Chapter 40 Process of Elimination
Lebanon, Kansas
Sam stared at the pages of the book in front of him. The words were blurring, shifting slightly from side to side. He felt the growing pressure again, and flicked a glance at his brother, lifting his hands and running them up over his face and hair to hide the need to press hard against his sinus. When he looked back at Dean, he saw that the subterfuge hadn't worked. Dean's gaze was on him, dark green eyes watching him thoughtfully.
"Pain again?"
Sam nodded reluctantly. "It comes and goes."
"Reading won't help that," Dean said mildly, pushing the book he'd been looking through aside as he looked at his watch. "You need something to eat, take those pills with."
"Dean, I'm okay –"
"Spaghetti okay with you? There's leftover sauce," Dean cut him off, getting up and walking toward the rear hall.
"Yeah, that's …" Sam trailed off as he watched him go out of the library.
For the past two weeks, Dean had barely spoken. He'd spent a lot of time on the lower levels of the library, in the apothecary or in the weapons store, or on the twenty-five yard range, appearing for meals at random times.
Losing Benny had been something he'd known would affect his brother, but he hadn't realised until they'd gotten back exactly how. Sam had thought that Dean had become more or less hardened to losing people. He hadn't even spoken of Rufus or Bobby in the last nine months. Hadn't talked of Ellen or Jo for two years now, since Dearborn. And that hadn't been talking about them, really.
For a long time, he thought that his brother never mentioned the people they'd lost because he'd grieved and moved on. It'd occurred to him after the spectre case, that maybe he hadn't. Hadn't grieved. Hadn't moved on. Hadn't begun to let go. He didn't know why. And he couldn't get Dean to talk about it. At all.
Maybe that's why he commands the loyalty he does, he thought now. Because that's what he gives. Loyalty and love beyond death. He thought of the moment he'd lost that loyalty and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He hadn't seen it as a precious gift until it'd been gone and he didn't think he was ever going to get it back. Too many breaks, too many hurts between them now.
Closing the book, he got up from the table and swayed as the room spun around him. He closed his eyes tightly and gripped the back of the chair, willing it stop. It did, after a few moments. His stomach was roiling and he wasn't sure he was going to be able to keep down the food that Dean was making. Not eating would make Dean's radar sharpen on him even more. He'd have to try, even if he lost it later.
The sensation of dizziness passed and he opened his eyes, relieved to see the room still and steady again. Maybe Dean was right, he thought. Food, a couple of painkillers, some sleep … the hour or two he could usually manage would help … and not thinking about Kevin or Benny or his brother or anything for as long as he could manage it.
Dean watched Sam eating, every forkful lifted slowly and deliberately, every mouthful chewed thoroughly before swallowing. Nauseous, he thought to himself. Another blackout or a dizzy spell … something had happened while he'd been in kitchen.
The coughing was back too. He'd heard Sam in the middle of the night, hacking for minutes after he'd woken, like some four-pack-a-day smoker on the way out. Sam didn't mention it and he hadn't raised it either, waiting for his brother to admit that his worsening condition was scaring the hell out of him.
He felt a flash of guilt that he hadn't been paying that much attention to Sam the last couple of weeks, thinking that it would improve with rest, with staying here and researching and eating and sleeping. Not that Sam was eating and sleeping much.
"You want to see a doc?" he asked, as Sam looked down at his plate and exhaled audibly.
"No," Sam said quickly, looking up at him. "No, I'm – I just need to get some rest. You're right, probably overloading everything and that's what's causing the headaches."
Dean made a non-committal noise in his throat as he looked down at his plate. "Might be a good idea to get some tests done."
He glanced up at the silence that answered that remark. Sam was looking at him, his face expressionless.
"They wouldn't find anything," Sam said quietly. "And you know that."
He shrugged. "Couldn't hurt to look."
"They'd keep me in there, running more and more tests while Kevin figures out how to really bury himself."
That was probably true, Dean admitted unwillingly to himself. "Just a thought."
"Yeah, well, thanks, but it'll come good with some rest," Sam said, twirling his fork around another knot of pasta and lifting it.
Dean bit back the comment that came to mind and nodded. Maybe. It'd been two weeks and Sam wasn't improving. In fact, he thought he was getting worse. The disorientation and dizziness had started a few days after they'd gotten back. He'd watched his brother walk into one of the stacks, misjudging the aisle width. But yeah, maybe another nap would do the trick.
He watched Sam swallow the pills and wash them down with a glass of water.
"I'll lie down for a while," Sam said, getting to his feet. "Wake me if you find anything." He gestured down at the banks of computers in the war room. They'd set up a dozen bots to search the security cameras of every location they could think of that Kevin might go near. Using a version of facial recognition software, the bots scanned the images, reporting on matches to eighty-five percent. The printouts were accumulating in the printer bins but so far, there'd been nothing even close.
"I will," Dean agreed readily. He wouldn't, of course. But Sam didn't need to know that.
There wasn't a lot else they could do, he thought. Kevin had been impossible to find the last time, sending them criss-crossing the country trailing credit card leads that had been bogus. He needed to think more like the little geek, less like a hunter.
Stay away from us. I won't let you use her, won't let you use us like the others. We're not dying so you can be a hero and save the world.
The fragment of Kevin's note rose in his mind and he flinched inwardly at the memory of it. He'd never blamed Kevin for it, that open knife wound that wouldn't close, wouldn't heal. Every single time he thought of anyone he'd lost, it came back to him. The accusation had been just. Every one of them had been sacrificed to the greater good and he'd led them to those deaths, pretending to himself that he couldn't see the risk, needing them. Needing their help.
"Their deaths aren't on you, cher," Benny said, staring at him in perplexion. "They chose to help, didn't they?"
"They'd be alive if I hadn't asked."
"Doesn't make it your fault, Dean," the vampire had said, shaking his head. "No one had their arms twisted."
He'd stared at the small fire, unwilling to argue it further and had heard Benny's deep sigh from the other side.
"You're a strange bird, you know that," Benny had said softly. "You take responsibilities that aren't yours to take, wallow in the guilt like it was some kind of bath … you gotta let them go, Dean."
He'd looked up then, across the flames, seeing the deep compassion on his friend's face. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because …" he'd stopped, his gaze dropping to the fire, unable to explain that. Unable to articulate it at all, not even to himself.
"Because you feel like if you let them go, then their sacrifices will have been for nothing? Unremembered? Unsung?"
That was it, he'd realised. That was the reason. If he didn't remember their pain, no one would. And if he didn't pay for it, somehow, then their lives had been lost for nothing.
"I understand that, cher," Benny had said, his low, gravelly voice very quiet. "But it's not true. What they did, what they gave up, it's seen and remembered. You don't have to be the guardian of those memories."
But he was. And he did.
He woke, chin slipping from the slope of his palm, the feeling of falling snapping him back to consciousness. He looked around the silent library in bleary-eyed confusion as the dream, the memory, slipped away from him.
It'd been the first time he'd understood some of what drove him. Some of what he needed. And it'd been the vampire who'd seen it, who'd spelled it out for him. He shook his head slightly, pushing back at the memories of that friendship, pushing back at the pain that was tightening his chest. Like everything else, everyone else, it was gone and he wasn't sure if he should even be thinking of trying to get it back. Benny had been drowning up here. He'd told Sam he was better down there. For awhile, Dean thought, for a while it would be better, no decisions but the simple ones. But not forever.
He looked at his watch. Four forty-five. Sam had been sleeping for more than four hours, which had to be a record since the first trial. He got to his feet, stretching the stiffness out of his neck and back and walked down to the war room to check on the printers. The bins were full. Matching Asian features to eighty-five percent was a big ask.
Sighing, he pulled out an armful and took them to the map table, leaning over them as he started to leaf through.
2.45 pm. Next day.
The Impala's deep rumble was muffled by the woods, both real and illusory as Dean pulled in through the grey mist that filled the hollow, stopping a little past the utility hut.
They'd fooled around with testing the parameters of the illusions, both becoming disoriented and completely lost on one occasion, discovering that even thirty yards down the narrow lane, everything was hidden, the car, the hut, even the hillside that looked real but wasn't. From the end of the lane, where the asphalt met the road into Lebanon, the lane looked like nothing more than a short stub of road, the first gentle bend hidden by the spell's forest. It was an additional security that kept the hardest of targets – the unaware lost and the cheerful-walk-in-the-woods trespassers – from penetrating too close.
Pulling out the bags of groceries and a six pack, he locked the car and walked to the hut, the mist and forest disappearing as the iron key slid into the lock. He barely noticed the transition anymore, pushing open the door and pulling out the key as the locking rings clunked in noisy succession when he closed it behind him. Should've kept Kevin here, he thought for the five-hundredth time. It hadn't seemed like a good idea at the time, but he couldn't remember why now.
The laptop was open on the table as he'd left it, and he looked at the screen as he put the beers on the table, dropped the bags on a chair and pulled off his jacket. Pulling out the chair, he sat down and turned the screen a little more toward him. The security footage showed intersections in a half-dozen towns where the credit card trail had hinted at Kevin's presence. It was a damned sight easier than driving around.
He reached for a beer and twisted the top off as he looked at the screen, wondering if there was a way to track the kid through the data he'd been busy setting up. They needed an expert. The only expert they'd known had disappeared and was presumed dead. At least Frank had been involved for the cash, not out of any altruistic attempt to help them.
The noise from the hall pulled his attention from the footage and he watched Sam stumble out, hair flopping over half his face, his eyes still mostly shut.
"I'm telling you, give me five minutes with some clippers and –"
"Ah, shut up," Sam cut him off as he ran his hands over his face and pushed back his hair. He wasn't up for another conversation about his goddamned hair. "Uh … what time did I lay down?"
Dean looked at his watch. "You took a siesta around noon … yesterday," he said, smiling as he pulled another beer from the pack and pitched it gently toward his brother.
The bottle arced past Sam and smashed on the war room floor, Sam's head turning belatedly at the crash.
Dean looked down at the laptop. Well, could've timed that reaction with a calendar, he thought disparagingly.
Sam looked back at him, swaying a little on his feet. "I'm sorry … I … uh …"
"You okay?" Dean frowned as Sam's weight shifted back and forth unsteadily.
Sam looked at him, taking a step toward the table. "Yeah, I'm fine, I just –" He stopped, lifting his hand to his left eye as the pain lanced through his skull and he reached out to lean on the table.
Dean watched him straighten up, and take a fast step backward, his face screwed up.
"You know what," Sam said, half-turning. "I'm gonna get dressed, we should go find Kevin."
"Hey," Dean shoved his chair back, getting up and striding around the end of the table as Sam pivoted aimlessly again. "Easy, okay? Just take it easy."
Closer, Sam looked like five kinds of hell, he thought. Aside from the hair and the stubble that shadowed his face, he was too thin, his eyes were pouched and bloodshot and half-closed, his skin had an underlying grey tinge to it that Dean didn't like at all.
"We're doing everything we can, Sammy," he said, stopping in front of him. "You know that."
"Dean … we have to find him," Sam said, his eyes losing focus for a second. Dean was reminded uncomfortably of the way Kevin had looked, had been looking, struggling to decipher the tablet.
"I know. I know … Garth is out looking, and he's put a hunter APB out for Kevin," Dean said calmly. "We will do what we can – from here, while you get better, okay?"
Sam's face scrunched up disbelievingly. "I'm fine. Dean, I can still go out there – I can still hunt!"
Dean smiled at him. "Really?"
"Yes. Really," Sam said uneasily, not liking the smile.
"So you won't mind putting my concerns to rest?"
"Of course not," he stated, feeling his discomfort growing as he slowly realised that he might not be keeping up with his brother all that well, the grogginess of the long stretch of sleep still with him. "Whatever you need."
"Great," Dean said, turning away. "Come on."
"Dean, is this really necessary?" Sam trailed after him, his confidence dropping as they went down the stairs and his brother turned into the doorway for the pistol range.
Dean flipped on the lights, the caged overheads coming on in pairs down the length of the range, paper targets at the far end. He pulled out his Colt, clearing the chamber and ejecting the magazine to check the number of rounds, slamming it back in and racking the slide.
"This is stupid," Sam muttered, seeing exactly how his brother had trapped him.
Raising the gun, Dean fired twice, both bullets hitting the target in the chest.
Sam flinched at the retort and echo of the gun in the small space, feeling the slicing pain in his head again. Sometimes it felt like migraine. At others it felt like a regular headache. Or sinus. Or a brain tumour. He didn't know what it was. He didn't particularly want to find out.
"Alright, you hit that target in that bunch – you're back out there," Dean said, handing him the Colt.
Sam took the gun, mouth twisting down. "No problem."
Dean watched as he raised the gun, one-handed, the way he usually shot. He saw the tremors that ran along Sam's forearm and through his wrist and hand, saw Sam lift his other hand to steady the gun, twisting his body into a modified Weaver stance, one shoulder back as he tried to force himself to stillness.
Sam squeezed the trigger and the first bullet hit the cinderblock wall to the right of the target. The next one was wide to the left, kicking out a spurt of dust as it drilled into the concrete brick.
Dean folded his arms over his chest, looking down at the floor, chewing the corner of his lip as he waited for Sam to accept it.
Next to him, Sam stared at the holes. He hadn't had the slightest bit of control over his hands – or his wrists or arms, for that matter. It wasn't just the pain, lurking around in his head, in his lungs and along the nerves of his right arm. He'd lost strength. The weight of the gun, that had once been negligible, the recoil … he hadn't had the strength to hold it steady. He put the gun on the counter and leaned against the edge, his disappointment audible in his breathy exhale.
"Look, man," Dean said quietly. "This second trial hit you a lot harder than the first one. I don't know whether it was just more intense, or what –"
"Felt the same," Sam said quickly, then looked down. "Till the next day," he added unwillingly, remembering the exhaustion that had crashed into him as they'd driven back.
"So," Dean said, looking at him. "We're gonna sit tight. Keep an eye out." He picked up the empty casing, ejected from the port on the last shot and lying on the counter. "Until you get better," he finished, tossing the casing into the pit as he turned and walked for the door.
Sam looked down at the counter surface. He couldn't argue. He wasn't doing anything and there was fine tremble through his arms, from the shoulder to the knuckles. He straightened up slowly, clearing the chamber and putting the safety on Dean's gun automatically as he turned around.
And what if he didn't get better? The thought, not a new one, stole in. What if he never got better, only worse? How the hell were they supposed to find Kevin and finish the trials if that happened?
He shook his head, slapping the lightswitch by the door as he walked through. He was going to have to keep going, whether he was better or not. Because waiting – especially waiting for something that might not happen – was no longer an option.
A low bell tone rang in the quiet library and Sam walked to the laptop, bringing up the email client, brows lifting as he saw the sender.
"It's from Charlie," he said to his brother, looking across the room at him. He sat down and opened it, reading it out.
"In the neighbourhood, found you guys a case." Sam looked up. "Found us a case?"
"In the neighbourhood? How the hell does she know where we are?" Dean frowned over the more pertinent question.
"Well, she doesn't, not exactly, at least," Sam said, looking at the email. "She says she tracked our cells to a twenty mile radius then the signal went out." Sam flicked a glance at his brother as the implications of that sank in.
"Huh … this place must be shielded somehow," he said slowly, looking around. "Signal in but not out. At least not the location data. Now how did they get around that before –?"
"You saying that we can make and receive phone calls from here and no one can track us?" Dean asked incredulously, looking around the room and back to his brother.
Sam snorted softly. "Yeah, I don't know how but if she couldn't get a fix better than twenty miles –"
"Man, I love this place," Dean grinned. It was the best news he'd had all week. For a month. Maybe longer.
"Yeah, but it's not that simple –"
"Dude, stop the nitpicking!"
"Okay, it's a gift, but –"
"Nuh! Seriously, we're not looking in the mouth." He gestured to the laptop. "Tell her we'll meet her on the train access road, down by the bridge."
Sam shrugged inwardly as he typed the response. Charlie was resourceful and highly skilled. If this place had managed to trump her skills at finding exact locations then it had to be thoroughly shielded. He'd heard of it before, of course. Rooms without doors. Very big in science fiction.
Dean finished his beer and walked down to the war room, dumping the empty bottle and snagging his jacket from the newel post as he headed up the stairs. Retrospectively, he was beginning to like the men who'd set this place up more and more.
The car was small, nondescript and had something wrong with the timing, Dean thought as it trundled toward them from the town end of the road.
Charlie stopped and turned off the engine, getting out as Dean called out.
"Your Highness."
She smiled, closing the door and looking from him to Sam. "What's up, bitches?"
They looked tired. It was the first thought that came to her as she got closer. Dean just looked tired. Sam … Sam looked a lot worse than tired. Exhausted covered it better. Or devastated. Or wrecked even.
"You okay, Sam?" she asked immediately.
"Yeah, no, I'm good," Sam stumbled over the words, her instant and accurate appraisal throwing him. "What are you doing in Kansas?"
"Uh …" She glanced back at her car. "Comic convention. In Topeka."
Dean's eyes narrowed slightly at the obvious lie. He couldn't think of a reason why she would lie to them, but he let it go, unwilling to call her on it when there might've been a perfectly reasonable explanation. With Charlie, it was possible that she had a personal reason, and the last thing he wanted to know more of was her personal life.
Sam frowned. "What? In the middle of the week?"
"Girl's gotta get her collectibles," Charlie stated as if it were obvious. "So … are you gonna invite me into your dungeon, or do I have answer your questions three, first?"
"Uh … yeah," Sam said, glancing at his brother.
"Leave your ride here, Charlie," Dean said, straightening off the hood of the Impala. "It's easier to show you."
Charlie looked at him, one brow raised. "So it's a real hideout?"
The corner of Dean's mouth lifted on one side as he walked around to the driver's side. "Yeah, you have no idea."
"Can I ride in the front?"
"No," Sam and Dean said together. Sam looked down at his feet.
"Uh … back's too small for me," he added apologetically.
She shrugged and followed him to the car, opening the rear door and getting in behind Dean.
"So is it far?"
"You'll see."
"C'mon, really, it's gotta be pretty close, right?" she pressed, as Dean reversed back down the access road to the turnaround.
"Think we should've made her ride in the trunk?" Dean muttered under his breath.
"Dean! Look out!" Charlie squeaked from the back seat as he drove into what seemed to be a straight line of trees. She sucked in a breath when the trees flickered and faded as they passed through them, her eyes widening further as the mist started to gather around the car. "Can you see where you're going?"
"I know where I'm going," he told her dryly, slowing to a stop just past the utility hut.
Charlie looked around, her gaze passing over the hut twice before she reluctantly admitted to herself that it was the only thing here. "Is that it?"
Sam laughed as he got out. "It's good, isn't it?"
Charlie looked around doubtfully. "It's creepy."
Dean walked down the stairs to the hut and inserted the key. Charlie blinked as the forest and the mist and hut vanished, seeing Dean standing in front of a broad round doorway set into the hill.
"Hobbit house?" she murmured to herself as she followed Sam down the stairs.
She walked in the through the door, jumping as Dean closed it and the clunking of the rings thudded behind her.
"The hidden stronghold of the Litteris Hominae," Sam said, sweeping his arm out across the gallery rail. "C'mon, I'll give you the full tour."
Dean walked down the stairs behind them. "Maybe Charlie'd like a beer before the five mile hike, Sam?"
Sam looked back at him, brow creasing as he saw the warning in his brother's eyes. "Uh, sure … Charlie?"
"Yeah, whatever," Charlie said absently, staring around the war room. "Oh Sam, you gotta upgrade these, you can get much faster now. Wow."
She followed Sam up the stairs to the library, turning around and staring at the towering shelves, the polished tables, comfortable armchairs and wide hearth.
"Damn, you guys have really been holding out on me," she breathed. Sam grinned and gestured to the table.
"Have a seat."
"Holy cow," she said, sitting down. "How big is this place?"
"Five levels below us, two more above," Sam said, handing her a beer.
"All books?" she asked disbelievingly.
"Books, artefacts, supplies, weapons, training rooms, generator floor, bedrooms … the top floor is climatically controlled, holds the oldest texts."
"And this is yours … how exactly?" She looked at Dean then back to Sam.
"That is a long story, Charlie," Dean said, giving her a bland look. "What about you?"
She looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Uh … made a deal with the Yesteryear weirdos," she said brightly, turning to Sam. "We're gonna team up to stomp the Shadow Orcs." She looked at Dean. "You guys are still coming to the mid-year Jubilee, right?"
"Wouldn't miss it," Dean said, not bothering to explain that if they weren't there, it would be because they were dead. She'd been around them long enough to know that was a given.
"So, what about this case you found?" Sam asked her.
"Oh." Pulling out a tablet, she set it on the table. "When I was in Topeka, I saw this pop up over the wire. Tom Blake," she read from the file on the tablet. "A checkout clerk in Salina, who went missing on his way home from work. He was found dead yesterday, not such a big surprise, right?" She looked at Sam. "His insides were liquefied. Much more interesting."
Sam's brows rose slightly as he checked his mental files for internal liquefaction.
"Locals have no idea what happened. They tried to bury the report so that people wouldn't freak but I flagged it," she continued. "I have eliminated the following things that go bump in the night –"
"Wait a second," Sam interrupted, staring at her. "When did you become such an expert?"
"Well … after you guys left, I dug into all things monsters," she said, glancing between them.
Dean felt his heart sink. He really didn't want yet another well-meaning but inexperienced person out there, throwing themselves in harm's way.
"Charlie –"
"I'm a wee bit obsessive," she said, cutting him off. "If by 'wee bit' you might mean 'completely'."
"There's not much real information online, Charlie," Sam said, flicking a glance at Dean. He could see his brother was gearing up for a long and pointed lecture on the pitfalls, dangers and disasters of the hunting life.
"I also found this series of books," Charlie said slowly, looking at Sam from under her ember-bright bangs. "By Carver Edlund."
The atmosphere in the room changed in that instant. Sam looked at Dean, his expression hardening and Dean's gaze dropped to the table, the lecture forgotten as they both realised that Charlie knew more about them now than anyone else. Anyone other than a true fan, Dean guessed sourly, his stomach churning.
"Did those books really … happen?" she asked tentatively, seeing the stoniness of Sam's face, the discomfort on his older brother's. Guess they really did, she thought.
"Wow," she said softly. "I … uh … don't know what to say to that. I mean, I thought they must've been pretty close, because well, it's you guys, you know, and he had you down. But … um … thanks for saving the world, by the way," she said to Dean.
Dean closed his eyes. He wanted her to stop talking. In fact, if she could've stopped five minutes ago, that would've been ideal. Everything was in those books. Well, not everything – Sam's drinking demon blood hadn't been in them, but fuck, everything else. He could feel himself going foetal, at least on the inside, with the thought of it.
"And uh, sorry you have zero luck with the ladies," Charlie said to Sam, oblivious to the desolation she was creating.
"Wha –?" Sam started to protest and looked across the table at Dean as what she'd said sank in. "Wait, Charlie – how did you know about the Apocalypse?"
"It's the last book," Charlie said, looking at him. "You can't hold Lucifer, and Dean goes to Stull Cemetery, and then you get hold of him, and jump in the hole. And Dean drives to Indiana."
"What?" Dean stared at her. "No. No, those books, they finished, they, uh, finished –"
"When you went to Hell," Sam supplied, turning to look back at Charlie.
"No, the publisher did a new run for at least another forty books, maybe more," she said, shaking her head as she looked at Dean. "You get out of Hell, the angels plotted with demons to raise Lucifer – and I liked Anna, by the way," she asided to Dean. "Um … Sam kills Lilith and breaks the last seal on the cage … God saves you and then – well," she laughed a little self-consciously. "You lived it, but the last book was the prize fight that didn't happen."
"We need to find every single copy of those books … and burn them," Sam said to his brother.
"They're online now," Charlie said, wrinkling her nose ruefully at him. "So, good luck with that."
Liked Anna. Don't think about it. He'd liked Anna too until she'd come back brainwashed and tried to kill his parents. Stop thinking about it, Dean told himself furiously.
"Awesome," he said out loud, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet, trying to force the shivers spiralling around in his guts aside. "Well, you two crazy kids deal with that, and I will go see if there's anything to this case of yours."
"Uh … I'm coming with you," Sam said, throwing a look at Charlie as he got up. His foot slid out from beneath him and he lurched to one side, grabbing hold of the table as the room swam in and out of focus and his knees threatened to buckle under him.
"Uh … whoa!" Charlie got up, grabbing his shoulder as she looked at his legs. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes," Sam said through closed teeth, telling his legs to straighten up.
"No," Dean countered. "You agreed, Sam. You're taking it easy as long as you're off your game."
"I'll go with you," Charlie said immediately, looking at Dean.
He turned to look at her, wondering who or what he'd pissed off now to get this kind of flack from both his brother and the girl who'd broken her arm last time she was in the field.
"Look," he said, gathering his patience. "No disrespect, but there is a big difference between reading about hunting and actually hunting."
"I'm coming … with," Charlie said firmly.
Sam watched his brother's expression. Not really a good move to get Dean's back up before you start, he thought, glancing at Charlie's set jaw.
Dean looked back at her. "Last time you got your arm broken, you remember that, Charlie?"
"I'll be careful," she said, lifting her chin.
"Or you'll be dead," Dean said quietly, his eyes dark and cold.
"That's my decision."
"Not if you fuck up and it's me who has to pay for it," he said.
Sam could see him gauging her determination, testing and pushing at it. He looked at Charlie and saw her swallow, clearly not having thought of that side of the equation. She licked her lips.
"I won't let that happen."
Dean's mouth quirked up humourlessly to the side. "You might not get a choice."
"You need someone to back you up," she said. "I'll follow orders, I'll do exactly what you tell me, but at the worst, I'll be another pair of eyes, won't I? Someone to hold the flashlight and draw the fire?"
Sam saw the flicker of an emotion cross Dean's face and realised that was exactly what he didn't want. "Dean, either she goes, or I do. That's up to you."
Dean looked at him and turned away. "Alright, Charlie, let's see what you've got."
Charlie hurried after him.
Dean loaded the chamber and handed her the Colt. "Okay, if you can hit that target, then we can talk about you –"
Charlie lifted the .45, sighted along the barrel, told herself to squeeze, not pull and put two shots into the head of the man-shaped paper target at twenty-five yards. Dean looked at the shots. The first one had been a kill shot. Through the eye. The second might or might not have killed, but it would've incapacitated the target, and probably killed, the exit hole taking half the lower brain out.
"You been practising?"
She nodded. "My coach said my hand-eye coordination was very good," she said, looking down at the gun as she handed it back to him. "I told him it wanted to be after playing every arcade game known to mankind from the age of eight."
She looked up at him. "I'm not useless, Dean, and I know my limitations. I won't get in your way."
He looked at her thoughtfully. "You'll follow orders, no arguments?"
"Scout's honour," she said, her eyes beginning to light up. He sighed inwardly.
"Alright, but if you're going to do a ride-along, you gotta lose the novelty t-shirts," he told her, turning away, then back as she didn't move. "Come on, unless you got a piece, we need to find something more to your weight."
She sighed and followed him out of the range and back up the stairs, through the library and into the four rooms that held what Dean affectionately referred to as 'the collections'.
Looking around, and catching a lightening in his expression, she thought of Edlund's descriptions of the trunk of the black car. Here it was, multiplied by a thousand. Dean's heart of the home.
"You're a good shot, and generally speaking, we're shooting a little closer range than twenty-five yards, more like five or six, so you can get away with something lighter."
"I can handle yours," she argued. "It's a .45."
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you can but why carry the extra weight if you don't have to? Try the SIG." He gestured to the rack beside them. "It's 9mm and softer recoil."
Brows drawn together, Charlie turned to the rack, lifting off the SIG Sauer and checking that mag and chamber were empty, then dry-firing it. She hated to admit it but it was a lot lighter than the Colt, and fit better in her hand, the pull on the trigger lighter and an easier reach. She looked down at it.
"Yeah, it's okay, I guess," she said casually.
He hid a smile as he turned away, moving into the ammunition room. It was a better gun for her but he seriously doubted she'd admit that now.
Pulling out the boxes, he handed her three magazines for the handgun. "Blue dot is regular," he told her. "White dot is silver. Red dot is hollow point."
She nodded and exchanged the magazine in the gun for the blue dot, slamming it home, and checking the safety before she tucked into her waistband, the other two mags going into her jacket pockets.
"Anything else?" she asked, looking around the room.
"You got anything that'll pass for government agent in your wardrobe?"
She shook her head. "Uh … if by government agent, you mean really –"
"No, I mean government agent. FBI. Bland. Dark colours. No flash."
She sighed. "No."
His exhale was louder than hers. He shrugged and walked back out through the weapons room to the library.
"Sam, need FBI documentation and ID for Charlie, just a temporary one," he said without preamble as he walked into the room. "Do we need Yavoklevich for that or can you can do one?"
The law firm that handled the Litteris Hominae chapters had sent out new sets of ID for them a week ago, complete with business cards and phone numbers to a battery of operators that worked the lines twenty-four hours a day. Garth had been downcast when they'd turned down his offer of providing a fibby contact number for them. It wasn't that he didn't trust the hunter, so much as … well, he didn't trust him. He was known to forget to charge the batteries on the phones occasionally. And nothing said government agency like a this-number-is-out-of-service message to a law enforcement officer.
"I'll get the office to do it and we can print it out here," Sam said distractedly, reading the screen in front of him. "You got a photo?"
Dean shook his head and turned around to head for the offices on the other side of the library, glancing at his watch. "How long will it take them?" he called back over his shoulder.
"Just sent the email," Sam yelled back. "About five minutes and it'll be here."
"Right." He looked back over his shoulder for Charlie. "Keep up!"
Against the dark red curtains of the office's cloak alcove, he took a dozen shots of her, giving up when it was apparent that she wasn't going to take it seriously. He'd gotten one, straight on, no smile. It would have to do.
"Sam should have the printout for the badge and cards now," he told her, turning to go upstairs. "Grab it and your stuff, and I'll meet you at the front door in five minutes."
"Where are you going?"
He looked down at her impatiently. "As soon as you've got something suitable to wear, we're going to Salina, so I need to look the part too."
"Oh." Charlie glanced back at the library. "Right, meet you at the front door."
He sighed and kept going up the stairs. Exactly how much of a horrendous mistake was this going to be, he wondered uncomfortably?
US-24 E, Kansas
"Told you I'd find out about you, Dean," Charlie said from the passenger seat as they headed for Salina.
He flicked a glance at her. "You told me that I'd tell you," he reminded her, his tone sour.
"Well, tom-a-to, tom-ah-to," she said breezily, waving her hand. "I'm sorry I pushed hard, last time we talked."
He stared at the road. "It's fine."
Charlie hesitated, chewing the corner of her lip as she debated the pros and cons of attempting this conversation. Who dares wins, she told herself firmly.
"I just –"
He cut her off. "Charlie, don't. Don't even think about starting. There's no way I'm talking about any of it, so just … don't."
"But –"
"Yeah, see, no 'buts'," he cut her off.
"This is why you don't have friends, Dean," she muttered disappointedly.
The short laugh, as humourless as it was, surprised her.
"Yeah," he agreed. "This would be why."
Salina, Kansas
The mall was full of afternoon shoppers and Charlie had tried on fourteen different outfits, all of them incredibly unsuitable, before she emerged in a plain suit, muted and neutral looking. He nodded, pressing the photo that he'd cut down to size into the box on the badge and sealing with a square of Frisket. It wasn't as good as his, but it was rare that anyone asked for a closer look and they'd just have to wing it if someone did. It was too late now to worry about it.
"Can you wear that out?" he asked. She nodded, carrying her bag and the clothing she'd worn in over to the counter.
Dean watched her for a moment, wondering if he should've asked about the convention lie on the drive here. Charlie was a quid pro quo kind of person, he thought. She'd have wanted some truths in return. And he couldn't.
She came back from the counter, tucking her clothes into the bag and walking to a full-length mirror stand next to the dressing room to tuck her shirt back in and look over the outfit.
"What happened to Sam?" she asked, looking at him through the mirror. He looked up and shrugged.
"We got a shot at closing the gates of Hell, for good," he said, and she turned around, her eyes widening.
He smiled a little at her expression. "Yeah, that's what I thought too. There's a way to do it, but it was written by God on a piece of stone, a tablet – and only a prophet can read it."
"So Chuck's helping?"
He shook his head, shunting aside the regret. "No. We don't know what happened to Chuck," he told her. "There's a new prophet, college kid called Kevin. He managed to decipher a part of the demon tablet but it's – it was – hard work."
"Was?"
"Yeah." He looked down at the ID in his hand. "He said we had to complete three trials, tests of strength or character or who-knows-what, to be able to do the job. It was supposed to be – Sam completed the first trial, and … something happened to him. I don't know what. I don't think he knows either. He started to get sick. The second trial was worse. And he got worse. That was a couple of weeks ago."
Charlie turned back to the mirror and looked at herself absently. "Trials. Not good. Is Sam going to be strong enough for the third one?"
She watched him as he put the finished badge in the window of the ID holder, his shoulders suddenly tense. "Dean –"
"I don't know," he said shortly. "We don't know what the third trial is yet. And our prophet's in the wind."
"What about Castiel?" she said, looking at him.
"How the hell do you know about Cas?" he asked, looking at her reflection.
"The books," she reminded him, seeing his jaw tighten as he remembered them. "He seemed helpful?"
"He's MIA," he said shortly. "With a tablet of his own, doing god-knows-what." He closed the wallet, rubbing a hand over his face. He wasn't going to tell her everything, but he couldn't pretend that it wasn't some kind of a relief to be able to talk about some of it.
"I mean, to be honest, this whole thing is … I mean, Sam's a tough sonofabitch, but Cas was saying that these trials are messing with him in ways that even he can't heal."
Under the disjointed explanation, Charlie heard the edge of his fears. She knew why now, at least, she thought. Why that fear always lurked under Dean's voice when he spoke of his brother.
"Odds have been worse in the past," she offered tentatively.
He raised a brow. "That supposed to make me feel better?"
"You're both still alive?"
"Yeah." He rubbed a hand over his face. "And we both went to Hell. And we both came back a lot different to how we went in."
He saw her expression change, and swore at himself for bringing that up. "Here," he said, getting up and handing her the ID. "Got a pocket inside that thing?"
She slipped the wallet into the inside pocket. "Must be nice, having a brother, I mean. Someone to watch your back."
"Yeah," he said heavily, not wanting to go down that road either. "No brothers or sisters?"
"Actually, I have two," she told him lightly as she heard the 'no go' warning in his voice. "Their names are X-Box and PS3."
He looked away. Talking to her was getting harder. He could hear the patches of quicksand in her voice, all the brittle places that she joked about to hide what was underneath. He glanced down at her phone, sitting on the table beside him. It wouldn't hurt to take out a little insurance. Just in case there was something she wasn't telling them.
"I'm not getting any reception," he said, frowning at his cell. "Can I use your phone?"
Charlie turned back to the mirror. "Sure."
It was like walking through a minefield, she thought uneasily. She didn't know what had happened in their lives since Sam had jumped into a hole in the ground holding onto a fallen angel in his head. Obviously, he'd gotten out, and Dean had left the family he'd promised to go and live a normal life with … she sneaked a look in the mirror at him. Had he left them? Or had something worse happened?
She suddenly understood why they were so creeped out by the books. She knew so much about them, without knowing them. It felt dishonest, as if she'd come by the information in an underhand way. She guessed that, in a way, she had. It hadn't been shared, buttressed and bonded with a slowly developing trust. She knew things about them that they never would have shared voluntarily. She shivered, icy fingers slipping up her spine. That was starting to creep her out as well.
How would she feel to have her life written down, for anyone to read about, to be viewed as entertainment? Naked, she thought. Vulnerable beyond belief. She wondered if there was a way to get rid of all the copies out there, catching the thought and smiling a little at herself.
"Hey, it's me," Dean said. "You okay?"
He heard his brother's tightly controlled anger. "Yes. Dean. I'm still fine. Look, I –"
"Well, let the healing continue," Dean overrode him quickly. "I'll check in with you later."
He cut the call and handed the phone to Charlie, as she turned to face him.
"That was … abrupt," she commented.
"We're on a tight schedule."
Lebanon, Kansas
Sam looked at the phone in his hand for a moment and put it back on the counter, lifting his gaze to stare at the target. The Taurus lay on the counter, next to his hand. He could do it. He was sure of it. He wasn't going to lie down and pretend that everything was going to be okay if he just got a bit more sleep.
Sweeping the gun up in his right hand, he lifted and fired. The first bullet hit the target a couple of inches outside the right arm. The second, higher and a couple of inches above the left shoulder.
And that would be one monster unscathed, and possibly hitting some poor schmuck standing within the gun's effective range behind it. He looked down at the countertop for a long moment. Dean was right. He had no business being out there in the state he was in.
He lifted the gun again and fired. The bullet hit left of centre in the chest. Quite a bit left, but at least he was within the outline.
It would be a last resort, he told himself. He couldn't ride the pine. Not now. He needed the skills to stay sharp and it wasn't going to happen if he wasn't using them at all.
Thumbing the safety on, he turned back to the door and strode out.
Salina, Kansas
Dean knocked on the open door of the coroner's office, letting Charlie precede him inside.
Behind the desk, the coroner looked at him questioningly. "Come in."
Charlie stared at her. This was it, she thought nervously. Lying for a living. Problem. Mouth not responding. At all. She was acutely aware that her expression was similar to that of a rabbit, sitting on a road, watching the headlights of an oncoming car get larger and larger.
Dean waited a moment for Charlie to do or say anything, and smiled at the woman sitting patiently and looking at them. He pulled out his ID, holding it up and from the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie struggling to get hers out. He slid a look her way and stared pointedly at the badge she held, upside down. Charlie saw his expression and looked down, swallowing as she slapped the wallet shut and turned it around, feeling her throat close and her chest tighten in a way she'd hadn't felt since she was nine and the cold winter air and a long-awaited smile brought on a mild attack of asthma.
"I'm Special Agents Hicks, this is my partner, Special Agent Ripley, we're here about the body with the creamy filling," he said, as Charlie got her ID around the right way and held it up again.
"Ah … right," she said, "Ripley and Hicks. You two must get a lot of jokes from your co-workers."
"Uh, ma'am?" Dean looked at her with one brow raised as his stomach took a nose dive.
She smiled. "Aliens is one of my favourite movies."
"Uh …" he faltered for a second. "Oh. Yeah, just coincidence, I guess. Never seen it myself."
"I'm sure," she said, folding her hands together in front of her as she glanced at Charlie and back to Dean. "I didn't think you guys would have any interest in this case?"
"FBI, ma'am, we never leave a stone unturned," Dean said, aware that Charlie was statue-still and utterly mute beside him. "Mind if we take a peek?"
"'Course not," she said briskly. "I just need your signed Chain of Custody Request, and it's all yours."
"Sorry, the what?" Dean asked, swearing inwardly. Why was it always the women who got all bound up in the bureaucracy gig? He felt his palms dampen. She'd already noticed too much about them.
"Chain of Custody Request? From your supervisor to mine?" she clarified helpfully, her gaze flickering to Charlie again.
"Right … uh …" He pulled out a business card from the breast pocket. "You know what? You would call my ASAC and I'm sure he can give you the override, or whatever …" He walked over to the desk, holding out the card.
She looked at it and wrinkled her nose. "Nah … I'm sorry, unless he can get me the form, I can't give you access to the body."
"But … FBI," Charlie said uncertainly, her voice half a register higher than normal.
The coroner turned her head and looked directly at her. "I understand, dear. But paperwork is paperwork."
"Of course," Dean said, determinedly drawing her attention back to him. Charlie was about as much use as a – he walked confidently over to the desk and sat on the corner. "Jennifer – it is Jennifer, isn't it?" he asked, smiling warmly at her.
She looked down, laughing a little. "Yeah."
"We have been on the road all day, and this is strictly routine," he said, looking down at the name plate in front of him. "Dot the 'i', cross the 't' kind of thing."
He looked up at her, a little surprised to find that she was watching Charlie, her gaze slipping back to meet his as she smiled understandingly. Leaning toward her, his voice deepened a little. "If you could do us a solid …" he trailed off, smiling at her.
For a moment, he thought he might've had her, her gaze flickered up to Charlie for a second and back as she leaned toward him. Then she met his eyes. Hers were cold, unimpressed by the manoeuvring. Unimpressed by him.
"Come back with the signed form," she said to him, her voice as low and intimate as his had been. "I'd be happy to do you a solid."
Not a chance, he thought.
"Until then …" Her smile didn't reach her eyes. Didn't even get close. He'd seen rattlers with more personal warmth. He nodded and got up.
"Sorry to have bothered you," he said, gesturing sharply to Charlie to get out.
"No bother," Jennifer said, a very slight smile curving her lips.
Dean walked fast down the hallway and let out his breath as they got out of the building. Was he getting worse at this, he wondered? The goddamned slip up with the names. The failure to charm. What the fuck?
"That never happened in the books," Charlie said as she dragged in a deep breath.
He turned to Charlie. "Wanna tell me what happened in there?"
"I'm sorry! I froze. I couldn't Control-Alt-Delete my way out," she said in frustration. "Real life role-playing is hard."
"It's okay," he said, hiding a smile at her expression. It was a change to work with someone who was fast to admit to their mistakes. "We'll come back later when Doris Do-Right isn't here anymore."
"Oh, perfect." Charlie glanced back at the building. "Breaking and entering."
Dean frowned. "It's no different than hacking."
"Beg to differ," Charlie said, looking at him wide-eyed. "One I've doing since I was a teenager, the other I've done once, with you two walking me through it, and I had my arm broken in the process."
"What did you hack when you were a teenager?" Dean asked her.
"Uh … NORAD," Charlie said.
"Can you get us that form, signed, before the morgue shuts?" he asked, wondering if this was going to be the easier option. It would be satisfying, he thought, to put the form on Jennifer's desk and smile down into her eyes.
"Depends," Charlie hedged. "Is there a local office here, or I am crossing state lines? She'll verify the signature, which means it's gotta be legit. I could get into the database, but if there aren't scanned signatures on file that I can access, then it's going to take time to get one – the right one – that we can use." She started to talk faster as she thought through all the consequences and ramifications, all the things she'd need, would have to search for. "Then there's the whole moving around thing; with the Feds, you have stay mobile, pay phones are better than wireless unless we could tap into someone else's wireless but that would bring the Secret Service down on them –"
Dean rolled his eyes. "You know what? Forget I asked."
"It's just not that simple, especially on the road –"
"I'm hungry. You?" Dean cut her off again, turning away and heading for the car.
Charlie hurried after him, wondering if she could get the form. Not without her gear, she thought. And she couldn't just disappear for a day to drive to Topeka and back. She'd make sure, in the future, that she carried it all with her. All the time. In the trunk, like they did. She wondered if he'd let her keep the SIG. Its weight under her jacket felt remarkably reassuring.
Dean picked up the burger and took a bite, looking across at Charlie as he chewed. "How'd you find the books?"
She looked up and shrugged. "I was searching for everything related to the supernatural, to mythology, any kind of lore, I had bots running for absolutely everything. One of them retrieved the books and I downloaded the first one to see if it had anything that might be of use."
"And you recognised the names?"
She shook her head. "At first, I thought it was a coincidence. I mean, I really didn't know much about you guys, and there was no way to verify if it was you, even. But Carver Edlund got your mannerisms, your personalities, pretty much everything about you down pretty accurately and, um, after a while I recognised you," she said. "After that … I'm sorry, I just couldn't stop." She looked at him. "I can guess how that feels, but –"
He smiled coolly at her. "No, you really can't, Charlie."
"There are a lot of people out there who think that who you are, and what you guys do, is truly amazing," she said softly.
"No, they don't. They think the writer's got a good imagination. They think the characters in the books are amazing," he said, shrugging as he took another bite. "They don't know us. They wouldn't want to know us."
He ducked his head, remembering the two guys from Chuck's first convention. Demian and Barnes. Weird guys but nice enough. Naïve as hell.
"Do you hate it so much now?"
He looked up at her in surprise, mid-chew. "What?"
"This. What you're doing, you and Sam. This life," she said, gesturing vaguely.
He chewed his mouthful slowly, wondering how to answer that. "You know, everyone in those books, 'cept for Cas, now, is dead?"
Charlie frowned at him. "Everyone – like who?"
He pulled in a breath. "Like Rufus. Like Bobby. The people who helped us stop it."
Like Ellen and Jo and Ash and Pamela, he thought, shunting the memories aside. He watched the expressions crossing her face.
"I'm sorry," she said after a moment. "I –"
"It's okay," he said brusquely, brushing aside the incipient apology. "This life takes everyone, sooner or later, Charlie. It's not a maybe or sometime. It's guaranteed. Skill gets you so far, but luck … luck always runs out."
She looked away. "So … you're waiting to die?"
He snorted. "No, but it'll come anyway."
"Everyone dies, Dean."
He smiled. "Some people die in their beds, with the memories of a good life and their families around them."
"And some die in a meaningless car crash after a night of ice build up, or in a skyscraper at a normal day at work without the slightest inkling that a group of terrorists have hijacked a plane," she countered fiercely. "That's not what's important."
"No? What is?" he asked her, surprised at the passion in her voice, in her face.
"It's living. It's what you do –" she hesitated for a moment, the scene flooding back to her. "It how you spend the time that's given to you that counts."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "Is that a quote?"
Charlie's gaze dropped to her plate. "Might be."
"From Lord of the Rings, right?" he pressed, vaguely remembering the old wizard saying something like that. He'd seen the film in bits and pieces. Some of it was okay.
"Oh, alright, yes," Charlie admitted unwillingly. "Doesn't make it less true," she added, picking up her sandwich and biting into it.
The scanner under the dash crackled and Dean turned the volume up a little as he listened to the officer at the scene reporting the death.
"Charlie," Dean leaned over and shook her shoulder.
She opened her eyes and swivelled around as he started the car. "What is it?"
"Death down by the train lines, suspected homicide. Witnesses."
"What?"
"A body," he repeated. "Found in the same condition as the one we missed out on seeing at the coroner's office."
"Another attack?"
He smiled. "Wow, you're good."
"Shut up," she said, straightening in the seat. "Who found the body?"
"Couple of kids by the sounds of it."
"How do they know it's the same as the last one?"
"Kids poked the guy with a stick and he coated them."
"Ugh."
He turned the car onto the narrow asphalt road that ran alongside the train lines, seeing the flashing lights ahead.
"Maybe you should go first this time?" Charlie whispered, looking at the police, ambulance and coroner's vehicles parked around them.
"Nuh-uh, back on the horse, kiddo," Dean said, opening his door. "Come on."
Alright, Charlie told herself grimly. You can do this. Just acting, right? She'd been acting her way through life for years. Just like Scully, she suddenly thought, gaining a measure of confidence with the thought of the red-haired agent. Only taller. She pulled out her ID and held it ready as she strode to the policewoman standing behind the crime scene tape.
"Evening," Charlie said, her voice a little high, but not too bad. "Special Agent Ripley, my partner, Special Agent Hicks –"
The uniform nodded. "The other agent's already here."
She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, half-turning to look at the tall man in the suit standing close to the police car on the scene.
Charlie glanced at Dean nervously and nodded to the uniform as Dean looked past her and walked around.
Sam turned as they walked up. "What took you guys so long?"
"What the hell you doing here?" Dean asked, his expression stony.
"Working the case," Sam said shortly. "Same as you." He gestured behind him. "Jake Hill. Librarian. Went missing yesterday, no relation to the other vic. Coroner already swooped in and scooped up what was left."
"Yeah, we met her, bit of a stickler," Dean said, glancing down at the dark stain on the ground. "Well, there's no body, nothing else to see here, so why don't you head home?"
"Still have to talk to the witnesses," Sam said, a half-smile acknowledging the try.
Dean glanced at the pair of teenagers sitting by the edge of the road. "We can handle that," he said to Sam. "Charlie, why don't you go talk to the witnesses?"
"But I don't want to miss the –"
"Charlie!" Dean snapped at her. She smiled uncomfortably and turned away, walking to the kids.
"Look man, I know you're frustrated," Dean said to Sam. "But you're also sick."
"I'm not leaving, Dean," Sam said, forcing himself to stand upright and still as he felt another tremor hit his legs.
"I know you want to help, I do, but you –"
"Dean, you cannot take care of the both of us," Sam interrupted. "I need to be out here. Play through the pain, right?"
"Come on, man, don't quote me to me!" Dean said, shaking his head in exasperation.
Charlie walked back to them, looking at Dean's expression and deciding that intervention might be a good thing.
"So," she cut in. "The boys noticed something on the vic's arm, just before it covered with them with years of future therapy, said it looked like a blue handprint."
"Sounds like something you read about," Dean suggested to Sam brightly. "In a book. At home."
"I'm not leaving," Sam repeated, his voice low and harsh. "Until we find out whatever is doing this."
Dean looked at him for a moment and shrugged. "Whatever."
He turned around and started back to the car. Charlie watched him go, glancing back at Sam.
"You guys are like an old, married couple," she remarked.
"Charlie –"
She turned to look at him. "Does this mean we don't have to break into the coroner's office anymore?"
Sam looked past her to his brother. "That's a great idea."
They both turned at the clunk of a car door and the distinctive sound of the Impala's engine rumbling to life and watched Dean reverse the car back out of the narrow access road.
"Is he leaving?" Charlie asked, her voice high suddenly. "He's leaving!"
"That's alright," Sam said firmly. "I stole your car; I think I know where he's going. Come on."
"Cool." Charlie started to turn to follow him as his words penetrated. "Wait … you stole my car?"
Sam shrugged. "Let's go."