AN: This is set immediately after Season 9, episode 5, Dog Dean Afternoon. Gadreel is possessing Sam, healing him after the Trials, and Sam doesn't know it. Dean still thinks it's Ezekiel and feels really guilty because Sam is worried about what's going on.
Janice did the beta work and found a buttload of mistakes. Thanks for making me look good, Janice! (My favorite mistake is when I put "stupids" instead of "students.")
I still can't respond to comments for some reason, so at the end of this chapter, I'm putting responses to everyone who left a message on A Christmas Quest.
* * *
It was actually a relief when Sam started messing on his phone as they left Enid, Oklahoma in the rearview mirror. Though it wasn't unusual for them to go hours without much talking, the silence between them since they'd left that restaurant felt stifling. Even Robert Plant's voice couldn't set Dean at ease.
Guilt was a familiar companion, but what the hell had he been thinking telling Sam "trust me"?! He was using Sam's faith in him as a weapon to keep the smartest guy he'd ever met from figuring out what Dean had allowed to be done to him. Had caused to be done to him.
As subtly as he could, Dean took a deep breath and released it slowly. He couldn't show any clear signs of distress or Sam would pick up on them, and he already looked so troubled. Damn that stupid shaman for planting ideas in Sam's head. Damn Zeke for not being more subtle. Damn –
"Dean?"
Dean bit his tongue to keep from blurting out The Secret. "Yeah?" There, that sounded casual. Right?
"You up for another hunt right away? It's in Durango, Colorado."
A rush of relief flowed through Dean. Sam was asking about a hunt, not anything else. As much as he wanted to say hell, yes, let's jump straight into a great distraction, he had to ask, "Are you up for it? Psycho dude clocked you pretty good back there."
"It's not that bad," Sam answered. He didn't even sound like he was lying.
"Okay, fine." If Sam thought it was a legit case, it almost certainly was. Dean started looking for an interstate heading west. "Tell me about it."
It turned out that Durango had a bit of a suicide problem. At least, that's what people had assumed.
"But get this. Every single person dies from hanging, and most of them never exhibited any signs of depression," Sam explained. He paused and Dean knew he was about to deliver his coup de grâce that would convince Dean that they should take the case, as if he wasn't already willing to follow Sam's lead. "They died exactly 28 days apart, and some were in rooms locked from the inside."
"Yeah, okay. How many? And when was the last one?"
"A dozen. November 17."
Dean whistled. "Twelve people died and nobody thought something was weird?"
"Sure they did after the first couple, but there isn't any physical evidence of murder." Sam frowned. "They actually suggested it was some kind of Werther effect. You know, when suicides happen in bunches." He rolled his eyes. "That's not even a real phenomenon."
"So what are you thinking? Ghost, witch, cursed object, demon?" Dean ticked off the usual suspects.
"Dunno yet. The FBI looked into it last summer as a potential serial killer case, but I'll need the laptop and good wifi to get into their database."
Dean smirked to himself. There had been a time that Sam was deeply uncomfortable impersonating law enforcement. Now he regularly hacked their databases without a second thought. "We have, what, six days until the next death?" he asked after some mental calculations. "So we'll stop for the night in a few hours, get some good grub, some research in, and a full night's sleep."
Sam frowned but didn't disagree, clearly focused on something else. "I thought maybe it had something to do with the moon," he muttered. "But the lunar cycle isn't exactly 28 days. November 17 was a full moon, but none of the other dates were." He huffed, meaning he didn't have an answer.
"Victimology?" Dean asked, curious. Sometimes the reason behind a pattern had to do with the way the victims were chosen.
"Four men, seven women, and a 14-year-old girl."
Dean winced at the last, knew Sam had done the same.
"Average age about 40, but all over the map, up to age 77. It's not a real big town, so chances are pretty good some of them knew each other." Sam drummed his fingers on the knee he had propped against the dash. "No way to tell ethnicity yet, but the town's pretty homogeneous. Hopefully, the actual FBI did some of the work for us looking for connections."
"You wanna go in as feds?" Dean asked, surprised. "Even though they were already there?"
"Why not? It isn't likely they'll come back, but the locals don't know that."
Dean tipped his head in acknowledgment. Hopefully the real g-men hadn't pissed off too many people or the badges could become more of a hindrance than help.
The "few" hours of driving turned into more like a whole day. Sam wanted to get to Durango that day even if they still had to wait until morning to talk to anybody.
They had spent some of the time spit-balling ideas and theories that they couldn't test without more information. (Dean was pretty proud of his suggestion that the ghost of an acrobat who'd screwed up his act and ended up falling off the high wire and being strangled to death by a poorly-designed safety harness was killing people who'd watched his final, tragic performance. But even that only garnered a wan smile from Sam.)
Dean then tried to get Sam to speculate on what the Colonel might have been about to tell him before the animal communication spell wore off. Sam said the dog was messing with him and patently refused to believe that that bastard of a pigeon had insulted Dean.
"You should've let me shoot that dumpster chicken," Dean complained.
But mostly, Sam brooded. Dean should be glad that Sam wasn't mad at him, but instead he just felt so damn guilty.
So he turned up the music and sang loudly enough to make Sam shake his head with fond exasperation. At least it dispelled the shadows from his eyes for a few moments.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
No surprise, Sam was awake before Dean. Actually, he hadn't slept a lot.
I want to know what you are.
He couldn't get the words out of his head, no matter how much Dean said the shaman was just crazy. Sam remembered being cut, blood all over his hand, then...what? After he'd woken up from being smacked around by the shaman, Dean had hastily wiped down his neck and face and hands and Sam had still been too out of it to notice what Dean had wiped away. When questioned later, he'd mumbled something about Chef Leo bleeding and kitchen grease.
And the kitchen had been a mess with broken glass and some of the animal parts and…
So why did Sam's memory insist he'd been wounded, maybe fatally? And what, exactly, was he? He'd harbored so much hope that the Trials would burn the demon blood out of him for good, but what if they'd made him somehow even less human than before? Or damaged him some other way?
He'd seen the way Dean looked at him lately, heard his tone of voice when Sam questioned what was happening to him. He knew that Sam wasn't okay. But in typical Dean fashion, he didn't want to admit it out loud.
Sam knew better than to trust Dr. Google, but he did some research anyway on phrases like 'lost time' and 'hallucinations.' The results were...not good, to say the least. He couldn't rule out any of the main causes, either. Head trauma (single significant or repeated) – he couldn't even begin to count how many times THAT had happened to him -- extremely high fever, even PTSD could manifest in his symptoms. And with the possible exception of the last option (and seriously, he knew he had PTSD since at least the Cage), there was very little hope of things getting better. Who knew how much permanent damage the Trials had done? Or how long it would be before Sam was a liability while hunting?
The thought was terrifying. Dean needed to hunt. And, despite everything, he wanted Sam at his side. Sam couldn't stand the idea that he might not be able to watch Dean's back much longer. Would his brother hunt alone? Find a different partner? Go crazy trying to take care of a useless brother?
Sam's thoughts had circled and circled until he decided there was no possibility of sleep and had gotten up to get some work done.
He got into the FBI database easily enough, having more experience doing so than he cared to admit. Of course, not all of the victims were included in their investigation, since it had been done before the most recent three had died. The latter's names were mentioned and the file was flagged as unsolved, but it didn't appear that anything was being done to investigate further. 'Lack of evidence to classify as murder' seemed to be the final verdict.
Just as well. They didn't want to run into any real feds while doing their own investigating.
Sam began to look for patterns. There was nothing obvious. Those who'd died jumped between men and women irregularly. Besides the 14-year old, two victims were 19, three in their 70's, and in no particular order. Employment status ran the gamut: students, full-time employment, stay-at-home mom, part-time employment, and retired. Social strata varied too. The most recent victim was Hispanic, the rest white, which matched the area's demographics well. They didn't live or work in the same area. All were found dead at businesses they frequented, from a diner to a supermarket, and it was unknown how they got inside after hours – doors were locked and no keys were found on the victims.
It was as if someone wanted every segment of society represented. Or like the victims and locations were chosen at random.
Sam scowled at his computer screen. A killer, human or otherwise, who stuck to such a strict schedule and specific method, wouldn't choose victims at random. There was a method to their madness. He only had to figure out what it was, which meant he probably had to read about every single interview the feds had done.
"Your computer piss you off?" asked Dean, in the three-pack-a-day-smoker voice he had first thing after waking up.
Sam wasn't startled. He'd heard his brother starting to stir. "Nah, just a lack of evidence. Or actually, too much evidence without a pattern that I can find."
"Yet." Dean yawned and stretched and scratched his belly. "You'll find it."
He wandered into the bathroom and Sam was hit with a stab of affection so strong he had to blink back tears. He was falling apart, maybe losing touch with reality, and Dean still trusted him without question.
Sam started in on what he'd learned when Dean came back out only to have Dean hold up a hand in a 'stop' gesture. "No, no, no. You know the rules: coffee and food, then thinking."
"Okay. Maybe I'll have something by the time you get back."
Dean squinted at him like he was speaking in a foreign language. "You're coming, dummy. Food. Good for regular people and Sasquatches too. Important even."
"Just bring me some coffee," Sam directed going back to his computer. There was a shit-ton of information and not a lot of clues, and they only had a few days before someone else was going to die.
"Fine. I'll bring you food, your majesty. But you're gonna eat what I bring." Dean picked up his t-shirt from the floor, sniffed it, and wrinkled his nose. He dug in his duffel instead and started pulling on new clothes, sticking with hunter chic for now.
"Depends what you bring," Sam answered with automatic little brother sass, biting back a smile. He knew since Dean was worried about him, he'd bring back something Sam liked because he still felt a need to take care of his little brother, but it was fun to make him bitch and sputter.
Dean delivered on the requisite crabbing and complaining for Sam's "ingratitude" and, later, on a delicious breakfast that included excellent coffee, still-warm pancakes, and even some cantaloupe cubes.
Then and only then did Sam show Dean the table he'd made with the victims and some of the stats about them, including where and when they'd died, from Bailey, Esther, 77, August 25 (waning gibbous), retired, married, mother of 4, middle class, hair salon to Wood, Thomas, 39, September 22 (waning gibbous), realtor, divorced (girlfriend), no children, upper middle class, bar.
The phases of the moon ran the gamut too, but he'd included them anyway.
"I still need to add religious affiliation and hobbies," Sam admitted. "But from what I know, there aren't any obvious signs there, either. Not much on state of mind except that every single family member and friend and coworker was 'shocked' that each person had committed suicide. Maybe it's a witch who hates people who are relatively happy." He ran a hand through his hair, aware that he was telegraphing his frustration. "And get this – Theodore Cook, the guy from July, had terrible Dupuytrens Contracture, where your hands lose flexibility. There is no way he could have tied a noose. And how did a 72-year-old Cora Ward get to the projection room of the movie theater to hang herself over the balcony when she used a walker and couldn't climb steps? The walker was left at home, by the way."
Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder so he could lean over and peer at Sam's chart more closely. It was familiar and more comforting than Sam cared to admit. "Were these people in their pajamas? Since they all died late at night?"
That...was a great question. Sam went back to the files on his computer. "I know most of the people were barefoot and a few in socks. Hey, yeah. Nightgowns, boxers and t-shirts, sleep pants and shirtless – looks like almost everyone was in their night clothes."
"Time of death had to be close to the same time too," Dean noted. "Around midnight." He hummed in thought and straightened. "Well, let's get to Durango and see what the ME has to say. You read his report yet?"
"Her, not him. And I glanced at one or two," Sam nodded. He could read fast but he hadn't had enough time to cover everything yet. "Death by strangulation. No obvious signs of coercion. No suicide notes. No defensive injuries, though they left scratch marks on their own necks, like they changed their minds and tried to get down."
"Yeesh." Dean pulled his patented disgusted face. (Sam thought he looked like an angry toddler when he did that, but he valued his life, so he'd never said so.) "Can't wait to gank whatever this is."
Sam stood, closed the laptop, and studied Dean. Overnight, bruises had risen on his neck. Sam winced. It looked like someone had tried to hang Dean. "What did Chef Leo do to your neck? Does it hurt?"
Dean touched the ring of bruises reflectively. "Said I smelled like a dog and I should have a leash. I don't notice it unless I touch it." He walked to the bathroom door and looked at his reflection in the mirror. "Good thing the collar of my fed shirt will cover it."
"Keep your wrists covered too," Sam warned. He'd noticed the bruises from Dean being bound as well. He wondered all over again how long he'd been unconscious and how it was that he was completely uninjured except for a bump on the head. There was blood on a few of his cuticles, which implied that the memory of being cut open had some merit. Except, again, he didn't have any injuries. And Dean had said…
"How about you? Your head okay?" Dean was looking concerned again, studying Sam's eyes, and he felt a flash of worry. Had he lost time again? "And your...everything else?"
Sam surreptitiously checked his watch and was relieved to see that it was exactly what time it should be. "My head is fine, Dean. And my 'everything else' too. I've gotta grab a shower. Then maybe we should get into the fed suits right away and head straight for the morgue?"
"Yeah, okay. Don't take forever, bitch."
Sam smirked and didn't answer. But he didn't linger in the shower, even if he did scrub his fingernails very fastidiously.
* * *
AN: Robert Plant is a singer who used to be part of Led Zeppelin.
I've never been to Durango, Colorado, so all my depictions are completely fictional, though I'll try to get the look and feel of the general area right.
The Werther-effect is controversial. Some psychologists claim that media coverage of suicides encourages copycat suicides, but it has never been proven. Unless you count Cuthbert Sinclair's Werther box...
Here are responses to the lovely comments on A Christmas Quest.
Timelady66: I never know if Ishould feel bad for making people cry or if I should just be flattered! A little of both, maybe. Your little brotherly argument made me laugh out loud. Scooby Doo is for any age, right?
Atlasina7: You're welcome and thank you for such a nice comment!
N.R18: Thank you – what a nice thing to say!
ncsupnatfan: I'm so glad you liked it. Happy Holidays to you too!
lisabrooks017: Thank you!
Christine: Right? I was going to have one of the addresses by on 34th Street but completely forgot. I'm not exactly subtle with my references. LOL.
muffinroo: Aw, I didn't mean to make anyone cry (though I sniffed a few times), but I am such a sucker for Christmas and schmoop and Christmassy schmoop.
Shazza19: Oh, you could kind of sense Dean behind it all? That's awesome and I love to hear (read) that. Thank you for always being so encouraging.
scootersmom: Sometimes we all need a happily ever after story, don't we? I'm such a sucker for that, especially this time of year. I'm glad you got the warm fuzzies too!
stedan: My computer would really like to make your user name into "steadfast," which wouldn't be such a stretch, since you are so faithful about commenting, which I really appreciate. I consider this a "what if" story myself. Happy Holidays!
Secretwrittenword: I'm glad you liked the names! I wondered if I was being too schmaltzy, but decided my readers could handle a sappy story for the holidays.
EmilyAnnMcGarrett-Winchester: What a fantastic user name! Emily is my all time favorite name; I even named my daughter Emily. And Steve McGarrett and the Winchesters are some of my favorite fictional characters.Thank you so much for your lovely comment and Merry Everything!
Kathy: It should not surprise me that you picture scenes the same way I do (I had a very Dickensonian feeling while I was writing) because you so often "see" things just like I did in my head. I love that! I'm glad you liked my schmoopy story. I intended to write a Weechesters one, but this is what came out. But hey, it's not Christmas yet. Who knows what might happen?
Guest: Thank you!