C&W—Chapter 5
He'd known.
Something inside of Dean had known Sam was the one in trouble. The pain he'd experienced had been his warning shot, his wake up call, his internal alarm. Whatever the hell it had been it sparked panic, twisting it up from his gut as he was consumed by new fear replacing his pain. Fear that was telling him he needed to get to Sam. Right now.
Stumbling out into the room to find it looked like someone had taken a bat to all the glass, Dean's heart caught at the sight of Sam amongst the shards, too still.
"Sammy!"
He moved as quickly as he could over the glass, trying to place his feet strategically and still get to his brother as fast as he could. It was executed semi successfully, the few cuts he sustained to the pads of his feet ignored as he reached Sam's side. Dropping down beside him despite shocks of pain snapping up and down his leg, Dean rolled Sam gently so he could see his face.
Dean was surprised to see Sam's eyes open, staring back at him with startled clarity, pupils fixing before he blinked his surprise and pushed back on Dean, trying to get him away from him.
"Sam, what the hell happened?"
Sam had skittered back against the bed, knees up into his chest, face pressed into them. "I…I wanted the remote…" Sam said, the words muted against his jeans.
"What?"
"I wanted the remote," Sam said louder.
"Sam, say something that makes sense!" Dean growled, scared, not wanting to have raised his voice, but just a few moments ago he thought he'd find Sam…he didn't want to think about in what state he would have found Sam. "Don't move, there's glass everywhere."
Sam groaned and rested his forehead back against his knees. "My head…"
Dean twisted around so he could find a path where there wasn't glass, settling back against his own bed, watching Sam, filtering through what was going on in his own head.
"Are you hurt?" His initial inspection hadn't shown any blood, any cuts.
Sam raised his gaze to Dean, tired and painfully dark beneath the hollows of his eyes. "You told me to practice."
Dean blinked, even more confused.
"My abilities, Dean…" Sam groaned out, looking like he was going to be sick. "You told me to practice them...I…I wanted the remote…but I didn't want to get up," Sam was confessing, looking agonizingly like he'd been caught stealing candy from Dean's bag when they were kids. Not that Dean wouldn't have just given it to him and did. But the lines in Sam's face were pulled so tight with fear; Dean started to realize it wasn't about what had happened. Was Sam scared how he'd react?
"I tried to move the damn thing…bring the remote to me," Sam continued. "But I got this…" Sam sucked in a breath and winced, fingers going to the bridge of his nose, squeezing it like another of his skull splitting episodes was about to commence again. "Headache…that took me down…and all the glass…just…"
Dean reached over and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "It's okay. Just, uh, take it easy until you're better, all right?"
Sam looked up at him, eyes settling again on what Dean was constantly aware of—his scars. He hadn't imagined Sam's focus on them the night before. Sam saw them. He wasn't supposed to see them…
"Hey," Dean redirected his brother's attention. "I know I told you to try to control this thing, but not now, not when you're sick."
His attempts to keep the worry from his voice had been unsuccessful as Sam looked away, reflecting back Dean's fear in the unsure movement of his eyes as they took in the obliterated television.
Dean started to clean up what he could, aware of the cuts on his feet but trying to hide them from Sam.
"So you tried to pull a Skywalker on Hoth and blew up our TV," Dean asked, smirking. "That's kinda cool."
That got a smile from Sam. Good. Smiles were good. Smiles meant little brothers weren't freaking out to the point of facial paralysis and utter mortification.
What if a part of me is demon?
No way.
Dean instructed Sam not to move as he got to his feet, starting to pick up glass around the beds, rolling up the sheets to contain a majority of it. He'd pulled on his boots and finished up the rest while Sam watched from where he'd curled up against the nightstand.
For a moment the floor tilted violently and Dean stopped, taking a measured breath slowly through his nose, eyes closed. Why did he feel so weak? Was it this? What had happened to him before he'd found Sam? Another burst of pain through his leg when he bent to sweep up the glass near the TV made him wonder if the culprit was more practical than that.
He used a T-shirt wrapped around his arm and a jacket to get up the glass, and by the time he was on his last corner of the room he felt like he needed to lay down.
"How hard did you push?" Dean asked, his fatigue making the question have more of an edge than he'd intended. "It was just a remote for crying out loud, not a dresser."
"Sorry," Sam muttered.
Dean shrugged it off, shaking his head. "No…I'm…don't apologize." He recovered, dumping the last of it into the trash before sinking down onto the edge of his bed, exhausted. He wiped at the sweat percolating his brow and looked over at Sam who had joined him. He didn't miss the look he got from Sam; the thanks laced through his half smile and fatigued eyes.
I'm not giving up on you. We'll figure this out. You have to know that. Don't you, Sam?
They both looked at the TV, wires and parts splayed every which way.
"I killed our television," Sam groaned.
"Now we have to go out." Dean smacked Sam's back causing him to cough a little, glad a laugh was mixed in there somewhere.
Sam shook his head, slow smile spreading. "Yeah…without a TV, no movies, we'll just have to… get into a good book…"
Sam eased backward onto his elbows then gingerly and with far less enthusiasm than usual flopped on his back on Dean's bed. The change in position and elevation set off another coughing jag. He tried letting his gratitude show through when Dean grabbed his hand and pulled him up. Sam stayed hunched over where Dean put him, really not having the energy to work out how to move or protest much at Dean's sudden desire for mothering him.
He barely paid attention to Dean shifting off the bed and back on it again seconds later. Something soft and nice was shoved behind him right before Dean shoved against Sam's shoulders. Sam scooted back, he'd somehow accumulated all the pillows in their room, which were now behind his back and head, and all but one blanket was bundled around him. He opened his mouth to protest, but the only thing that spewed out was wet, painful coughs. Yeah, that was convincing.
Dean stood up, hovered between the beds for a minute with hands on hips, shaking his head slightly. He patted Sam's knee, retrieved the laptop and set it on the bed beside Sam. "You stay put." Another pat to Sam's knee. "Try not to bring about the end of motel TV's everywhere."
"Where…?" The word cracked and bit at his throat and chest.
"I'm hungry and so are you, even if you don't know it. Sit tight, I'll get you something warm that will go down easy and hopefully stick in there and not end up on my shirt."
He managed to get out, "You're not wearing a shirt."
Dean looked down at himself and grinned. "I'll get free food this way, Sammy."
Sam rolled his eyes and watched as his brother extracted clean clothes, slipped them on, followed by his jacket. Jangling his keys, Dean waved a bye and ducked out the door.
Opening the laptop…when the heck did Dean recharge the batteries?...Sam sat and stared at it as it booted up, gazing at his reflection in the black screen. A second later the screen flicked to the loading background. Images of Mary Shards' and pictures he'd seen of his own mother intermingled over his reflection.
It's you. They accused.
Blinking, Sam shook his head. Great now his laptop was haunted too. The screen turned to blue.
It's you. Sam's a bomb. You were always my favorite, Sammy. Check out your mother's friends and family. Dad said I might have to kill you, Sammy…it's you…you…it's YOU.
Sam jumped when the screen flashed to his desktop (a drawing of a devil's trap he and Dean had done one afternoon screwing around with an art program boosted online) and icons popped up signaling the machine was ready to roll. His fingertip moved over the mouse pad, one tap and the browser opened. He needed to search out new hunts.
Man died in a locked room, maybe. Where did Dean go? Oh yeah, for food.
What happened to my mother's friends?
Pigs roasted without fire spit…maybe…but euuwww…no. Dean just left a few minutes ago, wanted to get them something to eat. Sam hoped Dean didn't bring back pork chops.
Every one of Mary Shards' relatives died within a few years of her…
Four teens and six teachers commit suicide at the same school within a month…possibly. They needed to eat.
…except her sister and her son.
People found with lungs full of sand…ooohh. How long has it been? Too long, Dean's been gone too long. Dean's scent still clung to the pillow Sam's head rested against.
Sam's a bomb.
Same people have skin and muscle shredded from their limbs, looks like sand blasting…okay…yeah. Sam was alone. Maybe Dean hadn't been gone long. Sam turned his head far enough to press his nose against the pillow, closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.
It's you…
His father thought he had to be put down. He missed Dean and wished he would come back.
What happened to my mother's friends?
Dean would go back to Hell before he killed Sam.
Always my favorite, Sammy…
So, Dean couldn't kill Sam, but he could drive away, leave.
Dean's going to Hell and you can't stop it.
All alone.
Dad said I might have to kill you, Sammy. Dad said…Dad said…It's you, Mom said that…it's you.
They both knew what they'd created. Both knew the monster had to end. The room smelled like Dean, maybe he hadn't been gone very long after all.
It's you…Sam's a bomb.
Shred the flesh from their bones, filled their bodies with grit and sand. Eat the meat. Long, bloody chunks pulled from their arms and legs…humans, the other white meat. End the monster, the monster could end him, strip his meat from his bones and eat it before filling his body with sand and grit.
Dad said…Dad said…Dad said kill me…Dad said…it's you…Sam's a bomb…
"Sam."
Dad was an ass!
Something firm and warm landed on Sam's shoulder. It'd come for him and strip his flesh and—it wouldn't matter, Dean's gone away. All alone. Better this way.
"Sam, take it easy there, kiddo, just me."
Jerking upright brought a sharp jab to his chest and forced a cough to rattle around inside for a few seconds before bashing against his tongue and teeth to break out. Sam looked up in time to see Dean catch the laptop.
Sam's eyelids drifted down then back up more slowly than he'd wanted them to. It took a few seconds to focus on Dean's face. "You came back."
Holding the laptop in both hands, Dean peered over the top at him. "Yeah, that's what a food run is, Sammy. One of us goes out, gets the food, and comes back. You okay?"
"You're limping." Sam's voice sounded thin and far away to his ears.
Cocking his head to one side, Dean shrugged. "At least I'm not out taking a little mental break."
"They all died." There he'd said it. Flat, matter of fact, without freaking out he'd spoken the words. Dean needed to know the truth, everything.
Dean's eyes drifted to the laptop he held and faked a shudder, "Eek, no kidding. Sam this is horrible. No wonder you have nightmares."
Sam was swaying slightly. He gripped the side of the bed with one hand. "Mom's friends, dead, every one of them. Everyone she was related to that I could find—same thing, dead. All dead and gone."
"How long have you known?"
Meeting Dean's eyes was impossible, so he stared at Dean's knees. "Ruby told me—"
Dean snorted, "Oh, fine source."
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly so it didn't turn into coughs, Sam continued, "Ruby told me and I didn't believe her, so I checked. Her parents died before she married Dad. Neither of them had brothers or sisters. Well, actually Mom did, she had a big brother, but he died, he was three weeks old, it was SIDS. Just like Mary Shards, everyone in her life died."
"Not everyone, Sam." Dean set the laptop on the table between them and laid one hand on Sam's shoulder. "Not us."
That made Sam look up at Dean; really look at him. He'd kept this from his brother for more than a year. She was Dean's mother too, maybe even more so. Dean had the right to know. There was nothing on Dean's face other than concern.
"Is that what's had you so worked up? Is that why you've been making remarks about me going away? Sam, why didn't you just tell me?" The sheer kindness in Dean's tone startled him. Dean should be angry with Sam for not telling him right away, had every right to be angry. Yet what seemed to concern Dean more was how this was affecting Sam.
"What difference would it have made? I didn't know anything for sure, and I didn't want to…" He took a deep breath, collected his thoughts, straightened his back and plunged ahead. "Everything I know about her, Mom, I know from you and a bit from Dad. I don't remember her, what her voice sounded like, what she smelled like. I wouldn't even know what she looked like if it weren't for some pictures you showed me. She was my mother, but she was your mom. There's a difference. You remember things. You didn't get them second hand. Until we read about Mary Shards' family in Jake's journal, the only thing I could see happening if I told you was it would hurt you. I wanted something more concrete. And honestly, I was more concerned with keeping my brother, who was alive and who I'd known my whole life, that way than finding out facts about a dead parent I can't even remember."
"Not all of them died, Sam." Dean said quietly. He stood there, between the beds hand still on Sam's shoulder. "We're here." Dean's hand fell away and a second later a container appeared under Sam's nose. "I got you beef barley."
He obediently took the soup and continued talking between swallows. Dean sat in the chair beside him. "There was no uncle. We never had an uncle. Mom never had an uncle. When did Dad meet Bobby?"
"You were about four or five I think." Why was it every question of that nature was met by an answer of Sam's age? Dean squinted at him for a second then realization dawned on his face. He shrugged. "Dad told me an uncle paid for Mom's headstone. I always assumed he meant our uncle. Maybe from Dad?"
"No," Sam shook his head. "As far as I can tell Dad was hatched."
Choking, soup spitting from the sides of his mouth, Dean wiped one hand over his chin. "Crap, Sam, warn a guy."
"Somebody found him in a police station bathroom. He was about three weeks old. The station was on Winchester Avenue."
"No wonder he never gave us more details other than he had no family. Still a cool name." Dean poked at Sam's hand, getting him to swallow down more soup.
"Yeah." Sam agreed. "There's nothing else until he enlisted when he was eighteen."
"So, you think what, Mom made some kind of deal?" Dean finished his meal and leaned back a bit. "Why? For what purpose? Where's the ten-year span? I know they both graduated high school in seventy-two, married in seventy-seven, I was born in seventy-nine and you in eighty-three. There's no ten year span in there." Dean's eyes narrowed, he shifted around and leaned closer to Sam. "What else is there?" The suspicion in his voice made Sam wince.
"I wasn't going to wake up."
"I know, that's why I—"
"In Wyoming, after the hellhounds, after you…I wasn't going to wake up. I took your jacket 'cause it smelled like you. You told me to keep on fighting but I couldn't…I didn't care. I figured if I drank enough and passed out my body temp would be low enough, it'd still be cold enough..."
Dean went completely still. The color dropped from his face, leaving him white with dark smudges under his now too wide eyes. Yeah, that was a heck of a great distraction. He was sick of keeping secrets, of lying to Dean.
"I…um…found a few things online, some cases maybe. One was weird, even on our scale of weird." Sam suddenly needed Dean to talk, to hear his voice, even if it was to scream at Sam.
"How weird?" Dean wiped a shaking hand over his face. His voice was raw, and Sam caught how it trembled. It hadn't escaped him that Dean tracked important things in their lives by Sam's age at the time or how this revelation about their mother was met with far less reaction than the revelation from Sam that he intended suicide after Dean died.
"Makes the Donner Party look mild weird."
It's you.
"It's a fluke of some kind, Mom and Mary Shards. I doubt Mom even knew what a demon was."
It's you.
"Yeah." Sam nodded. He had to tell Dean everything he'd seen. He had to.
It's you.
"We can look into that one later. Seems to me right now we're on a case, we have a hunt." Dean picked up the journal.
It's you.
Sam swallowed around the raw spot in his throat and nodded. "I was going to read it some more while you were gone, but I wanted to see it. Besides I figured you'd kick my butt for doing that."
It's you.
"You figured right." Dean grinned and twisted around in the chair so his feet were propped on the bed, toes brushing Sam's ankles like he had before. His eyes traveled a slow, deliberate path around the room. Scooting the chair closer and angling it so he faced Sam more, Dean huffed a laugh. "How is it you get both beds, all the pillows and what I get is this chair and one ratty blanket?"
"You could have just said something if you wanted another pillow." Sam sat up far enough to pull one free and dumped it on Dean's face. He let his hand drop onto the arm of Dean's chair so his fingers just brushed against the material of Dean's shirt.
"Thought I just did."
It's you.
Dean opened the journal and began to read, his deep voice rumbling through the room. Sam slid farther down in the bed, listening more to the sound of Dean than the words he spoke.
It's you. It's you. It's you…
The words faded away, replaced by Dean's voice and another memory, a far older one surfacing as sleep tugged at Sam. The words of the journal mingled with the words of a song Dean used to sing to him when he was small. Sam smiled and let the lyrics tumble through his head and dispatch the words of a mother he'd never known…
I was cruisin' in my Stingray late one night, then an XKE pulled up on the right. He rolled down the window of his shiny new Jag, and challenged me then and there to a drag. I said, "You're on buddy -- my mill's running fine. Let's come off the line now at Sunset and Vine…
Northeast Michigan, August 17, 1968
…But I'll go you one better, if you've got the nerve, Let's race all the way -- to Dead Man's Curve" Dead Man's Curve is no place to play. Dead Man's Curve you'd best keep away. Dead Man's Curve I can hear 'em say: "Won't come back from Dead Man's Curve"…
The words reverberated through Ben's head. He skidded to a stop in the sand and clamped his lips shut when he realized he was mouthing the words to the song Jake had been singing.
He spun around, shotgun in hand, did a complete three sixty, eyes darting around the deserted sand dunes. Where there'd been a voice, his brother's voice, singing softly as they made their way through the sand, there was now silence. Moonlight glinted off the dunes, damp with humidity making the air around him shimmer in eerie waves. Beads of sweat trickled down his sides making his skin flinch away from the itch.
"Jake!"
The only thing that answered Ben was the sound of his own harsh breathing.
Jake was never silent. When Ben was small Jake sang to him every night. As he got older Jake sang just because he could, never loud, it was a soft undertone to much of Ben's life. He mumbled out words to songs, voice low and deep, while they hunted so Ben could track him if they separated. It kept them together, kept them from ever really being alone. Ben hadn't spent a single day of his life alone.
"JAKE!"
Whirling around when sand sprayed into the air and rained back down again, Ben fired blindly into the dust cloud. A second fountain of sand erupted and he spun again, firing through nothing but sand again. He reloaded.
Where was Jake? He'd been right there, not five feet from Ben, singing that stupid Jan and Dean song Ben hated just to annoy him no doubt. The wind blew sand around and…
Ben had the shotgun up and was firing a third time before he barely registered the movement. He could hear Jake's words bounce through his head—taught you better, Benny—Jake was going to kick his ass for shooting blindly. Jake had taught him better, much better. It'd been Ben who insisted on starting this thing, taking down these supernatural creatures, but it was Jake who'd become the hunter.
Jake taught Ben to shoot a gun and throw a knife, defend himself with no weapons but his hands. Jake taught Ben everything. How to shave, pick up girls, never how to hustle at pool or poker though. Even in college, it was Jake who'd helped Ben get his assignments done and later after he graduated and started being a real photographer…Jake taught him to see the picture hiding in the real life. Ben found the things they used against these monsters. Jake put them into practice.
Ben dropped to one knee long enough to reload again.
"What do you call this thing again, Benny?"
"Aigamuxa."
"Jesus, Ben, why do they all have to sound like something sneezed them out? Just tell me how to kill it."
Grinning Ben held up a shotgun. "Good ole consecrated iron rounds to the head."
"Great." Jake snorted and ducked Ben's swing. "Try not to waste all our ammo. Maybe someday soon you'll hit something without shooting at it three times first."
Footfalls behind him made Ben jerk around again, shotgun up, but he didn't fire. Memory of Jake's fingers on his elbow—take your time, line up your shot—his voice in Ben's ear coaching him through his first encounters with firearms—if it's moving sight just ahead of it or you'll miss—Ben drew a deep breath, widened his stance, and fired just ahead of the upward spiraling sand.
"If it's from Africa, how'd it get here?"
"Hitchhiked. The killings started about a week after the Detroit Art Institute got themselves a new exhibit from Africa. The killings continued west until it found a place more like home. And here we are in Warren Dunes."
"Sand." Jake grumbled out and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he and Ben pushed to the top of yet another dune. "Why can't anything ever haunt the Ritz Carlton at dinnertime?"
"It fills its victims' lungs and throat with sand. While the person is fighting to breathe it eats them. Alive."
That's when Jake started singing just loud enough Ben could hear him.
Ben fired. This time the sand not only dissipated, it screamed.
"Gotcha you bastard. JAKE!"
Flipping from its hands to its feet, the creature staggered at him, Ben fired again. The bullet grazed its thick neck where it met its blocky head. The Aigamuxa somersaulted and dove at the sand, vanishing.
Ben charged to the spot. Dropping to his knees, he used the end of his shotgun to dig. "No! NO! You can't have him! You don't get him!" Tears mingled with sweat and sand as Ben dug frantically. He tossed the gun aside and began using both hands, ignoring how the sand bit and ground into freshly opened, bloody wounds along his fingertips.
Sand rolled down from higher up on the dune, jerking Ben's eyes in that direction. It didn't erupt. Instead it mounded and slid gently away from something…
"Jake." This time Ben's voice was a raw, pained whisper.
Up and running on shaking legs that felt like wet noodles, he slipped and slid through the sand, sweat rolling between his shoulder blades, Ben fell next to the growing mound of sand.
His fingers protested the abuse from sweat and sand, but Ben once again ignored it using his fingers to paw at the course, biting grains.
It took a few seconds of digging to clear sand from Jake's face. He was so still, so pale. "Jake, God, Jake." Ben's voice shook, his insides vibrated. He barely registered the movement near his legs until something gripped his arm.
Jerking to the side, Ben let out a long, quivering breath when he saw Jake's fingers curling around his elbow. He grabbed Jake's hand and pulled. Jake sat, hunched over and coughing out sand. It dripped from his hair and out of the creases of his clothes.
"Are you…Jake?" Ben laid one hand on the side of Jake's neck.
Jake raised his eyes to meet Ben's, nodding. His other hand wiped over his mouth, brushing sand-soaked spittle away. Moving his legs up and down Jake unearthed his shotgun.
"Where?" Jake ground out.
"I—I don't know. I shot it, hit it, I know I did. Then it sank into the sand."
"Okay. How many shots?" Jake tilted his head to one side and smirked while he landed a hand solidly on Ben's shoulder. "Help me—"
Ben didn't have to do anything other than see the way Jake's face morphed from his brother to something cold, hard and dangerous. As he started to twist around, both of Jake's hands gripped his shoulders, threw him backwards and down at the same time. In the next instant, Jake's weight was against his side, pinning him to the ground.
Shotgun blasts, two of them, exploded the air around them, the noise seared straight through Ben's head.
The Aigamuxa and its sand blew out in all directions.
"Three." Ben exhaled when Jake turned to look at him. A hand against Jake's shoulder got his brother to his feet.
Hand going to the back of Ben's neck, Jake patted him a few times. "You're improving. Finally."
"I thought it—"
Jake cut him off quickly, "It didn't. And now it's dead." Grinning wickedly, Jake tugged on Ben's sleeve, "It don't come back from Dead Man's curve," he sang.
Ben couldn't help himself, chuckling and smiling back at Jake he added, "Go baby, go baby, go." His eyes wandered up and down the nearest dunes. "Did you get it in the head?"
"I shot at the top, isn't that where the head traditionally is?"
Making paddling motions in front of him, Ben said in a rush, "It runs on its hands."
"Oh." Jake turned a circle, scanning the area. "Maybe we should check, but I'm sure I hit its head not its ass." His eyes dropped to Ben's hands. "Benny." He breathed out softly. Pulling a rag from his back pocket, Jake gently wrapped Ben's right hand, which was cut up the worst. "C'mon, let's be sure about this thing then get you fixed up."
Jake was sure he'd ended the Aigamuxa, but still he and Ben trudged up and down the dunes until sunrise. They found nothing, no bones, no oozing monster glop, and no brittle shell of a body, none of the usual things they saw when something they hunted bit the dust. That didn't mean it wasn't dead Jake had pointed out to Ben. Ben countered with it didn't mean it was dead.
Ben was always such a bundle of cheer and optimism.
When Ben started stumbling more than walking, Jake called a halt to the whole thing. They'd wait around the area. If the thing were still alive, it would start feeding again in a day or two. It was all they could do.
A week later, despite Ben's doubts, they drove away, following the lakeshore south and west. They traveled back roads on their way to Wolf Lake. Jake saw no farther ahead than the span of the car's headlights. Trees, mere shadows of reality, flew along the roadside, and Jake couldn't help but wonder what else might lurk in their depths. It was warm and muggy, the stars barely visible through the hazy atmosphere.
He had to cover the remnants of the cough he had from eating so much sand. Jake shuddered. If Ben hadn't found him when he had and gotten him free of the sand…well he didn't want to think about it. He glanced over at Ben who perpetually looked like an overgrown child when he slept, bangs falling over his face, lower lip stuck out ever so slightly.
When he got too tired to drive he'd wake Ben and have him drive until they reached their destination, no way were they camping out in these out of the way woods.
The sky was barely lightening from night and it was already hot, it was going to be another scorcher, when Jake pulled down a dirt drive and stopped alongside a building. It was small, about three miles outside an equally small town and a regular stop for Jake and Ben. Jake might not have been a cop for a long time, but he used the skills he'd learned on the police force almost daily. One of those skills was developing a network of informants.
This was one such place—off the beaten track outside a small Illinois town near Wolf Lake: a nondescript roadhouse offering a cool drink and a bed to those passing through the area along the shores of Lake Michigan. He cut the engine and slowly swung out of the car and stood upright. He was getting too old to spend so long sitting in their car. The muscles along his back and legs pulled and mumbled at him when he stretched. His back popped louder than he really cared to admit.
A quick glance back at Ben brought a smile to Jake. Leaning forward, the heels of Ben's hands pressed to his eyes before he tried stretching in the car. Their Chevy was big, but not that big. Jake saw the scowl spread over Ben's face from there when Ben's elbow bumped the car door.
Jake ambled into the roadhouse, taking off his hat as soon as he crossed the threshold, nodding a hello to the elderly black man behind the bar. "Mr. Turner." A family sitting at one of the tables turned a curious eye on him, but Jake pretended he didn't notice. He supposed there weren't a lot of white people making a pit stop at this place, and even fewer would call the owner mister.
"Ya got some mail here, Jake."
Sliding onto a stool, Jake grinned and turned far enough to watch Ben wander through the door, rubbing the back of his neck and yawning. "Got some coffee?"
A toddler sprinted away from the table with the family around it and ran headlong into Ben's legs, bounced off and landed on his butt, wailing. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hey, sorry." Ben scooped the kid off the ground and turned to look for obvious parents. Across the room in a few strides, Ben handed the child back to his parents. "Sorry about that. I didn't even see him. He's okay."
Jake saw how the adults wore expressions that turned from alarm to surprise. Jake never saw skin color and he'd raised Ben to be the same way. The woman nodded and took her child from Ben, probably too stunned to say anything. Ben flashed her a smile and lumbered toward the bar.
He ripped open the envelope and extracted the letter while Ben took a seat beside him and proceeded to slurp his coffee. "Ben, get your own."
"Yours is better." Ben looked up when a tall, gangly teen appeared from the kitchen. "Hey, Rufus. How are you?"
The boy, Rufus, broke into a grin; Ben matched it with one of his own. "I got accepted."
Jake looked up from his letter as Ben clapped Rufus' back saying, "See, I told you so."
"Yep, my Rufus is going to be the first one in my family to graduate high school let alone go off to college."
"You let us know if you need any help with anything, Mr. Turner." Jake said to the man behind the bar.
The man waved one hand, "We'll be great. Don't you worry none Jake."
Sighing, Jake took his coffee back, and jerked a thumb at Ben. "Can he have his own?"
Ben poked his side then leaned over to read the paper Jake held. A newspaper clipping from farther west and a note from a contact, witness reported seeing a man with yellow eyes like a cat. Jake's eyes met Ben's for a few seconds before Jake carefully folded the note and clipping and stuffed it in his back pocket.
"Ben, you're going. This is an acceptance letter!"
"How can I afford to go to college? You can't pay for everything."
"You're going, Benny. We'll find a way, we always do."
Jake slid a fifty-dollar bill across the bar. "I think we need to buy Rufus some breakfast to celebrate, don't you, Benny?"
"Heck yeah." Ben smiled and nodded thanks for his own cup of coffee. "Uh, can we celebrate with some eggs too?"
Rufus' grin nearly split his face in two. His father's eyes, filled with pride and gratitude met Jake's. They understood one another. Jake sat quietly, sipping his coffee and listening to Rufus chatter away at Ben about the school he was going to.
This last hunt, it was a close one, too close. Jake couldn't help but watch Ben and think about the day to come. The day one of them was alone. Jake felt a twinge, like a pinprick at the base of his skull. What would happen when there was only one of them?
Dean was staring at his hand and the journal under it for a few minutes before he even registered he was awake. Rufus Turner, the name nagged at him until it came to him, he'd met the man, forty years later, a few short weeks before he'd…
The day one of them was alone.
He carefully laid the journal on the table, moving slow and deliberate to loosen the tightened muscles of his legs. Using his hands, Dean lifted himself from the chair. A quick glance at Sam to be assured his brother was still asleep, Dean stopped when Sam snuffled in his sleep, shifted and resettled. Biting his lip to keep the moan from getting out as a steady ache filled his entire lower leg, Dean stood and straightened.
Using the chair, then dressers as braces, Dean put more weight on his hands than his feet on his way to the bathroom.
Did you see something you didn't want to see, Sammy?
Hobbling across the floor, Dean had to breathe in deep to keep from doubling over. He really wanted a shower. He really needed a shower. Leaving the bathroom door cracked enough Sam would hear him if he woke up, Dean slowly eased out of his clothes and cranked the shower on full. Sam was freaked out and not over his news flash about their mother's friends, and not from the fact he'd tried to kill himself after Dean died. That tidbit had unhinged Dean enough to distract him from what was really going on.
He turned what he knew over in his head. None of it made sense. What was the point of killing off everyone a person was close to? Demons were foul creatures, but they followed specific patterns and they made sense. The only explanation Dean could fathom was to cut any survivors—children—from any ties to their parents or their past.
Again, why?
Dean should be royally pissed at Sam for keeping this from him. Dean wanted to be royally pissed at Sam, but he couldn't. It would only make the situation worse.
A weapon is only as good as the man who wields it.
There was more. Dean knew there was more.
Did you see something you didn't want to see, Sammy?
Sam was upset, bothered by what he'd discovered about Mary Winchester's friends, but there was something deeper. Something else that Sam knew or thought he knew. It went beyond unsettling Sam to something that terrified the kid so completely it was doing to Sam's insides what had been done to the outsides of the people in the pictures on Sam's laptop. Tearing him to shreds.
He rolled his shoulders and dipped his head, letting hot water run over him. What would so completely shatter Sam that he was afraid to talk about it? Afraid to talk to Dean about it. Afraid of Dean because of it.
Dean's head snapped up so fast he nearly hit the showerhead. Turning off the water and stepping clear, drying off and dressing all the while chewing his lip, Dean realized that's what had been gnawing at him for a while now. There was something making Sam afraid of him. Sam had something locked in his head. Dean could see it in his brother's eyes, the deep down, raw terror this knowledge sparked.
Wiping one hand over the mirror to clear the steam, "But what the hell is it?" He asked his reflection. "You got nothing either? Lots of help you are."
When he stepped clear of the bathroom, Sam had moved from bed to table and was hunched over his laptop. He looked up, eyes skipping across Dean's face for an instant before they went back to the laptop screen.
Dean stopped so quickly it was as if he'd hit a brick wall. Sam looked so alone. Whatever this was, it wasn't that Sam was afraid of telling him, it wasn't that Sam was afraid of his reaction. It was fear of Dean, pure and simple. It was cutting Sam off, separating them; making Sam fear Dean so completely he was losing the sense of security they'd always given each other.
He let the idea rumble around his head. Cut Sam off from everything, everyone he knew and depended on. Cut Sam off from Dean.
Sam would be left completely alone, wounded, torn open, vulnerable to manipulation. To do that, demons needed Dean out of the way.
That just wouldn't do. Wasn't happening.
Sam was being manipulated. Dean too. Dean would have thought the information Ruby gave Sam about their mother's friends was false, but there was proof to back it up in a murder from sixty plus years ago.
Whatever it was, it was theirs. They were in this together. They always had been and always would be. Sam had to be made to understand he wasn't alone. Dean was never someone to be feared.
A weapon is only as good as the man who wields it. Did you see something you didn't want to see, Sammy?
Dean wasn't going to get what he didn't give.
Plastering on a smile, he marched across the room. "Still some hot water, I bet you'll feel tons better after a shower."
Sam looked up at him, not quite meeting his eyes. "Dean," he began voice soft and hesitant. "About Mom and that stuff, I—"
"It's okay, Sammy." He rested his hand on Sam's shoulder, felt how the tenseness oozed out of his brother. "I get it, why you didn't say anything. I'd probably done the same thing." Parents dead and gone weren't worth losing little brothers alive and here.
Dean saw the relief start in Sam's face and travel the entire length of his body. Finally Sam looked at him. Dean gave the shoulder under his hand a squeeze. "It's you and me in this. We'll figure everything out, we will." There it was again, that spark of stark raving terror in Sam's eyes. It flared then was covered up. "Is there more, 'cause dude, you know you can tell me anything, right?" You do know that, don't you, Sammy?
"Just a list of how each person died."
Not the answer Dean was looking for, but it was a start. A part of that sense of security was restored. Dean nodded, "Okay, we can go through that later. Together. See what we can find. Go get a shower, and then we'll go out and grab some food. We really do need some air." He glanced at the laptop. "Whatcha doing there?"
"Huh? Oh, I was curious about the Aigamuxa. What they described is similar to those killings I found, and in the same area."
"The name does sound like something someone sneezed." That earned him a smile from Sam. Dean liked those little smiles. "You go shower and I'll poke around on this thing and see what I can come up with."
Sam hit a button and a different screen appeared. "I did find out they sort of hibernate and they can't camouflage when they're dead."
Dean groaned and let his shoulders sag for affect. Jostling Sam's chair until he was out of it and Dean could sit down. "You up for this?" Sam stopped halfway across the room and looked back at Dean. "Because we only do this if we do it together." Sam swallowed and nodded. Dean hoped the message got through.
"Not really like we can ignore it and not do anything." Sam said. "It looks like from what I read there, it has a forty year hibernation cycle."
"Of course it does." Dean grinned, "Okay then, you and me, us, we'll go fight the bad thing that sounds like what your lungs hack up."
"Okay."
"Right after breakfast." Dean said and twisted around to face the computer and the Aigamuxa.
A/N: Dead Man's Curve is by Jan and Dean.