"Dude, seriously. A scarecrow?" Sam asks incredulously.
"Well, technically it's probably a fairy or a pagan god," Dean replies, irritatingly cheerful.
"But it's a scarecrow. And it comes alive and it kills people."
"Yeah, Sammy. Not all scarecrows are as nice as the one in Wizard of Oz."
"It's Sam," Sam reminds him, but Dean just grins.
Sam sighs in frustration as he stuffs the last of his clothes back into his duffel. He thought, after Lawrence, that they might be able to find some leads on the demon that killed Mary, but Dean seems determined to steer clear anything even remotely demonic. Sam has tried to be understanding—he's pretty freaked himself about what happened at their old house—but it's been three weeks and twice that many dead-end cases, and he's starting to lose patience. With back country roads, with off-the-map small towns, with crappier-than-usual motels, and especially with Dean.
"Wanna explain to me why we're going to the middle of nowhere, Indiana to kill a character from a children's book?" he asks.
"Book?" Dean chuckles. "You are such a nerd. I was thinking of the movie."
"Dean."
"What?"
"I'd really like to understand your reasoning, here."
"Uh….cause people are getting hurt, and we can do something about it?" says Dean, who is re-packing his duffel with his back to Sam.
"Right, but, I thought the whole point of what we're doing is to find the thing that killed Mom."
Dean drops his duffel onto the bed and steps into the bathroom to grab his toothbrush, hardly sparing a glance in Sam's direction. "That doesn't mean we should ignore all the other freaks out there."
"Right," Sam persists, "but since we might actually stand a chance of picking up the thing's trail now…." He trails off, waiting for Dean to make a response, but when none is forthcoming he continues, "Listen, I've been doing some research this week. I found a case that looks like it might—"
"We better hit the road," Dean interrupts, checking his watch as he comes out of the bathroom. "We're supposed to be meeting that newspaper chick in a few hours."
Sam huffs in frustration. He's growing more and more convinced that Dean's avoidance of the topic of Lawrence and their mother is somehow connected to whatever it is Dean's been hiding from him since Sioux Falls. He wonders what it could be, and, more importantly, why Dean won't tell him. Maybe it's something rookies aren't allowed to know.
He zips up his duffel with unnecessary force, knowing and not caring that his face is set in the expression Dean calls "the bitchface." With a rush of vindictive satisfaction, he sees Dean rolling his eyes as Sam stomps around the motel room for a last check before they leave.
His feeling of satisfaction vanishes instantly when Dean lets the motel door swing shut in his face on their way out.
In retaliation, Sam slams the trunk of the Impala closed after loading his bag.
Dean pays him back by singing along with the radio, very loud and so off key Sam knows he must be doing it on purpose.
Seething, Sam pulls out his cell phone and dials Jessica's number. Not only will talking to her annoy Dean, he thinks, but it will be nice to have a conversation with someone who is not his brother.
The conversation, however, is fairly short and strained. Sam quickly realizes that he can't tell her anything of what he's been up to since he last talked to her, or, indeed, since he left Stanford. It doesn't help that Dean shuts the radio off and quiets down to eavesdrop.
"Wow, you must really have it bad for that chick, huh?" Dean says as soon as Sam hangs up the phone. Sam bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from answering, not wanting Dean to know his attempts at provocation are working. Dean glances at him slyly, then continues, "Kudos to you, man. I could never stick out the long-distance thing. I mean, phone sex is great, but—"
"Shut up, Dean," Sam snaps, forgetting his determination not to respond.
"What?" says Dean, with an infuriating, falsely innocent expression on his face. "I just don't get why you keep talking to her, is all."
"I know you don't understand the concept, Dean," says Sam loudly, "but some of us like to keep in touch with people, instead of just forgetting they exist the second we leave town."
The words leave a bitter taste in Sam's mouth, but at least they get rid of that stupid mocking grin of Dean's. He now looks highly affronted.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he demands.
"I mean at least she won't spend the next four years wondering where I am or what I'm doing—"
"Better she has a little lack of closure than ends up dead because some monster got to her."
"No, you know what, Dean?" says Sam, not even caring that his voice is threatening to tremble and break. "It's not better. I know from experience, and you should, too, that being left without an explanation isn't better."
"Yeah?" says Dean, and he sounds angry now. "And what if the person doesn't wanna hear your explanation? Cause you sure didn't want to hear it when I decided to find Dad, you were too busy with your little girlfriend at Stanford."
Sam gapes, at a momentary loss for words. "What are you talking about?" he asks finally. "You never told me that you were going to find Dad!"
"Because you never gave me a chance to!" Dean retorts. "You shut me down every time I mentioned him, and then you left—"
"I didn't leave, I went to college," says Sam. "You were the only one who apparently couldn't handle the fact that I was moving on—"
"Yeah," says Dean darkly. "You moved on, all right."
He reaches out to flick the radio back on, giving the volume wheel a vicious twist so that the music is deafening, making further speech impossible.
Sam settles moodily back into his seat, confused and angry. Dean, he thinks, has no right to blame him for going to Stanford, not when he was the one who ran off without a word. Did Dean expect him not to go to college? Not to grow up and get on with his life? To stay a little kid forever, so Dean could always boss him around and bully him?
The sun is glaringly bright in a crystalline autumn sky, heating the inside of the Impala until it's stifling. Sam shifts uncomfortably, itching to get out of the car and breathe the cool air, longing for their arrival in Indiana. He doesn't want to be on this hunt, but he wants to be trapped in the car or in a motel room with Dean even less. Maybe, once they arrive, he can slip off on his own for a few minutes….
And that's when the idea strikes him, the plan bursting fully formed into his mind.
*S*P*N*
Dean normally loves driving on bright, sunny days, loves the glare of the sun off the road and the wind whipping past the car. Now, though, with Sam sulking in the passenger seat, it's impossible to relax.
Much as he hates to admit it, Sam is right about one thing—they really could pick up a good lead on Mary's killer from Lawrence. But following the demon's trail would be like a mouse following the smell of cheese into a mousetrap. Get too close, and the metal bar descends. And Dean is in no doubt that it would descend directly on Sam. Better to aim lower, and not risk the grand prize just yet.
Of course, it doesn't help that Dean has been keeping all the evidence of this folded up in his jacket pocket.
If Sam doesn't stop second-guessing him, though, Dean thinks he might just let the demon have him. Does he still not trust Dean, after five months on the road together? Does he think, because Dean doesn't have a degree, that he doesn't know what he's doing?
They enter Burkitsville, Indiana with a little over an hour to spare before their meeting with the newspaper columnist. Dean stops in the parking lot of the town's only inn, sighing when Sam immediately flings his door open, scrambles out, and slams the door behind him. He's already got the keys to a room by the time Dean grabs their bags out of the trunk. Dean follows him into the room without comment. The tension between them is a little better now that they're in a slightly less confined space, but judging by the way Sam pointedly ignores Dean salting the door and windows, placing their usual hex bags and protection sigils, and setting out clean suits for them to change into, he isn't planning on relenting anytime soon.
Dean studies Sam's stiff posture where he sits hunched over his laptop at the tiny breakfast table, fidgeting with the amulet hanging on a new cord around his neck. Dean hasn't remarked on the fact that he still wears it, even though it's worthless now. He also hasn't mentioned, although he has certainly noticed, the fact that on every hunt since Lawrence, Sam has slipped it off and kept it tucked safely in his pocket. The thought makes Dean smile slightly. Maybe Sam trusts him after all.
"We've still got some time before our meeting," he says. "How about I grab us some takeout?"
"Go ahead," Sam says, not looking up from the laptop.
"I saw a place up the road that looks like it has veggie wraps," Dean tries. "Want me to get you one?"
"Whatever's fine," Sam says indifferently.
At least he's deigning to answer, Dean thinks, shaking his head as he walks out the door. He spends some time at the veggie wrap place deliberating over the menu—will Sam like the Mediterranean or the Club wrap better?—before eventually settling on one, ordering a cheesesteak sub for himself, and making the trek back down the street to the inn.
He opens the door to their room with some difficulty, his hands full of takeout bags, and backs inside. "Sam?" he calls over his shoulder as he pulls the door closed behind him. "Got the food. Come and eat something."
There's no response. Dean turns around, expecting to see Sam still sulking at the computer, bitchface firmly in place. But the computer is dark and lonely on the little breakfast table. Dean sets the bundle of food down next to it and goes to knock on the bathroom door, which is closed.
"Sam?"
No response, no noise from within.
"Come on, stop being such a bitch," says Dean exasperatedly, trying the door handle. To his surprise, it turns, and the door swings open, revealing the bathroom to be silent and empty.
"Sam?" Dean says again, knowing it's pointless. Sam isn't here.
Dean feels a small, anxious flutter in his gut, but he takes a few deep breaths and fumbles his cell phone out of his pocket. Maybe Sam just went to get a soda from the vending machine, or took a walk around the block to work off his bad mood.
He selects Sam's name in his contacts and waits impatiently for the ring, then for Sam to pick up. But it just keeps ringing until it goes to voicemail.
His heart pounding now, Dean hangs up and turns to scan the room, looking for any clue as to where Sam might have gone. His duffel is still sitting on the floor where Dean dropped it when he brought it in, so at least he hasn't decided to take off back to California. There's no sign of a struggle, and all of their warding and defenses are still in place, so no demon could have followed them here and kidnapped him. The room seems exactly as Dean left it, except that it's devoid of Sam.
Then Dean realizes one other thing is missing—Sam's suit is gone from the bed where Dean laid it out twenty minutes earlier.
Cursing, Dean races back out the door, leaving the food sitting on the table, and jumps into his car, pausing only to ensure the Colt is tucked into his waistband and to grab a few extra armaments out of the trunk. He jams the keys into the ignition, trying not to think too much about how many ways Sam could get into trouble, hunting on his own without even that stupid amulet protecting him. Sam can't have gotten very far, and Dean will find him faster with the car. The tires squeal as he peels out of the parking lot.
*S*P*N*
Sam sets a brisk pace as he walks away from the inn, thankful that the town of Burkitsville is small enough he won't need to take the Impala to get to the newspaper columnist's house. As amusing as it is to imagine Dean's reaction to finding his car gone, Sam figures his own disappearance from the inn will be quite enough to get his point across.
Burkitsville makes a very pretty autumn picture; the leaves are in full color and dazzling against the bright sky. Sam feels some of the tension of the last few hours draining away as he walks, enjoying the chance to get out and about on his own. He pulls a motel notepad out of his pocket, on which he has jotted down directions to the house, having looked them up on his laptop while Dean was warding their room. It's only a ten minute walk from the inn, which is good, because Sam estimates that he has about fifteen minutes at the most before Dean gets back. He checks the time and walks a little faster.
Sam is sweating slightly in his suit by the time he turns up the driveway of the newspaper columnist's house. He glances around as he rings the doorbell, half expecting to hear the Impala roaring up behind him at any second.
After a few moments, the door is opened by small young woman with a blonde pixie cut. Sam opens his mouth to introduce himself, but the words die in his throat as she looks up at him. For a second, her eyes look black—as black and empty as the hellhound eyes obsessively sketched on every page of John's journal. But then she blinks, and the vision is gone.
"Can I help you?" she asks, looking politely confused.
"Uh," Sam stutters. "Um, yeah. I'm Sam Winchester. My brother and I called yesterday, we had a meeting with—"
"Oh, of course," says the young woman, smiling. Sam finds the expression rather unsettling. "Hi, Sam. I'm Meg Masters. Please, come in."