my boss catches me, it'll be my last day on the job for sure. Can't let all my lessons go to waste."

"Better not," Tom answered. "We're going to take credit for you when you turn pro."

At that Dean did laugh. "I know you guys are good teachers, but I wouldn't go that far."

For once, Tom didn't laugh. He just looked at Dean, as if really studying him. "You have a rare gift. I've only seen it a couple of times. You're just a caddy now, but if you find something that could be your purpose in life, you shouldn't let it pass you by."

"Don't worry, Tom," Dean answered tiredly, and suddenly Sam could almost see a weight descend on Dean's shoulders. It had lifted a bit while Dean was playing, but it quickly resettled. "I've got my purpose already."

Tom raised an eyebrow, a sly smile curving his lips. "That's what we hear." Before Dean could say anything, Tom turned and began marching toward the cart, for Dean to drive him down to wherever his ball had ended up.

Sam edged closer to Dean. "You gonna run away and join the PGA?"

"Yeah, Sam." Dean smiled sweetly. "About the same time you order a clown for your next birthday party."

Sam pursed his lips. "Golf clubs aren't innately terrifying."

"So we stick with the demons, because they're all sunshine and rainbows." Dean shook his head. "You ever think our priorities are a little off?"

Sam snorted. "Maybe a little."

"Yeah, and maybe Cas has a little problem in the comedy department."

"You two coming or not?" Tom called.

Dean drove the cart down the path toward the trees and the lake beyond. They all got out in the general area of where the balls had landed. Ed's was comfortably in the fairway, but Tom's had wandered back into the trees, sitting nestled down in the bark.

"Nice shot, there, Tommy," Ed said, with a definite snicker. "How are you gonna get out of that one?"

"Dean, what do you think?" Tom asked.

"I think you may have picked the worst spot on the course to hit your ball," Dean replied. There was a tree sitting right in the way of getting the ball back onto the fairway and more trees were blocking his way toward the hole. The only way was to hit the ball back the way they'd come and then go forward from there.

"You could just kick the ball out from behind the tree, Tom. I don't mind." Sam looked at Ed and saw that he had a mischievous glint in his eye.

Tom glared at Ed, and Sam could have sworn some silent bit of communication passed between the two men, but he had no way of knowing what it meant. "You play the ball where it lies." Tom sniffed derisively. "Were you raised in a barn? The rules are the rules and a gentleman always abides by the rules."

"Just making sure you remembered," Ed said with an amused twist to his thin lips.

Sam felt a tingle, a cold chill running down his spine. He turned toward the lake and barely held in a gasp. "Dean," he said quietly. His brother immediately turned and they both fell very still.

The ghost crawled out of the lake on hands and knees. It flickered, but the effect was strange because it was standing in broad daylight. It was a man in typical golf attire, polo shirt and dark slacks. His body was ruined and bloated like what happened to someone left in the water after death. Even if they found a picture of someone who'd died, they might not be able to make a positive ID. He was just too deformed by the effects of the time the body spent in the water.

Dean scowled. "How come we never get any clean ghosts?"

The ghost did not move forward. It just stood by the edge of the lake. After a second or two, it turned its head in Tom's direction. Sam saw the ghost's face twist in what he imagined was hatred if the face weren't already so distorted.

Dean began to edge back to the golf bags a few feet away where they'd managed to stash some salt. Sam knew Dean had a gun in his oversized pocket. The iron rounds would work temporarily, but they would draw a lot more attention than they wanted to this early in the game.

"Stop snickering, Ed," Tom snapped, although there was no real heat behind it. "Only girls and six year olds snicker like that."

Sam saw him line up his shot and chip the ball out into the fairway and back away from the hole. The ghost started forward, and Sam braced himself, although he had no clue what he was going to do other than try to get the golfers out of the ghost's way.

Tom and Ed paid absolutely no attention. They both walked back out of the trees toward their respective golf balls, oblivious to the danger behind them. Sam and Dean both placed themselves in the path of the ghost, blocking it from Tom and Ed.

"Dude, it's broad daylight," Dean said, amazed. "The freaks are supposed to come out at night."

"I'd say he's really pissed off," Sam replied.

"Are you two going to bring us something to hit these balls with or do we have to throw them at the hole?" Tom called.

The ghost stopped walking forward, and nodded, though at what, Sam had no idea. He and Dean began backing out of the trees, keeping their eyes on the ghost. At the same time, the ghost turned and began walking back to the lake.

Sam set the bags down beside the men, but kept his eyes on the ghost that was still shambling toward the water. It didn't pause at the edge, but simply walked back in, its movement making no ripples in the water, until finally it disappeared.

"Guess the guy's been putting up with these two for months," Dean muttered. "No reason to go after them now."

"But what about the other people coming through here behind us?" Sam asked at the same volume.

Dean looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. "Guess they better make sure they stay on the fairway."

More soon...