Chapter 12 Lines in the Sand
Kearney, Missouri
Mary Lew pulled into the gas station and parked beside the pump, getting out and filling the tank of her car. She replaced the nozzle and the fuel cap and leaned in through the window of the driver's door to get her purse, wondering distractedly if they had enough milk at home, or if she should get another gallon.
Just get it, she told herself, won't go to waste, going to the glass-fronted fridge when she entered the store, and pulling out the container. At the counter, four kids were horsing around while they waited for their sodas to be rung up. She looked at one of them, brow creasing as she recognised him.
"Michael?"
He looked around, half-smiling awkwardly at her as his friends quietened immediately. "Hey, Mrs Lew."
"Can you tell your mother, I'll be around Tuesday with the church sale boxes?"
"Sure, Mrs Lew."
"Thanks," she said smiling at the boys. "You have a good night."
"Yes, Mrs Lew," Michael left his money sitting on the counter as his friends crowded out with him.
"Yes, Mrs Lew," one of them said in a high voice.
"Thank you, Mrs Lew," another laughed beside him.
"Shut up," he said, glancing back over his shoulder at her apologetically and pushing them out the door.
"Kids," the clerk said, ringing up her fuel and the milk. "Here you go."
He pushed some of the coins sitting on the counter back to her, and took her twenty.
"Yeah, but weren't we all like that?" she said smiling, as she picked up the milk and change and turned around to go out.
"Huh, guess so." The clerk said with a shrug.
She pulled up and parked outside a house, feeling her heart thundering in her chest, her chest rise and fall with the rage that filled her. Getting out of the car, she stalked over to the carport, looking at her husband as he lay under the engine of his car.
"Hey, hon. Just in time. Grab me a cold one, would ya?" He smiled up at her.
"Why don't you have Sara Alcott get it for you?" Mary snarled furiously, staring at him.
'What?'
Mary kicked the jack from the front end and the car fell on top of him, sump hitting his chest and compressing it, his rib cage fracturing.
"Oh, my God! Mary, help! Mary, what are you doing? Mary, what are you doing? Mary!" he gasped, shouting weakly, unable to take a deep breath, feeling the bones grinding against each other.
Mary Lew walked to the door, opening it and getting in, slamming it shut behind her.
"Help me!"
The engine started and a scream cut above the noise of the motor. Mary shifted into first and put her foot down on the accelerator as hard as she could, hearing the scream stop as she pulled away.
Onawa, Iowa
Dean looked at the phone in his hand. Thirty-one police departments were listed in the scanner app, and he scrolled through those closest, looking at the updates. He was leaning against the car as he waited for Sam to get the food. So far, the one-eighty-seven in Kearney, Missouri, was the most promising.
"Heads up," Sam said, holding out the soda as he walked past his brother. Dean glanced up and took it, staring at the screen.
"I caught wind of a case on this police scanner. Sounds like our kind of thing," he said as he turned around.
Sam stopped on the other side of the car, looking at him incredulously. "I wasn't even gone ten minutes."
"Okay," Dean said, the wide smile he gave his brother not close to reaching his eyes. "That matters why?"
Sam felt the sharp prickle of anger rising at his brother's casual dismissal. For days, Dean hadn't said a word. Not one. Hadn't responded to anything he'd said either, except with occasional grunts.
"I don't know, Dean," he said sarcastically. "How about because you haven't said a word to me since Prentiss Island? And now, what? You want me to shut up and ride shotgun and act like nothing happened?"
Dean drew in a breath, putting the phone in his pocket and leaning on the hood, the pretence of everything's-fine vanishing from his face. "You want to talk about Benny? Fine. Let's talk."
"Okay," Sam said, leaning forward a little. "How about he's a vampire?"
"He's also the reason I'm topside and not roasting on a spit in Purgatory. Anything else?" Dean answered shortly, raising a brow. He wasn't sure what he was doing, playing push to Sam's shove. Maybe he was just sick of being told what not to do.
Don't react, just ask, Sam told himself, feeling that big brother vibe coming off Dean again, that I-know-better-than-you vibe. "Don't pretend I don't get it. I know you had to do what you had to down there."
"I highly doubt you get anything about Purgatory," Dean contradicted him curtly.
"But you're out now, and Benny's still breathing," Sam said, ignoring the last comment. "Why?"
Dean looked expressionlessly at his brother. There wasn't a hope in hell of telling Sam what had happened down there. He couldn't describe it, couldn't explain it, couldn't express it. And he didn't feel he had to justify his decisions to anyone, least of all the brother who'd forgotten about him.
"He's my friend, Sam," Dean said carefully.
Sam snorted, his eyes cutting to one side. "And what about my friend, Amy? She was what? 'Cause you sure as hell didn't have a problem ganking her," he said.
"Well, I guess people change, don't they? We let that werewolf Kate go, didn't we?"
"She was different. She was–" Sam stopped suddenly, staring at Dean. "You think Benny's different? He tell you he's not drinking live blood or something?"
Dean's gaze cut away and Sam exhaled sharply. All the answer he needed. "And you believe him."
He shook his head, realising that he couldn't go any further with this argument. Dean had made up his mind, and like his father, that was the end of it. Neither of them had ever listened after that. "Wow. Okay. You know, you're right. People do change."
Dean glanced back at him, seeing Sam filing away the information for now, knowing it would come up again later when his brother had had more time to think about it. He knew the way it worked. And he knew he didn't want to keep going over this every time Sam got a new idea about it, found another angle.
"Yeah. I got a vampire buddy, and you turn your phone off for a year," he said pointedly.
Sam's head snapped back to him, his mouth thinning as he bit back his anger at the reminder, his brother's way of having the last word. "Don't turn this on me."
Dean straightened up unhurriedly, his face shuttered. "Look, Benny slips up and some other hunter turns his lights out, so be it," he said casually.
Sam knew that look too. "But it's not gonna be you, right?"
Dean considered him for a long moment, not answering, then he picked up his soda and turned to the door. "You coming or not?"
Sam watched him open the driver's door and get in, picking up his food and drink and going to the other door before his brother started the engine and pulled out without him. It wasn't over. The lines had just been drawn out in the sand.
Kearney, Missouri
Dean pulled up out the front of the house as an ambulance pulled out of the driveway. Set back from the street a little way, the house was a low two-storey, a white-picket fence lining the drive and front yard tidily. They could see the cops moving around the carport area through the garden.
"So, guy's old lady comes home while he's working underneath his ride, puts the pedal to the metal, and takes half his head off," Dean said, looking around the neighbourhood.
"What? That's it?" Sam said, brow creasing.
"Yeah, in a nutshell. She says she blacked out, doesn't remember a damn thing." Dean nodded, ignoring the tone, looking at the house.
"Well, that sounds like insanity," Sam said firmly.
"Maybe."
"So, how does that make this our kind of thing?" Sam pressed, looking at his brother. Getting a real job was one thing, but trying to make something explicable fit just to work? That wasn't happening.
Dean exhaled audibly, turning back to him. "Because, Sam, Kevin's in the wind, okay? You're sulking around like a eunuch in a whorehouse, and I can't help but ask myself, when is decapitation not my thing?"
He got out of the car, and Sam blinked. Eunuch in a whorehouse? He shook his head. They'd stopped up the interstate to get cleaned up and changed into the suits, a tacit truce in place with the prospect of the job. The two-hour-old armistice was already breaking apart. He got out and followed Dean up the concreted drive to the line of crime tape.
"Whoa, whoa," the deputy standing by a patrol car came bounding over to them, eyes widening slightly as he took the badges they took out and held up. "FBI?"
Sam's smile was perfunctory. "Yeah, happened to be in the neighbourhood."
"First a Texas Ranger, now you guys?" The deputy shook his head.
Dean frowned. "Texas Ranger?"
"Yes, sir. Right over there." He turned and pointed down the drive. Two men stood talking. The closest stood with his back to them, jeans, a fringed leather jacket and a wide-brimmed hat overtly out of place in front of the suburban house. There was something about the way he stood, Dean thought …
"Oh, you got to be kidding me," he groaned, recognising the hipshot stance.
He ducked under the tape and walked up behind the men.
"Hey, Chuck Norris."
Garth Fitzgerald III turned around, eyes widening. "Sam? Dean? Oh … where have you guys been?"
Sam looked around uncomfortably. "Shh."
Ignoring the order, Garth stepped close and threw his arms around him. Sam froze, teeth clenched together at the unwanted and unexpected bodily contact.
"Forgot he was a hugger," he muttered, mostly to himself.
Garth let him go and turned to Dean. "Come here!"
"All right. Okay," Dean said, looking away as the scrawny, pseudo-cowboy hugged him tightly. "We're still – we're still working here," he said, disengaging himself.
Looking from one to the other, Garth grinned widely. "Uh, you guys have no idea how much I missed you."
Dean looked at the young man standing behind them. "Um, excuse us, would you?"
"Yeah, we'll be right back," Garth added, as the man nodded.
He followed Dean and Sam a few yards along the drive.
"A Texas Ranger, Garth? Seriously? We're in Missouri." Dean looked at the man's clothes, brow wrinkling.
"What? Come on. I look like a funeral director in one of those," he said, gesturing at their suits. "Wow. I heard some chatter you two were back in the batter's box, but I didn't believe it till now."
From his jacket, a song started playing and he opened the side, pulling out one of three cells that were tucked into pockets sewn into the lining. Dean looked at Sam, one brow lifted.
"Oh, uh, one sec. Um...," he said, lifting it to his ear. "Yo, Earl. What you got? A revenant. Okay, uh, you'll need a casket and some silver spikes. Oh, and don't get bit. No, it won't turn you, but it will hurt like hell. Okay, so, once you got all that, nail that sucker in, bury him, and throw away the key. Okay? All right. Hasta."
"What are you doing?" Dean stared at him.
"My job, hombre," Garth answered, tucking the phone back into its slot.
"Your job?"
"Yeah." He looked at Dean steadily.
"And since when is giving monster-killing advice your job?"
Garth shrugged. "Bobby was gone. You two were MIA. It was a weird time. Somebody had to step in and take up the slack." He glanced back over his shoulder and cleared his throat. "All right. Let's just get back to work, and we'll talk about this later, all right?"
He turned back to the young man waiting in front of the garage and walked back to him, thumbs hooked in the broad leather belt and boots jingling with some kind of hardware.
Dean looked at his brother uncertainly. "Did Garth just tell us what to do?"
Sam watched the scrawny hunter walk away, his expression equally baffled. "Seemed like that to me."
He followed Garth slowly down the drive, hearing Dean behind him. For a moment, he thought, the tension between them had vanished, driven out by the peculiarities of having to deal with Garth. He wondered if that would be a good thing or a bad thing.
"Uh, Scott Lew," Garth said, waving at Dean and Sam. "These gentlemen here are with the FBI. Mr. Lew's parents were the individuals involved in this ... unfortunate situation."
"Sorry for your loss." Dean said automatically.
"Just a few questions, Mr. Lew. Um, by any chance were your parents having ... marital problems?" Sam pulled out his notebook and pen, flipping through to a clean page.
"No. Uh, no more than anyone else," Scott said, shaking his head.
"What about your mother's health? Could this have been a seizure, a stroke, anything that might help explain this?" Sam continued, running through his mind for the usual list of normal explanations.
"I don't think so," Scott said firmly. "Um, they're checking her out at the, um, hospital right now."
"What about stranger behaviour?" Dean interjected.
"Stranger?" The young man stared at Dean. "How?"
"Hearing voices, seeing things – your mother mention anything like that?"
Scott shook his head. "My parents were married for thirty years – high-school sweethearts." He looked back to Sam. "There's no good explanation for why this happened, no matter where you want to look."
"Okay, well, thank you, Scott. We'll be in touch." Garth nodded, reaching out to squeeze the man's arm reassuringly.
Scott looked at them and walked away.
Dean turned back to Garth, swallowing his desire to point out – again – the incredible inappropriateness of the man's outfit. Garth was here, and the question was, did they work with him, or cut him loose. He and Sam were still on very shaky ground, he thought. It wouldn't hurt to have a diversion around, someone to … buffer … their necessary interactions.
His attention was diverted as Sam pulled out his EMF and ran the device over the area where the vic's car had been parked. The meter was showing nothing. He could see the stiffness of Sam's shoulders, knew he was already making up his mind that there was nothing here.
"No EMF. No traces of sulphur anywhere," Sam said, getting to his feet. "Like I thought – bust."
And there it was, Dean thought sourly.
"Hold on there, Sam," Garth said, as he poked around the workbench at the other end of the carport. "There's a lot of things to factor in here. Uh, it happened last night, so the readings could be cold by now."
Dean smiled. "Good point."
He caught Sam's sharp glance at him from the corner of his eye.
"And, uh, even if there was any sulphur, Barney Fife and his crew probably contaminated the whole crime scene and any evidence that was here with it," Garth added, taking a step toward them and looking at Sam. "I mean, you know, cops."
"He's on a roll." Dean looked at Sam smugly.
"That's one word for it," Sam muttered. Since when had Garth become the Kay Scarpetta of the hunting world, he wondered?
"Uh, guys, I think I found something." Garth picked up one foot, looking down at it. A sticky green substance stretched from the concrete floor to the bottom of his boot.
Dean's eyes narrowed. "Is that gum, or is that ectoplasm?"
"Ectoplasm is usually black, right?" Sam said, staring at it.
Garth lifted his foot higher, dipping his finger into the goo and lifting it to his nose, inhaling and touching it to his tongue. "Definitely ectoplasm."
Dean and Sam exchanged a look, both of them wearing identical expressions of revulsion. Your friend, Sam mouthed at his brother.
Looking up at them, Garth asked, "So, what are we thinking – uh, some kind of ghost, right?"
Dean looked at Sam, snapping his fingers. Sam shook his head, a slight smile dimpling one cheek. There were still things about his brother that were completely predictable, after all.
A different song played from Garth's jacket and he pulled another cell. "Uh, Ranger McCrae here."
Dean closed his eyes. "One of those things rings Hammer, I'm throwing down."
"Oh, great. Okay. Okay," Garth said, writing something onto his hand. "Thanks, Doc." He ended the call and looked at them.
"Asked the coroner to drop me a line in case the autopsy turned up anything ... unusual. And guess what? Our dead guy had the word 'Alcott'–" He lifted his hand and held it up, the word scrawled in ink over his palm. "– carved into his chest."
Sam frowned. "With what?"
"Coroner's best guess? His wife, Mary's fingernails," Garth answered, eyes widening a little.
Sam repressed a strong desire to roll his eyes at the hunter's melodrama, glancing sideways to see his brother's reaction.
Dean rubbed a hand along his jaw. "Let's go see her."
Heading back up the drive, he could feel Sam twitching beside him. He stopped at the car, Sam heading around the front to the passenger and looked at Garth who'd stopped beside him.
"We should, uh, probably take our own rides," he said, suddenly realising that Garth was thinking of joining them.
From the other side of the black roof, Sam nodded vehemently. "Yeah, we might have to split up if this woman has a lead."
"Um, okay, sure," Garth nodded and turned away and Dean got into the car with a deep sigh of relief, echoed by Sam as he got in on the other side.
"We're not working … with … him, are we?" Sam asked, turning to look at Dean.
Dean started the engine. "He was here first."
"Then let's leave him to it?" Sam stared through the windshield. "He can handle it."
Dean smiled, glancing at him. "You think?"
"Don't tell me you're okay with the-the Hunter's Help Line he's got going, Dean," Sam said irritably.
"No, but maybe he's right," he said, pulling out and following Garth's Pacer down the road. "Maybe there was a need and he's just filling it."
"Yeah? Where's he getting the time to do the research if he's out on jobs?" Sam asked belligerently. "He tasted that ectoplasm. How's he even still alive?"
"I don't know, man," Dean said, laughing a little uncomfortably at the memory. "Look, so far all we know is that there's some kind of ghost activity here. That's it." He flicked a sideways look at his brother. "Let's see what else we find out before we decide to stay or go."
"Alright." Sam exhaled softly. "But he's your friend, Dean. We have to split up, you're taking him."
Dean's mouth curled into a derisive twist.
Dean glanced around the hospital room. Like a million others, except that the patient was handcuffed to the bed and a cop was standing guard outside. He looked at Mrs Lew. She looked very much worse for wear, he thought, eyelids swollen and eyes bloodshot from crying.
"Mrs. Lew, can you tell us what happened?" Sam asked quietly.
"I was at the store getting groceries, and the next thing I know, my son Scott finds me in the driveway," Mrs Lew said. She looked down at the blanket covering her, and her voice lost its strength. "And Chester was ..."
"Do you remember anything at all about what happened? Um... Chester dying?" Sam asked gently.
Mary Lew shook her head, frowning. "Not really." She looked up at him. "Bits and pieces, I guess."
"Such as?" Dean asked.
She looked at him, and he saw the memories return, filling her eyes. "I remember his screams ... the smell of burnt rubber, and ..." She looked up at Sam, her expression bewildered. "I remember feeling so angry – it was a rage, just uncontrollable rage, like I wasn't myself. And after it was over, all that anger was – just gone."
"Uh, ma'am, does the word 'Alcott' mean anything to you?" Garth asked.
Dean watched the bewilderment and sorrow disappear from Mrs Lew's face as if wiped away, her fist clenching suddenly, pulling at the cuff.
"What does she have to do with anything?" she asked, looking from Garth to Sam.
"She?" Sam prompted.
"Oh yes. My husband, Chester, and I were going steady in high school for a few years already when we had a big fight," she said, shaking her head slightly.
"What about?" Dean asked.
"Something stupid, I'm sure. It was around prom, and so he took Sara Alcott as his date instead of me."
Dean kept his expression neutral. It didn't seem like that big a deal, not enough for the reaction she'd shown, the way her hand had clenched up. And high school … that had been years ago, decades ago … what could keep that kind of feeling going all that time?
"So, uh, this Sara Alcott was a rival for your husband's affections?" Garth looked at her.
"Sara had one night with him," Mrs Lew clarified coldly to him. "Whereas I was with Chester for thirty-seven years."
Sam watched her face fall suddenly, tears spilling from beneath her lashes.
"Of course, right. Sure," he interjected hurriedly. "Um, just one more question. Um... is... Ms. Alcott still alive?"
"So far as I know, yes." Wiping at her eyes, she looked up at him in confusion.
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Lew," Dean said quietly, turning away. Aside from the fact that the woman had some kind of serious issues with trust, he couldn't see that there was a connection at all.
They came out of the front doors of the hospital and Dean glanced over his shoulder at Sam.
"Let me get this straight. This poor guy goes to prom with some girl over thirty years ago, and because of that, he's now a pancake?"
"If this is a ghost, maybe it's some sort of possession?" Sam suggested. He stopped and frowned as something caught at his mind, some memory, some similarity. For a moment it was there, then it vanished and he tried to retrieve it, to get back that odd feeling of familiarity.
"What are you talking about? You heard her. Alcott's alive," Dean said, shaking his head. He glanced at the car, parked in front of them then turned back to his brother, brows drawing together a little as he took in Sam's expression. His brother looked like he was trying to remember if he'd left his wallet somewhere.
"Well, we're definitely gonna want to talk to her," Garth said, stopping beside them.
"Yeah, sounds like a plan," Dean said, going to the driver's door of the Impala. "Did we eat yet?"
The Rebel Yell was small and dark, but the scents wafting from the kitchen and the bottles of ice-cold beer more than made up for its lack in aestheticism, Dean decided, leaning on the table and swallowing a mouthful.
To one side of the room, a pool table was occupied, but otherwise the place was empty, some music playing so low that he could hardly make it out. A small stage on the other side of the room had a large Confederacy flag hanging behind it, suggesting the music favoured in the region.
He picked up his second burger and glanced up as a waitress brought another plate of anonymously fried somethings to Garth.
"There you go, hon," she said, putting the plate in front of him.
"Mmm. Thanks. Keep 'em coming," he smiled at her with a mouthful of food.
"All right."
Garth speared another bite. "So, Dean, give me the skinny. Where were you this past year?"
"Why don't we save what I did on my summer vacation for another time?" he suggested, smiling discouragingly at Garth.
"Aw, come on," Garth wheedled, dunking his food in ketchup and popping it into his mouth.
Dean looked at him for a moment, realising he wasn't going to be able to brush off the man's interest. He glanced at Sam.
"All right. I was in Purgatory," he said, looking at Garth, then taking a mouthful of beer.
Garth looked quizzically at Sam, then back to him. "Like the Purgatory Purgatory?"
"No, the one in Miami," Dean said flatly.
Garth wiped his mouth. "So how'd you get out?"
Dean hesitated, and saw Sam shift beside him, his expression bright and interested. He sighed inwardly and looked around the room, gesturing at the blue and red flags that were prominently displayed.
"These people know the Civil War's over, right?"
Garth ate another deep-fried something from his plate. "Mm. That's a touchy subject around these parts. See, Missouri was a border state; both the Union and the Confederacy claimed it. It didn't secede until after 1861, so, half the men were Confederate, the other half were the Union, sometimes even the families were split, you know, the brother against brother thing."
Dean looked at him thoughtfully. "You are full of surprises, Garth."
"I try," the hunter said modestly, through another mouthful.
Scott Lew pulled up outside the grocery store as his phone rang. He stopped the engine and picked it up.
"Hey, hon. Uh, just, uh, grabbing some joe on the way to the hospital, gonna bring Mom her stuff."
He looked through the windshield, grimacing as he saw a man wave at him, then walk into the store. "Oh, crap. Jeff's here. Don't worry, I'll be fine. Okay. Love you."
Perfect. The day had been bad enough. He wasn't sure how much more he could take and he realised he should've just stayed in bed. He felt a faint tremble in his throat, the first sign that his asthma was going to play up. Looking at the seat next to him, he grabbed his inhaler and took a deep blast. Just need to get the coffee and get out, he told himself firmly. No stress. No need to worry.
He reached into his mother's purse and pulled out a couple of bills and a handful of change, holding them as he tucked the inhaler into his pocket. Get the coffee and get out, he thought.
Scott walked into the store and went to the coffee pot, lifting a takeout container and pouring the coffee into it.
"Hey, Scott, how's –" Jeff started as he came around the corner of the aisle, and stopped beside him. "Uh, look, I heard about what happened with your folks. I'm really sorry. If there's – there's anything – I mean, anything – that I can do, just – just ask, man. Please."
Scott turned his head slowly to look at him, face rigid and eyes dark. "How about getting me my money back …" He threw the hot liquid in the cup over Jeff's face and neck. "…Jeff?!"
Jeff fell to the ground, his hands lifted to his face, unable to touch the scalded skin, screaming as the pain ate into him, the burns turning red. Scott looked down at him coldly. Not over yet. Not over yet. Not over yet, ran through his mind like a record with a scratch and he caught sight of a bin full of shovels, lifting one out and standing over the man on the ground, his hands gripping the long shaft, holding the blade over Jeff's chest.
"Not over yet," he whispered and drove the shovel down, hearing the ribs crack as Jeff's scream rose sharply to a shriek.
Dean walked into the store, looking around. The body, covered now, lay in the aisle, evidence markers placed here and there. He walked over to it, taking in the size and direction of the blood spray that covered the items on the shelves to both sides, the pool visible under the body, the shovel that had been tagged but not yet bagged, lying beside the body.
"Huh," he commented. They'd just spoken to the officer who'd arrested Scott Lew outside. "This thing contagious?"
Sam looked around and frowned as he saw the refrigerated cabinet. "Check that out."
Dean read the word painted there. "'Sussex.' What is that, another name?"
"I don't know." He looked over the shelving to Garth, who turned away from the sheriff he'd been talking to and headed for them.
"Hey, what'd the cops say?" Sam asked.
Garth looked down and lifted his foot, green ectoplasm adhering to the sole of his boot. "Aw, come on."
He looked up at Sam. "Not much. Uh, Scott insisted he wasn't in control of himself. Says all he remembers is a red-hot rage."
Sam glanced at Dean. "So, what is this? Some – some kind of family curse?"
"Gentlemen, surveillance is up but something is all screwy with it." Deputy Doug Wallace came up to the aisle, gesturing at the screen behind him.
They watched the attack, marred by a thick white line across the screen, precisely lining up with Scott Lew's head as he drove the shovel repeatedly into the body that was hidden by the shelving.
"Must be the camera," Wallace said, looking at them with a shrug.
"Yeah," Garth said. "Thank you, there, Deputy."
Dean looked from Sam to Garth. "You guys see the head? Ever seen anything like that before?"
"Like that? No way," Garth said, shaking his head.
"So?" Sam looked at Dean.
"So –"
"So, I'm thinking we need to talk to Sara Alcott," Garth cut him off. "I found her – although these days, she goes by Sara Brown."
"How about this?" Sam said quickly. "I'll check her out, and you two see what you can find out about Sussex."
"Word." Garth nodded.
Dean looked at his brother expressionlessly. "Awesome."
Sam smirked at him and walked past. A couple of hours of Garth's company and Dean would either be happy to see him, or ready to kill himself, he thought.
The afternoon sunshine dappled the well-tended garden. The porch was shaded, protected from the light breeze that blew along the street but cool enough for Mrs Brown to have a shawl thrown over her shoulders as she studied the FBI agent sitting opposite her, drinking sugared iced tea and looking uncomfortable. Sara Brown, nee Alcott, sat with one leg drawn up, plum-coloured slacks showing off long, slim legs.
She looked at Sam curiously. "Now, I know you didn't come all this way for my sweet tea, Agent."
Sam smiled awkwardly. "No. Um, actually, I'm – I'm here about Chester Lew."
"Oh, yes. So sad," she said, and Sam thought whatever had happened between the two of them, it had been over a long time ago. There was no emotion in her voice.
"It is. Is it true you and Chester ... dated a ways back?" he asked, looking at her.
"Well, that is an odd question for the FBI, isn't it?" she said, her brows rising slightly.
Sam exhaled. "You wouldn't believe the awkward questions I've had to ask people."
"Yeah." She laughed at his expression. "Well, yes. Yes. Me and that old tomcat, Chester, we went to prom together. That's about it."
"And that's all?" Sam asked quizzically.
"Well," she sighed, her expression becoming frank. "I wasn't exactly a good girl, if that's what you mean."
Sam looked down, letting out his breath. Yeah, he thought, that's what I mean. So much fun this part, asking women about their love-lives of decades ago. Really a blast.
She looked at him steadily. "And after that, I-I thought that Chester and I were going to make something of it, but it just wasn't meant to be." She glanced down, remembering. "And, uh, a week later, he eloped with Mary."
"Did you speak much to Mary or Chester again after that?"
"Well, it's a small town. I'd see them about, you know – picnics and such. But ... Mary kept Chester on a pretty short leash. Honestly, I'd moved on, but it seems she never did."
"And why do you think that is?"
"Well, I guess in her mind, I was a reminder of Chester's betrayal," she said, a little archly. She'd never understood it herself, Mary's jealousy of that one night. Chester had been looking for one little fling, a chance to sow his wild oats before he'd settled down with the girl he'd already known he wanted. Mary had taken the whole thing too hard, for what it was.
"Huh," Sam nodded.
"So, if that's all …?" Sara looked at him questioningly.
"Yes, uh, thank you very much for your help," Sam said, standing up with her and setting his glass down on the table.
He walked down the porch steps, looking over his shoulder as Sara went back inside the house. It was … thin, he thought. Mary's feelings had been strong, though. Strong enough for the ghost possessing her to use them against her husband of thirty-seven years?
The memory he wanted was tantalising, but distant, itching at him with its sense of familiarity. Possession, he thought, and anger. Those were the hooks that were snagging at him. But which case? Which job? When?
The small cabin was a self-accommodation unit, kitchen, living room and two beds. Dean wasn't sure how he'd let himself be talked into sharing it with Garth, but money still wasn't growing on trees. He would've given anything at that moment to have been somewhere else.
He looked back at the laptop, sitting on the table in front of him. More than a million hits on Sussex. Even narrowed down to the state and town. The movement of Garth's hand caught his eye and he lifted a hand to keep the beer bottle where it was as Garth's fingers closed around it.
"Easy there, flyweight," he said, looking up at Garth. "Last time you drank a beer, I had to pick you up off the floor." He moved the bottle closer to himself and looked back down at the screen.
"Okay," Garth said, laughing a little. "Dean, this is none of my business, but ... you seem a little wound up lately? You and Sam?"
Dean kept his gaze on the screen. "No, you had it right. It's none of your business."
"Okay," Garth said, taking a breath. "It just seems that you guys are a little tense around each other."
Dean looked up. "We're fine. Can we get back to work?"
"Yeah." He shrugged.
"Okay," Dean said, lifting his beer and swallowing a mouthful as he looked back at the screen.
"All right. Just, uh – just letting you know that I'm here for you, if you want to talk. I know sometimes Bobby, he would –"
Dean's head lifted sharply. "Garth, stop, okay? You can take over the phones, you can hand out monster-killing advice but that's it, alright?" He stared at the other man, eyes darker than they had been. "I'm warning you," he added, very softly.
Garth looked down at the journal in front of him, ignoring the little insistent alarm at the back of his mind that suggested carrying on would be a bad idea. When he'd started picking up where Bobby'd left off, he'd felt that he'd found his place, something to do that was helpful and useful. But somewhere, some place inside, he knew he was pushing the wrong man.
"Bobby belonged to all of us, Dean – not just you and Sam. Now, I'm just taking what he did and trying to do something with it. That's all!" he said, voice rising as he rationalised the injustice of Dean's remarks, feeling their sting.
He looked up when the silence had stretched out a bit too long, swallowing slightly. Dean was staring at him and Garth suddenly realised what Bobby had meant when he'd told him to watch out for Dean's temper, back when he'd called about the Vegas job. It felt like the temperature in the room had dropped fifty degrees in the last second.
"Bobby teach you how to throw a baseball, Garth? He take you hunting and show you how to hit a deer at twenty yards in the forest?" Dean asked, the deep timbre of his voice making every word sound like an individual threat.
"He drop everything and come help when you called? He stab himself in the gut for you – or anyone else – to stop a demon from killing you? He fucking die because he was on one of your goddamned crusades to save the goddamned world?" The words came out like bullets, clear and sharp, and the dark green eyes were filled with fury.
He leaned over the table, staring at the man, feeling everything inside, everything he'd buried and covered and hidden, coming up like a geyser and he dragged in a deep breath, trying to hold it all back.
"Don't tell me Bobby belonged to every-fucking-one, Garth. He raised me and Sam, when my Dad had better things to do. He was a-a father to us and no one has the claim on him that we do, no one else can be him, you understand me?"
"I-I-I didn't –"
"You didn't mean it like that? No, it's funny no one ever fucking well means it like that when they finally go too far, do they?" He slammed his hand down on the table, making the bottle and the laptop and the books jump off the surface. God, he had to get out of here. He turned away, lifting his head and sucking down a lungful of air, fighting to get it through the bands that had closed around his chest.
"Dean, I'm sorry –"
"Why don't you see if you can find something in that bourbon-drenched book of his so we can get the hell out of Dixie, all right?" Dean managed to get out, more quietly, overriding the attempted apology, looking down at the floor to keep hold of the shreds of his control.
"Yeah. I'm on it."
Dean strode away for the door, wrenching at the handle and forcing himself not to slam it open. He walked out of the cabin, pulling it quietly closed behind him.
Goddamn it, he thought, walking fast along the street, his hands jammed in his pockets and his head bowed. Goddamn it all to Hell. He'd thought he'd accepted it, thought he'd grieved, thought he'd let it go, but he hadn't and he needed something to ease the pain that was flowering inside of him, something to stop the walls from coming down. It wasn't just Bobby, he knew. Purgatory. Cas. Sam … it was all of it. Everything that had been put behind the creaking, bulging walls in his mind, not looked at, not felt, not acknowledged. There was too much and he didn't know what else to do with it except bury it and pretend none of it existed. But it wasn't staying buried.
He saw the bar at the end of the street and lengthened his stride.
"Whiskey. Double. Neat."
The bartender looked at him and turned away, taking a bottle from the shelf behind him and pouring out the shots into a tumbler.
"Thanks," Dean muttered, tossing it down. It'd been more than a year, he thought as the fire filled his mouth and raced down his throat, warming him instantly. Take it easy, or you'll be on your face.
"Same again." He put the glass on the bar and watched the man refill it.
This time he swallowed a mouthful then stood up, walking to a small table in the far corner of the bar, and sitting down. He was aware of the bartender's gaze on him, he kept his own on the glass in front of him.
The first glassful was easing the tension in his chest. A couple more and he'd be able to keep the past down, where it belonged, without losing too much edge. It was to not blur that edge that he hadn't picked up anything stronger than beer since he'd gotten out. He'd known, even when he'd been down there, that this would happen, sooner or later.
There just wasn't another way of dealing with … he thought of Benny's words suddenly … all the – everything. Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes. All the everything was about right. He thought of the stone axe but the magic had gone from it. It was just a weapon now, sitting in the trunk of the car with the other weapons. The purity of hunting in black and white had long gone, bleached out and faded and ragged from the choices he'd had to make here, in the real world, where nothing, but nothing, was black and white.
He'd lost everyone but Sam … and Sam was as good as gone. He couldn't hunt with Benny, not up here.
No one will look for you, Dean, they're all gone, and you're here … Alastair's words whispered through his mind and his eyes snapped open, fingers curling around the glass and lifting it to his mouth, his throat working as he swallowed half the contents in two gulps, feeling a light sheen of sweat beading along his forehead as he forced that memory, those memories, deeper.
No one had looked for him when he'd gone to Purgatory either. Cas had disappeared. For a time, he'd thought that the angel had been trying to repair what he'd done, to mend their broken friendship. He realised that for all Cas' talk about protecting him, the angel had still left. And he'd failed Cas, at the end.
No friends left, except the vampire who had his back.
No family left, except the brother who'd left him to rot.
He finished the whiskey and lifted the glass, waving it at the bartender.
Garth looked up as the door opened, his breath catching a little in his throat as he saw Dean come back in. He'd been gone for an hour.
"Needed some fresh air," Dean said by way of explanation as he sat down at the table, keeping his gaze firmly on the bright laptop screen.
"Yeah, no problem."
"You find anything?"
"Not yet," Garth looked at the pages in front of him. "Still looking."
"Right." Dean made his eyes focus on the words in front of him, scrolling down slowly.
He was aware of the other man's tension, but he wasn't prepared to say anything else. Wasn't able to say anything else. A name leapt out from the listings. He clicked on the link and was rewarded with a news article.
"Hey. 'Sussex' is not a who, it's a what. It's a business that went belly-up about a year ago. Look at this."
He turned the laptop around on the table top. "So, the guy that Scott brained? His old business partner – ran the company into the ground."
Garth enlarged the accompanying photo, looking at the two young man. "So, Scott had a beef with Jeff."
"Looks like," Dean said, picking up his phone as it rang.
"Hey, you're on speaker." He set the phone on the table.
"Sara Alcott's clean, if you look past the fact that she and Chester knocked boots on prom night back in the day," Sam told them, his voice loud and clear from the phone.
"Okay, so ..." Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Mary has a grudge against Sara, and Scott has a grudge against Jeff. Besides the fact this is making my head hurt, how does this add up to a ghost?"
"Guys!" Garth said, staring down at the page. "Bobby has it right here. Green goo equals a spectre."
Dean looked at him. "Which equals ghost, right?"
"Mm, yeah, kind of," Garth said distractedly, reading down the page. "A spectre is a possessing avenger, from the Norse mythology, apparently. Or Germanic. Bobby's not real clear on that. The spectre is looking for revenge on its own betrayal, whatever that was. It possesses a human and forces them to get revenge for the betrayals they feel as well."
"Bobby say anything in there about how we hunt these things?" Sam's disembodied voice asked.
"Uh …" Garth looked further down the page. "The last spectre he encountered rose shortly after someone desecrated a nearby grave." He looked at the laptop in front of him, switching to the Federal Criminal Database website and entering 'grave, vandalism, Kearney' into the search field.
"Which ... uh, there was a grave desecrated locally three days ago. It says here ... oh." He fell silent, reading. "This could get awkward."
Dean looked at him impatiently. "What?"
Garth shook his head. "Easier to show you, amigo."
Dean exhaled and looked his phone. "Sam? Meet us …" He looked at Garth questioningly.
"Town cemetery," Garth said, getting up and grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair.