PART TWO
The next morning they were up bright and early, ready to go talk to Stacey's dad. Sam had the coffee brewing when Dean came out of the shower. It promised to be an interesting—and hopefully informative—day. Dean wasn't sure what to make of Anderson or how Sam was going to react once they met.
"So he's psychic," Dean said as he finished dressing and reached eagerly for his first morning dose of caffeine.
"Yeah. Helped the police find a couple missing kids last year down in Columbus. He's been doing that stuff for more than 20 years. Seems to be a good guy, highly thought of in the community. At least according to the newspaper reports," Sam said softly, sipping at his own coffee.
"Yet his daughter offs herself." One eyebrow shot up.
"Yeah, well…" Sam shrugged. "Guess we know why now."
"Because of bullies?" Dean voice was skeptical and the other eyebrow moved to join the first.
"It happens, Dean. Not everyone has their own personal human shield. Some kids have no one to turn to or trust." He tossed his empty cup into the trash can. "Score."
Dean stopped mid-swallow and put one hand on Sam's arm. "You do hear what you just said, right?"
Sam offered him a tiny smile and nod. "Yeah, Dean I heard, that doesn't mean it doesn't scare me though, when I think of what our bullies are and what they can do."
"I guess it's sort of the same thing. Difference is you're not alone." Dean rubbed his fingers over his coffee cup. "I guess it's too bad that little girl felt she was."
They left the motel and drove quietly, other than Sam issuing the occasional directions, to Stacey's home. He got a few sidelong glances from Dean, but whatever was going on in his brother's head stayed there for the time being. Sam had the distinct impression Dean was feeling a bit proud of himself just then.
When they pulled up to the house, Dean cut the engine and they sat there staring at it. "Think he'll know we're lying about who we are?"
Sam shrugged. "Guess we'll find out." He pushed out of the car and stopped two feet from it, pointing to the back of the house. "Dean."
"I see it."
Gun out Dean stalked around the side of the tree-shaded house, Sam on his heels. They stopped at the edge of the house and looked down the long drive to the garage in the back. The garage with a dirty red pick-up truck parked in front.
Someone cleared their throat. "Can I help you?"
"Um…ye-yeah, yes, we're from the FBI, I'm Agent McCartney and this is Agent Jones," Sam stammered. Waving one hand back and forth between him and Dean, who was still holding his gun, now lowered, "Sam, this is Dean."
Dean's gaze shifted nervously between Sam and the man standing in front of them. Something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Sam's face at once took on a slightly pinched look, not the all out pain of a vision, but there was something. If only he could figure out what.
Static buzzed in his ears for a few seconds before he caught a few words…Sam can't hear us, we can't get through to him…Dean can…warn him…Dean remembered not to shake his head and hit one ear with the heel of his hand. He opened his mouth to ask what he was supposed to warn Sam about but closed it fast when his brother's hand landed firmly on his shoulder.
Sam coughed, mumbled, "Dean," and dipped his head to Dean's gun.
Dean followed Sam's line of sight and realized he was still holding his gun. Chuckling and clearing his throat at the same time, he shrugged and tucked it away behind his back. "Sorry. You own that truck?" He wanted to go to the truck, take a much closer look at it but another sudden burst of static and the words Sam is too susceptible kept him in one spot. Unless he could come up with a reason to take his brother with him, they were staying right where they were.
For once this stupid angel radio was actually being helpful. Dean simply had to figure out the details.
"Yes, it is."
"Mr. Anderson, we're here looking into the rash of sudden deaths at the local middle school. Our sympathies to your family. We understand your daughter, Stacey, she was the first?" Sam squinted a second at the guy. Dean heard how he cut off too abruptly and realized Sam almost said the word victim. Sam wheezed a short cough, shuffled a bit but didn't really go anywhere and took out a notepad.
Something odd was definitely going on.
"So, which of you is Jones and which is McCartney again?" Anderson put his hands on his hips and looked from one to the other.
Yep, the guy knew.
"I…um…I'm uh…" Sam's lips curled into a very nervous smile for a split second then still holding his pen he rubbed at his forehead. "Sorry, sunglare."
Don't want to live rampaging through Dean's head was cut off by static.
Dean plastered his best smile on his face and stepped forward so he was between Anderson and his brother, holding out his hand. "Dean, and this is Sam. How about we keep it simple and informal." Twisting far enough to point a thumb at the truck Dean sighed and shook his head, trying to appear confused, which he actually was so it wasn't too much of a chore. "Someone tried to run us down in that truck yesterday, twice."
"That truck doesn't run." Anderson smiled and it gave Dean the creeps. Waving at the vehicle he said, "Go on, check for yourself. Search it all you want."
"Ah," Sam's voice was nervous and it cracked, "there're probably a dozen just like it in this county, and I'm sure it wasn't intentional and that's not why we're here. If we could ask you a few questions about your daughter, about Stacey?"
"I loved her more than anything, but I suppose you two know about that already."
It wasn't a question, or even a comment, to Dean it came off more as a challenge. Tread carefully, speak wisely came the warning in his head and he wondered, was it from him or an angel. He didn't care, it was good advice. When Sam started fumbling for an answer, Dean stepped forward, this time squarely between his brother and Anderson. He dropped all expression off his face and asked, "Do you know what led to her suicide?"
Anderson stared back for a second before stuffing his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking smug when Sam dropped the pen, then the pad and seemed to have a hard time retrieving them. "I do. She was being bullied at school. Not simply kids being kids or doing some picking on someone, but out and out bullied to where she was afraid to leave the house. She went to the teachers, and the principal. Got the same answer from them all, kids do this, it's part of growing up, Stacey needed to let it roll off her and deal with it, that it would make her grow up."
"And you don't find it odd that those same people are now turning up dead?" Dean asked.
Anderson shook his head. "I never gave it much thought. I frankly don't care. Maybe they're simply getting what they deserve." He looked from one to the other, landing a hard stare on Sam that the kid nearly wilted under. Dean hadn't seen that reaction in his brother since…well not really ever. "Are we done here?"
"Ye-yes, sir, we are." Sam stammered and started back to their car, grabbing at the back of Dean's jacket on the way by. He tripped a few times trying to walk faster and still look casual. Dean got the distinct impression what Sam really wanted to do was run.
"Thank you." Dean nodded to the man, who nodded back. He literally felt the guy's eyes boring into his back and glanced over his shoulder for a second when more static erupted in both ears, dying away as he reached the car a few steps behind Sam.
Sam was leaning against the passenger side, breathing a bit hard. "Let me in," he snarled the words the second Dean was close enough to unlock the door.
"Sam, what the hell was that?"
"Unlock the door and let me in or I'll break the damn window and do it myself."
"All right. Calm down." Dean reached around his brother and slipped the key into the lock, turning it and then opening the door for Sam. "Left your keys again?"
Sam ignored him and tumbled into the car, immediately bending at the middle, elbows on his knees, rubbing his forehead with both hands. "You believe him?" Dean asked. Sam's head turned to Dean when he opened the driver's side door and settled behind the wheel.
"Oh, hell no. You?" asked Sam.
"Nope." Dean glanced sideways at Sam. "I want an explanation."
Now Sam had both hands pressed against his eyes. "Can we go back to the motel, please?"
The hitch in Sam's voice and the tremor made Dean nod and start the car, heading back to their motel. After a mile or two Sam relaxed, let his hands drop to his lap and leaned back against the seatback. "Are you okay?"
Sam nodded and rolled his head so he faced Dean. "Yeah, I think so. I don't know what happened. I felt like my whole head was wrapped in gelatin and it was like someone wanted me to do something or feel something I didn't want to. Which isn't exactly right, but I don't know how else to explain it."
Deciding to let it drop for now, Dean kept his mouth shut the rest of the drive back. Once back in their room his brother reverted to himself, more or less. Sam stood at the table, shuffling papers around, looking through their files.
"The guy's a psychic, Sam."
Sam looked up. "I know."
"His kid dies and he blames these people and honestly, maybe they are to blame, I don't know. But what if he's using some…" Dean whistled and twirled one finger in a circle next to his head.
"Dean that's…"
Planting both hands firmly on the table, Dean leaned forward and quirked an eyebrow. "That's what?"
Sam huffed a slow breath and nodded. "Entirely possible."
"What happened back there?"
"I don't know, I don't," Sam sighed and shrugged. "I felt all jumbled and wrong. Kieran Anderson scared the crap out of me and I don't even know why."
Dean reached across the table and squeezed Sam's shoulder. "Good. These things should scare us."
Hooking a chair with his foot, Sam dragged it over and sat down, not looking at Dean, but arranging the files again. "What did Bob tell you? At the lake?"
"That we have to kill dad to stop the Apocalypse." There he'd said it, told Sam. He was going to have to anyway and Sam knew there was something.
Barely glancing up, Sam shoved one file under another and flipped the second one open. "Oh."
"Oh? I just tell you we have to kill our father and you say oh?"
"Yeah. John's a demon. Dad died over a year ago." He shrugged again and flipped one file around for Dean to see. "List of Anderson's solved and unsolved police cases."
"Which does nothing to help us. Sam I can't believe what I'm hearing, this is Dad."
"What was it? The rules? Do what we do and shut up about it! Do what we do no matter the cost to us, no matter how it affects us? Isn't that what you and Dad spent years drumming into my head? Besides I didn't see him caring much about my health when he was trying to kill me. If it's between that thing or us, I'm picking us every time." Sam swiped at the papers on the table, hitting his other fist against it so hard the table bumped a few inches over the floor. "And no, Dean, it's not Dad. Dad's dead, we burned his body."
"And I burned yours…"
Sam didn't say anything as he watched the expression on Dean's face go from angry to pained and remorseful.
"Sammy—"
"Maybe we should concentrate on this case, which we can do something about and not on a demon we can't do anything about at the moment ." Sam stood abruptly. "I'm hungry, want anything?"
"No." Dean stood there, mouth open and watched as Sam grabbed his wallet and jacket and headed out the door.
-0-
Sam drove aimlessly around Fostoria for a while before finally pulling to a stop in front of the Café. He couldn't believe Dean had said that about burning his body or that he'd compare it to their dad's situation. There was nothing at all similar there. Dad had gone to Hell and come out a demon. Sam had gone…actually, he had no idea where he'd been yanked from, but he knew he wasn't a demon. At least not yet. No, he had a choice, he was the only one who could decide how to use his powers.
He thought back to something Missouri had whispered to him back when he was playing host to Timmy, the little ghost boy: "Trust yourself, Sam. When the time comes you're going to make the right choice". She was a psychic who saw the future so if she saw him not turning evil, then, maybe… She could be wrong though. Or not.
Even Bob had assured him that nothing untoward had been done to him while he was dead, that all Azazel had done was bring him back, and that it didn't make him evil. "The gift you were blessed with is yours. It was always yours … Just because someone is touched by an unwanted evil it does not make them evil. What you choose to do with your life, it's your choice. You have just as much good as you do evil and what part you use, no one can decide other than you. "
And Dean, of course, had a complete mental block when it came to thinking Sam might turn evil.
So who should he believe? A couple of demons? Even if one was their father. Maybe, especially since one was dad. He'd certainly never listened to Sam growing up, never explained anything, never believed in him: sometimes Sam doubted their dad actually loved him. All they'd ever done once he found out what their dad did was fight and argue. Why should he believe what their Dad was telling them now? Especially now?
Missouri was a good person. Sam didn't doubt that for a moment. Bob was an Angel; an aggravating, winged jerk at times, but still… an Angel. And except when they were little and Dean was hiding the hunting business, he'd never lied to Sam, especially not about something as important as this. So who was he to believe?
He quickly placed a to-go order for both he and Dean, then slid into a booth to wait. His head down, he stared aimlessly at the glass-topped table and jumped when a voice spoke up behind him.
"Hello, Agent McCartney." It was Anderson. "Or is it Agent Winchester?"
Sam could feel his eyes widen as he searched for a response.
"Mind if I join you, Sam?" Without waiting for an answer Anderson sat down.
"C…can I h…help you with something?" Sam stuttered out, feeling like an idiot.
"I think it's more like I can help you," Anderson replied, smiling, a dimple in his left cheek appearing.
Sam raised an eyebrow. "How so? Did you remember something about your daughter?"
"No, this is about you, Sam. You're psychic. And it scares you." Anderson leaned back in the booth and waited.
"How…" Sam stopped. Stupid question, how did he know? "What makes you think it scares me?"
"Sam. Sam, Sam, Sam." Anderson shook his head, a look of fond amusement flying across his face.
"I'm psychic, Sam, it's my gift to know these things."
Sam was hearing the words, but Anderson's mouth wasn't moving.
"Get out of my head," Sam said through gritted teeth.
"I'm sorry. I just wanted to reassure you. I could tell earlier that you were worried about your powers because the fear was rushing out of you like water from a broken dam. It still is. You don't have to worry, Sam, you're a good person and whatever choice you feel you have to make you're going to choose the right one."
"You don't know what I'm up against?"
"Not exactly, no. I'm just getting feelings and a few muddied images. But it's enough to know that you're doubting yourself and that you're afraid for…. Dean? And your dad. And you don't want your powers to make you do bad…evil things."
"But—"
"No buts. You use your powers, Sam, they don't use you. You're the only one who can control them and you decide how you're going to use them. You can use your gifts for good of humanity; I help the police find people who've gone missing. Just because you run into the bad that's out there, doesn't mean you have to contribute to it."
"Why didn't you see what was happening with your daughter? You could have prevented—" Sam stopped, horrified at what he'd almost said, but it was too late.
Anderson sighed, his eyes filling. "I could have prevented her suicide?"
"I apologize, that was uncalled for," Sam said contritely.
"It's okay, it's nothing I haven't considered many times myself. But I try hard not to invade others minds; there's etiquette for psychics you know. Or maybe you don't." Anderson eyed him curiously. "One of the first rules is not to 'read minds' without permission."
"You read my mind," Sam accused. "I felt… something."
"No, not at the beginning. You don't know how to hide psychically, Sam. What you were feeling was my attempt to shield you and myself, but it's not something I'm good at so you were able to sense what I was trying to do. Your mind is wide open and your fears and loathing and self-doubts are woven around you for anyone to see. It's one of the reasons you have such difficulty with some of the … things you run into. "
"You know what we do," Sam said flatly. He tapped his fingers against the table top.
"Yes. You and your brother are hunters. In fact," Anderson straightened up, looking hopeful, "there is something you might be able to help me with. Stacey…I didn't find out she was being bullied until after she died. She appeared to me and showed me her diary. It was all in there, the kids who'd been picking on her, the teachers she told, the principal who told her…Well, it doesn't matter. What matters is I need to know if she's still here, or has she moved on? I don't know how to tell."
Before Sam could comment, the waitress—a different one from yesterday's Maude—brought his order over. After she left, Sam made getting up and leaving motions before finally answering Anderson. "If you haven't seen her since that one time, then it's pretty likely she's moved on. I need to get this back to my brother. Um…thank you."
"You'll think about what I've said?"
"Yeah. Yes." He crawled out of the booth and stumbled to the door not sure what to think about that strange conversation.
