Fork in the Road
Summary: A ghost is killing golfers, forcing Sam and Dean to pose as caddies... Post It's a Terrible Life
Allrighty... Dean had just been given another reason to hate swimming...
Chapter Five
The water felt like he was swimming through gritty soup. He and Sam had stirred up all kinds of mud in their search and it further obscured his vision. His eyes stung, but he refused to close them. He kept them glued to the last place he'd seen Sam. He wasn't sure if he was following the disturbance in the water as Sam was dragged away, or if he was just imagining it, but he kept going until his lungs ached.
Just as he was sure he was going to have to come up for air, he slammed into Sam. His brother was floating in the water seemingly unconscious. Dean immediately pulled Sam into his arms, chest to chest, and popped up out of the water. Sam's head lolled back and Dean frantically started pulling him toward the shore. Sam's strong heartbeat should have been easy enough to feel, but there was absolutely nothing, and his brother was a dead weight in his arms.
As Dean began to move, he was just as quickly stopped. He pulled again, hard enough that Sam's arms flailed in the water around him. Dean saw that one of Sam's legs was held out awkwardly, and realized he must be caught on something.
Dean kicked at where he thought whatever was holding Sam ought to be and struck something hard. He kicked at it again and it shifted, but when he tugged on Sam, he still wouldn't move. Desperate to get Sam back onto dry land, Dean was forced to let Sam go. He dove back under the water and shone the flashlight to see that Sam's leg was curled through the straps of an oversized golf bag.
Dean furiously shoved it away and came back up for air. Sam had floated off a few feet. Dean lunged to grab him and once again began dragging him toward shore. Dean put everything he had into it, redoubling his efforts when Sam grew heavier and heavier as he pulled him up out of the water.
Sam was all muscle and Dean couldn't help but think he was even heavier than he had been pre-hell. Without Dean there to make sure Sam slacked off sometimes and ate too many cheeseburgers and drank too much, Sam had worked out more and turned into the Terminator. So apparently Sam's drowning due to the fact that he'd turned into an even heavier heavyweight was Dean's fault, too.
Dean leaned down and set his ear against Sam's chest. Nothing.
He sat back up bracing himself to start CPR when he saw Sam's hands which had fallen back to the ground. Dean gritted his teeth angrily, fresh panic blossoming in his chest. Sam had the marks on his hands.
Abandoning CPR for the moment, Dean ran to the duffel bags and pulled out the canister of salt. He jogged back, already unscrewing the lid, and unceremoniously dumped it in a cloud over Sam. His brother might feel like he'd gone for a swim in the ocean instead of the lake, but it would hopefully ward off the ghost.
Dean dropped back to his knees and set his ear over Sam's heart. Maybe a flutter? Or maybe he was imagining it. Dean braced himself over Sam, shoulders directly over his twined hands and let himself fall into the compressions. Dean was already tired and breathing too hard from pulling Sam out of the water, but he was all Sam had and there was no time for a break.
No matter how many times he'd been forced to do CPR it never ceased to surprise him. It always amazed him how much work it was, the pressure it took to get the job done properly and to keep at it despite the odd position and quickly tiring muscles. Afterward, he always managed to block out the feel of the ribs beneath his hands, sometimes creaking, sometimes cracking, as they were forced to collapse in a way they weren't designed to do. It always came back to him in a rush as he knelt, panting, sweating, shoulders and back aching in a desperate effort to keep someone he loved alive.
Dean could only hope that this was mostly supernatural and the salt broke the link with the ghost. Sam hadn't actually been underwater that long and Dean had to believe that all Sam's body needed was a jumpstart to remind it what it was supposed to be doing.
Dean glanced up to see water gurgling up out of Sam's mouth, the CPR acting as a makeshift form of the Heimlich maneuver. He didn't pause, he just kept going, the song Stayin' Alive running through his head. He didn't remember where he'd heard the idea, but the rhythm was supposed to be about perfect for how fast the compressions were supposed to be. It was freaking ridiculous yet helpful at the same time and it was another thing about CPR that always popped up when he was forced to do it. It might also be half the reason he hated disco with a passion even when he wasn't trying to keep Sam from dying.
About the fourteenth compression, Sam coughed, sputtering and spitting water. Dean immediately stopped halfway into the next compression and ordered his shaking muscles to turn Sam onto his side. He let Sam cough and wretch and spit and do whatever else he wanted to do as long as he kept breathing while he did it.
"Sam? Sammy?"
All he got was a groan in response, but it was something at least. Dean stood and almost immediately fell back to his knees. His hands were shaking, but he angrily ignored his body's reaction to the last few panicked minutes. It felt like it had been hours, but he doubted it had even been enough time for a commercial break. Dean stood again and grabbed the little lantern they'd brought with them. He turned it on, then set it next to Sam's head and knelt again in front of him so he could get a good look.
"Sam? You with me?"
Sam groaned again and rolled onto his back. He brought his hands up, his fingers splayed wide across his ribs. "De-" He let out a wet, hacking cough and completely wrapped his arms around his ribcage.
"Take it easy, man. You're ok." Dean set a hand against Sam's back as he once again rolled toward him, ending up with his chest resting against Dean's bent legs, and he wasn't sure how aware Sam really was. Dean just kept one hand on Sam's back, rubbing back and forth, the other he let fall onto Sam's head, to brush his wet hair out of his eyes.
It almost felt weird to be this close to Sam. It seemed like forever since he'd felt the urge to cuff his brother on the shoulder or give him a friendly smack on the head. He guessed maybe that was the problem. Things just hadn't been too friendly lately. It was painful, but true. They were closer to a fistfight breaking out with each of them sitting in their corners waiting for the bell to start the next round, an angel and a demon standing by ready to jump in if it turned into a tag-team event.
"Dean?" Sam coughed again, and groaned as he rolled away from Dean onto his back.
"I'm right here, Sam," he said. His hands had fallen away at Sam's movement and he replaced one on Sam's arm. "How you doin'?"
"Chest hurts." He grimaced.
"Well, we match at least." Dean sat back on the ground hard, his legs out straight in front of him. "Cause I'm about two seconds away from a freakin' heart attack."
They both remained silent for a minute as their breathing returned to normal. "What happened?" Sam finally asked.
"Ghost carried you off. Weren't breathing when I dragged you out of the water. Your ribs are gonna hurt for a few."
Sam smacked his lips and Dean saw him blink in confusion. "There a reason I feel like a giant salt lick?"
Dean snorted. "There are so many ways to answer that..."
"Dean."
"Plus just the name... salt lick..."
"My heart stop?"
"Little bit." Dean leaned over and thumped Sam lightly on the chest, making his brother groan. "But you're all better now. And I," he paused for effect, "have an idea."
"What?"
Sam half sat up, while Dean stood. He was a little shaky for a second, and he waited a few moments for it to pass. His soggy clothes made him feel like he weighed a ton, but he just sighed and headed for the water.
"What are you doing?"
"Stay put. I may have found the source of our problems." Dean waded back into the water, the sandy mud squishing beneath his toes, punctuated by the occasional golf ball trying to topple him.
It took several minutes of searching back and forth for the right spot, but eventually he found the oversized golf bag that had snared Sam. The thing was waterlogged and weighed a ton, but Dean dragged it back to shore nevertheless. He heard Sam snicker when he stepped on a golf ball and went under again, but he finally managed to lug the thing back onto the bank. Water poured out of the golf bag and Sam scooted closer.
Dean pointed his flashlight into the bag and immediately grunted. Bones.
"That what I think it is?" Sam asked since he couldn't see inside from where he was sitting.
"Mitch." Dean nodded. "I'm thinking he had the world's crappiest day on the links. What do you think?"
"How did he even fit in there? From the pictures, the guy was thin but-"
"Well, the bag is Rodney Dangerfield size. Doesn't have the built in bar, though." Dean shook his head. "Shame. I could really use a drink." He shone the light into the bag again, and although he couldn't be sure, the skeleton looked like the man had been stuffed inside in a tortuous position and a few of the bones looked broken.
"I'm thinking he jammed him in there and it wasn't pretty," Dean observed.
"There any salt left after you dumped it all over me?" Sam asked wryly.
"Pardon me," Dean sniffed, "but you were the one who said he wasn't worried about getting pruny. Next time I'll leave you to have your heart attack so you can stay properly hydrated."
He was trying to keep his tone light, but he wasn't really feeling it. The image of Sam, lifeless, no heart beat, was one of the images that had plagued him for the year before he went to hell, and had been used against him in hell. Dean just had no way of looking at it that he could joke about.
"Admit it. You thought it was funny to salt me like a fish."
"Yeah, Sam. Nothing funnier than lookin' at a dead brother, is there."
When Dean could bring himself to glance at his brother, Sam looked like was going to throw up, and Dean doubted it was from the near-drowning. He sighed. They just couldn't seem to quit hurting each other, over and over.
"WHAT ARE YOU TWO IDIOTS DOING?"
Dean whipped around, jumping to his feet and moving to stand over Sam, who was slower to respond. He got to his knees and Dean clamped a hand around his upper arm to help him, then kept it there to make sure he remained standing.
"President Warren, good to see you," Dean offered politely, although he'd really like to boot him in the ass and tell him to get lost. The man looked like he'd just rolled out of bed, and Dean wished he'd stayed there.
"I said what are you two idiots doing out here?" He glanced toward the golf bag and then back to the pair of them. "You're supposed to be protecting the golfers. Who are here during the day."
"We're taking care of your problem," Dean snapped. "Somebody killed this guy, here," he pointed toward the bag, "stuffed him in there and dumped him in the lake. Surprise, surprise, it kinda pissed him off."
"How did you know we were here?" Sam asked.
"I live just across the fairway," Warren said. "I got a call from one of the greenskeepers after he saw two caddies swimming in the lake. He was going to call the police, but was worried about calling attention to the course because we've had so much trouble lately. I told him I would look into it myself."
"Whatever," Dean shrugged. "We've got a body and we have to take care of it or he's going to keep taking care of your golfers."
"I don't want anything to do with this." Mr. Warren held up both hands, palms out. "No one is supposed to go in the water hazards. It's against the rules."
Sam hissed in alarm, and Dean's eyes narrowed. "There something you want to tell us?" Dean nearly growled.
"What are you talking about?"
"You've got the marks on your hands."
Warren gasped and turned his hands so he could look at them. "It's not possible! I haven't golfed since..."
Dean nearly groaned as realization struck. "Since about fourteen years ago?" he supplied. "Kinda weird that a guy who's always here doesn't find time to play a round occasionally. Tell me, President Warren, who made the rule no one could go in the water hazards?"
The man didn't answer. He just kept staring at his hands.
"Why didn't you want people in the water around here?" Sam asked.
Warren looked up angrily. "It's opened us up to lawsuits, not to mention we would get all sorts of... people... wandering around making a mess of the course so they could scrounge for balls."
"That's great," Dean said gruffly. "You wanna tell us the real reason? I notice you haven't even bothered to ask if we know whose body's in the golf bag."
"Who is it?" Mr. Warren asked.
Dean shook his head. "Oh, way too late to cover now, buddy."
"Why'd you kill him?" Sam asked.
"Are you insane?" Warren practically bellowed. "I did no such thing!"
"Well, we know at least one thing," Dean said. "You cheated."
That brought Mr. Warren up short. "What?"
"We know why the ghost is killing people. The ones the ghost has killed, all the people who are marked, the ghost goes after them because they cheated."
"It's not possible."
"Oh, it's possible." Dean couldn't help a smirk. "I shoulda noticed something when Tom and Ed made a joke about cheating on this hole when we were here the first day. We actually saw the jackass we were caddying yesterday cheat and the ghost marked him. I'd be surprised if he was still alive."
Dean set aside why Sam had been marked. He wasn't going to think about it right now. They both knew Sam wasn't playing by the rules anymore.
"I told you I haven't played in years."
"But you used to, didn't you?" Sam said, more statement than question. "You were who he was playing with that afternoon. What happened? Did he catch you cheating?"
Warren didn't answer and Dean smirked. "Go ahead. You can say it. We already know."
"He was going to have me barred from the course," Warren said through clenched teeth. "He was such a stickler for what a gentleman would and would't do. The old man was always droning on and on about it. He said I had no business being here if I couldn't play the game honorably."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "So you proved him wrong by killing him? Good call." He edged to the side where the weapons were still in the duffel. Neither he nor Sam had re-armed after getting out of the water.
"He would have ruined me," Warren said, his face blotchy and red with fury. "I was his vice-president and he would have just tossed me out without so much as a by-your-leave."
"That's what happens when you don't play by the rules," Dean snapped, and he could feel himself getting angry. He felt like he'd been having this argument over and over and over, just not with this guy. Sure, Dean understood bending the rules, and, yeah, his entire existence was one big felony after another, but there came a point. He thought he and Sam had always agreed on that. He thought they'd both felt it so deeply engrained that there wasn't even a question, just a basic part of their unwritten code that there was a line that a person on the Good Guy team just did not cross.
The ghost appeared right behind Warren and without even a second of hesitation he picked up a large stick and brought it down viciously on the man's head. Warren dropped to the ground and the ghost leaned over him. "I don't have a 3 iron like you did, but this works just as well."
Dean was already pulling Marigold out of his duffel when the ghost held its hand out toward Warren. "I wasn't dead when you put me in the bag," it hissed. "My heart was still beating." It set its hand against Warren's chest, and the man immediately fell deathly still.
The ghost looked up and its eyes zeroed in on Sam. Dean brought his favorite sawed-off shotgun up and fired. Marigold kicked, a comforting pressure that never failed to steady Dean's nerves. He knew the feel of the shotgun and how she worked as well as he knew his car or his cassette collection.
"Sam, get the salt," he ordered, his eyes still on the spot where the ghost had dissolved.
Sam, however, was already ahead of him. He'd picked up the canister of salt and was headed for the golf bag. Sam tipped it up and dumped salt into it. "Lighter fluid!" he called.
Dean leaned down to pick it up, his shotgun held steady while his eyes roamed from side to side, watching for Mitch to show back up. Sam still had salt crusting his damp clothing and Dean hoped it was enough to keep him safe, but he wasn't taking any chances.
Just as Dean stood up again with the can, the ghost appeared directly in front of him and backhanded Marigold, knocking her out of his hands. Dean turned just in time to see her fall into the lake and disappear beneath the water.
"SON. OF. A-"
"Dean! Lighter fluid!"
He turned to throw the lighter fluid to Sam and saw Mitchell appear in front of Sam on the opposite side of the golf bag.
"You're not playing by the rules," the ghost snapped. Sam stumbled back in an attempt to get out of the ghost's reach, but Mitch's hand shot out and grabbed Sam by his shirtfront. Almost immediately the ghost made a horrible screeching noise and released him. Dean could only guess that the salt had done the trick as Sam fell back and landed on the ground.
"A man who cheats doesn't deserve to be here," the ghost said, stalking around the bag toward Sam. "He deserves nothing in this world if he cannot conduct himself like a man."
"I'm doing what has to be done," Sam shouted. Dean looked up from where he'd taken over dousing the bones with lighter fluid and saw that from the look on his brother's face he'd surprised himself that he'd said it aloud.
"Rules are not for when things are going well," Mitchell spat. "They are for when it falls apart. That is when you must hold on to what is right and refuse to budge."
"There's no other choice," Sam said, his expression turning mutinous.
Dean used a fingernail to light off a book of matches and threw it into the golf bag. The thing was soaked, but the lighter fluid made the ragged bag light off like it was a chimney belching out fire and smoke.
The ghost began to flicker, but he kept his gaze bent on Sam who remained on the ground staring up at him as if mesmerized. "Even if you lose, if you follow the right course, you will still have your honor." The ghost exploded in a cloud of smoke and sparks.
Sam looked away, despair written all over his face. "But what good is that if everyone's dead," he whispered.
Dean cleared his throat in discomfort. He just didn't know what to do anymore. He didn't know how to talk to Sam about what was going on. Sam wouldn't tell him what he was doing and it couldn't be anything good if even Cas couldn't figure out what he was up to with Ruby the Aren't-I-friendly-and-helpful demon who had to be lying through her teeth.
Dean walked over to Sam who still wasn't looking at him. He just watched the sodden golf bag as the flames quickly sputtered and died without the accelerant to keep it going. "You all right?"
Sam brought a hand up and laid it against his chest, as if gauging his own well-being. He was breathing too hard and Dean could see the lines of pain on his face, but Sam nodded. Dean held out his hand and after a moment Sam took it and allowed Dean to pull him to his feet. He gasped at the pressure on his ribs, and Dean remained by him silently waiting for the pain to subside enough for Sam to straighten.
Dean, with Sam at his side, walked toward President Warren. The man was flat on his back and appeared very, very dead.
"You wanna call 911 or should I?" Dean asked.
"Phone's back in the car," Sam answered. "Didn't want it to get wet."
"Yeah, me too."
"Looks like his skull's caved it."
"Yup."
"Jerk deserved it."
Dean looked at his brother and remarked, not for the first time, on his brother's bloodthirstiness. In hell, Dean had passed on his bloodthirsty need for pain and vengeance to soul after soul, body after body. They deserve it, Alistair had whispered in his ear. Not Dean, he was only there because of the deal, but those people deserved punishment. He knew differently now. He knew how far off course he'd wandered and the world was paying the price. He knew who deserved punishment.
Sam's desperation and anger, his pain and need for revenge had brought him to almost the same point. No sympathy. Dean could see it on Sam's face. Cold. Hard. Merciless. It was like looking at his father all over again.
Dean had been given an angel to pull him out. Who did Sam have? Because Dean had the distinct feeling he was falling down on the job and he didn't know how to fix it.
Dean sighed. "Yeah. What a jerk."
Sam must have heard something in his tone because he bristled. "He hurt a lot of people, Dean."
"I know!" Dean shot back defensively. "I was agreeing with you! He got all kinds of people hurt…" Dean trailed off, freshly horrified. "Mitch knocked her out of my hands!"
"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam demanded.
Dean was already heading for the water at a jog. "M- my shotgun! The bastard knocked her out of my hands and she went in the water!"
Dean waded out in the spot where he'd seen Marigold fall. He briefly looked up to see that Sam was standing exactly where he had been. "Are you gonna help me or not?"
Sam got that look on his face, that look that said he thought his brother was a complete dork, and possibly insane. It was the same look Dean had gotten from Sam since his brother hit his teens and decided Dean wasn't the coolest thing on earth. It was both insulting and comforting at the same time.
"Dude, quit guarding the corpse and get over here and help me find her!" Dean barked.
"Right, Dean. First things first," Sam said with a definite smirk, but he finally started moving.
"Ya got that right." Marigold was his, and he didn't leave what was his when it was in trouble. Sam of all people should know that. If he didn't, then Dean would remember it for both of them.
The wrap-up tomorrow...