And the hardest part was letting go, not taking part
Was the hardest part
And the strangest thing was waiting for that bell to ring
It was the strangest start
…
And the hardest part was letting go, not taking part
You really broke my heart
And I tried to sing, but I couldn't think of anything
And that was the hardest part
…
I can feel it go down
You left the sweetest taste in my mouth
You're silver lining the clouds
Oh, and I
Oh, and I, I wonder what it's all about
I wonder what it's all about
Everything I know is wrong
Everything I do, it just comes undone
And everything is torn apart
Oh, and that's the hardest part
That's the hardest part
Coldplay — The Hardest Part
Without the prospect of a job in our sights, we managed to talk Sam into going to a bar rather than staying cramped in the Impala for another night. The inside was dark and packed wall to wall with people and heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke and spilled liquor. After retrieving our beers, we met Sam at a booth smack in the center of the room and used the spot to people-watch. A few girls were standing at the bar, one particular blonde in a light blue halter top who maintained eyes on Sam from the moment we walked in and only looked away to pick up her drink. It was any wonder how all the shots she kept knocking back hadn't given her the liquid courage to come over and talk to him yet.
"What do you think her name is?" Dean asked, nodding to the blonde's brunette friend.
Swallowing a mouthful of beer, I pressed my lips together and thought about it as I looked her over. Her hair was a straight honey brown with bangs clipped up off her face. She wore a bejeweled, silk green tank top and sipped on a glass of pink-tinted liquor. "Brandy," I decided.
"With an I or a Y?" he asked, poking fun at my guess.
"Hmm," I hummed, watching her closely as though that would help me figure it out. She spoke animatedly, flashing a set of straight, pearly white teeth. "I," I deduced. Dean cringed and washed the taste out of his mouth with a swig of beer.
A crinkle of paper across our table called my gaze from the bar. The sound had come from Sam straightening out the creased edges of a newspaper. "What are you doing?" I asked him.
"Is that a newspaper?" Dean added before Sam could reply, pointing to said paper in disbelief.
Sam looked up from the print, slack-jawed. "Yes," he said, voice trailing up in question.
"You brought a newspaper?" Dean rubbed his face with his free hand and let it drop to the table. "Man, come on—"
"What's wrong with that?" Sam contested, sitting up a little straighter to defend his choice.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Everything! Everything is wrong with that, Sam. You're in a bar!"
"It's not like we haven't done it before."
"Yeah, on hunts. Tonight is not a job night. It's a fun night," Dean argued, lifting his brows pointedly.
"Well, it doesn't matter," Sam grumbled, adjusting his grip on the paper. "'Cause I think I got something."
"You're right; I think you do," I commented, nodding to the blonde still stationed at the bar when Sam looked up at me quizzically. He shifted awkwardly in his seat, eyes clinking from the girl back to the newspaper like a ball in a pinball machine. Even through my buzz, I caught onto his discomfort and forewent pushing any further. Of course, Dean didn't get the same memo.
"Come on, Sam. I think you need to take a little shore leave, you know? Just a little bit," he pestered playfully. It was coming from a good place; I hope Sam knew that. "What do you think? Want me to talk to her for you?"
"No thanks," Sam said, trading his uncomfortable gaze for an exasperated eye roll. "I can get my own dates."
"Yeah, you can. But you don't."
"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, shooting an annoyed look at his brother before shifting his gaze back to the blonde and finally settling on the paper again.
"Nothing," Dean shrugged it off and took a drink.
I gestured to the article and asked, "What do you have?"
"Mark and Ann Telesca of New Paltz, New York, were both found dead in their own home a few days ago. Throats were slit. There were no prints, no murder weapons, all…" Sam's enthusiastic retelling dropped off, sudden daggers in his eyes aimed at his brother. I curiously followed and found Dean checked out—staring at a passing woman in a tight-fitting dress. I rolled my eyes and lightly smacked his chest.
"Ow!" he cried dramatically, massaging the spot I hit.
"Oh, please," I scoffed. "You're fine. Pay attention."
"All right, all right," Dean grumbled, tugging down his jacket and waving for an amused Sam to continue.
"So, no prints, no murder weapons," Sam repeated. "All doors and windows locked from the inside."
"Could just be a garden variety murder," Dean reasoned. "You know, not our department."
"No. Dad says different."
Dean flashed a surprised eyebrow. I leaned out of his arms to rest my elbows on the table. "What did John say?" I asked.
"Dad noted three murders in the same area of upstate New York," Sam explained, twisting around his father's journal and pointing to a section of map superglued to the pages. Beside it were several different entries. "First one here in nineteen-twelve, second one right here in nineteen-forty-five, and the third in nineteen-seventy," Sam read. "The same M.O. as the Telescas. Their throats were slit; doors were locked from the inside. Now, so much time had passed between murders that nobody checked the pattern—except Dad. He kept his eyes peeled for another one."
I pulled the journal closer to inspect the notes. John wrote in small, sharp letters that took up every inch of the page, going over each and every last excruciating detail, except for the one thing he couldn't figure out: what killed the victims. "God, that man is thorough," I said. Sam nodded fondly.
"So, now we got one," Dean said, drumming his knuckles on the side of his pint. "All right, I'm with you. It's worth checking out. But we can't pick this up 'til first thing, though, right?" he prompted, tightening his grip on my waist.
Sam checked his watch. "I mean, I guess," he said.
"Good," Dean smirked, peppering tipsy kisses along my jaw. Out of sheer habit, I tilted my head, giving him more access, relishing in the warmth that fluttered through me.
"Guys!" Sam called, whacking the tabletop and forcing my eyes open to his face, which was twisted in disgust. "We're in public!" he complained.
Dean peered up at him with a cocked eyebrow. "Oh, Sammy, you think that's stopped us before?" he laughed and shook his head. "Do you know us at all?"
"Sometimes I wish I didn't," Sam jested under his breath.
"Hey." Dean's smile dipped but didn't drop altogether. "You could go have some fun of your own and stop ragging on us all the time, you know."
Sam huffed and folded the newspaper into a crisp rectangle. "No thanks," he said, beginning to collect his things. "I'll just get my own room tonight—hammer some of this stuff out."
Although Dean was halfway joking, the budding tension between them, mixed with Sam's growing frustration, was a recipe for potential disaster. "How about we get going then?" I suggested before the conversation got unnecessarily heated.
"Yeah, sounds good," Dean agreed, finishing his beer in a gulp and slinking out of the booth.
I reached across the table, comfortingly patting Sam's arm. "You sure you're okay with it?"
"Yeah. Some time alone will be nice," Sam reassured. However, his eyes spoke volumes of a different nature; he was lonely. I wanted to pry, but I didn't want to make it worse—not when there was nothing I could do about it.
Since we were far from wanting the night to end, Dean and I made a quick pit stop at a local liquor store before finding the nearest motel and grabbing a couple of rooms. Sam ended up in the one all the way on the other side of the motel's lot. I wasn't sure if that was strategic or simply coincidental.
At first, I still felt terrible for leaving him, but after my fifth swig of whiskey, nearly all my concerns had vanished into thin air. The TV hummed in the background, its soft drone blending into the dimly lit room. I couldn't tell what was on; my eyes were too fuzzy, and my mind was hyper-focused on the man beside me. We sat side by side on the worn leather couch. Dean's leg was flush against mine; his arm was draped across my shoulder, fingers lazily playing with the ends of my hair, sending tingles throughout my scalp. Another sip from the bottle and the amber liquid warmed my throat, adding a pleasant buzz to the already-charged atmosphere. I gently scratched my nails up and down his thigh, swirling patterns atop his jeans. The fabric was so thick, creating far too big of a barrier between us, I decided.
"You know," I began, handing him the whiskey, "all this has me thinking."
"'Bout what?" Dean asked, his voice echoing through the bottle as he took another drink.
"I have an idea," I said, pushing to stand on slightly wobbly legs. Slowly, I began dragging up my tank top. Dean eagerly set the bottle down to give me one hundred percent of his attention. His eyes grazed my bare midsection, darkening with lust as he watched me through the haze of the alcohol. This fueled the fire within, emboldening me to shed all my layers.
Piece by piece, I let the fabric fall to the floor, revealing my curves inch by agonizing inch. Every bit of hunger within was evident in his eyes, his desire mirroring my own. Before I knew it, I was standing bare before him.
My movements were slow and deliberate as I crawled back on the couch, but Dean's hands were on me in an instant, feeling along the lines of my body with reverence. "You're gorgeous," he murmured, voice thick with desire.
"Your turn," I whispered in his ear, tugging the hem of his shirt. He sat up, allowing me to lift it off more easily. I reveled in his skin beneath my fingertips and leaned closer, trailing my lips along his collarbone. The air crackled with electricity as my hand slid lower, nails dragging down his abdomen until I reached his belt and unbuckled it. The leather rippled from its loops, leaving the final one with a quiet snap.
With his help, his pants became pooled on the floor, leaving him in only his boxers. My fingers trickled lower; Dean's breath hitched as my fingers wrapped around him, teasing him with light touches that I knew would never really be enough.
He cursed under his breath, tangling his hands in my hair as I brushed my lips against the sensitive skin below his ear. With each stroke of my hand, he grew impossibly harder beneath my touch. I slunk down between his legs, lips trailing his taut abdomen as I went until I reached the waistband of his underwear. I hooked my fingers into the fabric and slid them down, revealing him in all his glory. I paused momentarily, admiring him, before leaning in to take him into my mouth. Dean's groan of pleasure echoed in the air as I enveloped him, my tongue swirling around him, taking him deeper and deeper.
Each bob of my head brought him closer to the brink; his pants got louder, and his hands tightened in my hair. In turn, I quickened my pace, determined to push him over the edge.
Unexpectedly, Dean gently tugged my hair to still my movements. "Come here, Cherry Pie," he breathed, pulling me into his arms. I didn't put up a fuss and straddled him. Our eyes locked, dark with desire, as I lowered myself onto him, the sensation of him stretching me sending a jolt of pleasure through my entire being.
"God, baby," Dean groaned, his hands finding purchase on my waist, guiding me as I began to move. "You feel amazing." His praise sent a rush of heat across my body, and I couldn't stop the Cheshire grin that spread across my lips.
"So do you," I murmured, gently bucking my hips against his in a rhythm that was slow at first but soon quickened, fueled by passion. I leaned down to capture his lips in a hungry kiss; he tasted like whiskey and desire, an intoxicating combination that sent my senses reeling.
Our tongues tangled together as we began to lose ourselves in each other. Dean's hands roamed my body, tracing every inch that he could reach. That familiar coil of pleasure tightened within me. I gasped, breaking the kiss to bury my face in the crook of his neck; my breath raggedly came and went as I teetered on the edge.
With the sheer intensity of our overwhelming desire, it didn't long at all before pleasure exploded through me in a sharp rush that made me cry out his name. Dean followed soon after, his body shuddering beneath mine as he found release in me. We remained in the same position for a few serene moments, gently touching and caressing each other as we basked in the afterglow. Dean wasn't about to let me move, and I didn't mind one bit. There was nothing else quite like this. We entered our own little bubble, safe from the world. In here, nothing could touch us.
Eventually, when my legs began to tighten from being bent on either side of his hips for so long, I had no choice but to part from him. However, he wouldn't let me go very far, keeping me tucked into his side as we sipped the whiskey.
My eyes couldn't focus on the clock to know for sure, but I would've sworn it said two A.M. I kissed Dean's chest and sat up. "We should get some sleep," I said.
He hummed in agreement but mumbled, "Not yet."
I peered up into his glassy eyes. "No?"
"We still got half a bottle left," he said, gesturing to the pint.
"I didn't think we were supposed to finish it," I laughed.
"Hey, when was the last time we had a good time, huh?" he asked, words beginning to slur together.
I pursed my lips in thought. It had been a while. Lately, everything has been overtaken by John or a job. "You're right," I grabbed the bottle from him and took a long drink. "But—" I began, wiping my lips. "What do you say we take this party to the bed?"
Dean's eyes, although wobbly, lit up with excitement. "Hell yeah."
By the time we had fallen asleep, birds began to fill the sky with their early morning chirps. My internal clock woke me up much earlier than I expected and without much of a hangover to boot. That was a pleasant surprise. Although I was ready to get up within a few minutes, Dean clearly didn't feel the same and barely released his sleep-induced death grip around my waist long enough for me to slip out from under the covers.
After escaping the toasty confines of the bed, I ventured to the shower. The warm water did wonders for my tense muscles. I brushed my teeth and dressed in a simple black T-shirt and jeans. As far as I knew, we weren't doing anything too special today. Probably just a library run, visiting the Telescas' house, and maybe talking to the police about what happened to them.
Still drying my hair as I left the bathroom, I found a half-asleep Dean lying on his back in the middle of the bed, sprawled out like a cat. "Well, don't you look comfortable?" I commented playfully, stuffing my toothbrush and toothpaste into my toiletries bag.
Dean lifted his head a fraction from the pillow and rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. "What time is it?" he asked, groggy.
I glanced at my watch as I strapped it on and said, "Eight."
"What the hell are you doing up?"
I shrugged, though his eyes were too closed to see. "I kinda feel bad about ditching Sam the way we did," I admitted.
"We didn't ditch Sam." Dean rolled over and snuggled into the pillows, beckoning me with a lazy hand. "Come back to bed."
"I already got ready."
He cracked open an eye. "So?"
"So… we should probably get going."
Dean puffed, "Five more minutes."
"Five more minutes of what, alone time with that pillow?" I teased. Dean laughed and moved again, ever so slightly, but enough that the thin sheets slipped lower. I found myself unable to stop my gaze from drifting down along with it.
He caught me red-handed and smiled, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. "Five more minutes with you would be nice," he said softly, reaching out for me, fingertips grazing my forearm.
My skin tingled in his wake, breaking my resolve. He knew it, too. "Just five?" I asked. His smile widened, beckoning me nearer.
"Well." Dean interlocked our fingers. "Maybe a little more than that."
"Didn't you get enough last night?" I asked, my wall very clearly chipping away.
"I never get enough of you."
I chuckled. "Have those cheesy lines ever worked with anybody else?"
"They work on you. That's all that matters," he beamed confidently, tugging me closer. I rolled my eyes, pretending to resist the idea, but readily allowed him to pull me back into bed.
An hour later, we loaded up the Impala and began getting ready for our drive to New York. the moment we got settled in the car, Dean popped on his sunglasses and rested against the passenger door. In the time it took for me to drive across the lot and text Sam that we were ready, Dean had fallen asleep. I gingerly out of the car so I wouldn't wake him and greeted Sam when he exited his room with his bag slung over his shoulder, a well-rested look on his face, and fluffy, clean hair.
"How was your night?" I asked with a smile.
"All right," Sam replied, sounding more chipper than last night. He ducked to peer around me at his brother. "Is he drugged?"
I snorted out a laugh. "No, just tired. Maybe a little hungover," I said. Sam straightened up and glanced at his watch, shooting me an incredulous look. "We didn't get much sleep," I conceded. "I don't think you need to know why."
Sam considered it for a moment and grimaced. "Yeah, definitely not," he said, pulling his bag higher on his shoulder.
"Didn't think so," I sighed, pushing off the side of the Impala. "You good in the back?"
"Yup," he replied, about to get in when he stopped. A mischievous glint surpassed his eyes for the first time in a long time. Sam shuffled beside the driver's side, leaned into the open window, and sounded the horn.
The sudden, blaring sound made Dean shoot up, whipping his head around in panic until he remembered where he was and realized the culprit. "Man, that was so not cool," he complained, settling back in.
"Not my fault you're sleeping on the job," Sam laughed, sliding into the backseat with his bag.
I got settled behind the wheel while Dean wiggled down into a comfortable position. "We're not on the job yet," he mumbled, tiredly smacking his lips.
"Yeah, well, one of us is. Last night, while you two were, uh…" Sam trailed off uncomfortably. "Well, busy–"
"Good times," Dean smirked fondly, peering at me over his sunglasses.
"Mm-hm," I hummed.
"Let's not go into detail," Sam remarked passively and continued like we said nothing. "I checked the history of the house. Nothing strange about the Telescas or the people who owned the place before them. Even the grounds are safe."
"That's on paper," I chimed in. "I mean, how many times have we seen a spotless record? If John caught a pattern, there's gotta be something there."
Sam conceded with a shrug. "Maybe."
"We'll know more after we sweep the place," I said, sure that would find us a solution.
"How far away are we?" Dean asked through a yawn.
I checked my watch and then the map. "About forty-five minutes," I determined.
"Good." He folded his arms and nestled into the door again. "Wake me up when we get there."
My entire strategy operated on the faith that we would find some hint after scanning the house with EMF meters and combing through every room. I couldn't have been more wrong. An hour after arriving, we were back in the Impala with nothing to show for our search of the Telesca estate.
"All right," Dean began, wide awake now after moving around some, "so if it's not the people and it's not the house, then it had to have been the contents. Cursed object or something."
"Only all their stuff is gone, and we've got no clue where," I pointed out.
Meanwhile, in the backseat, Sam was already typing away on his computer. "Found it," he announced. He guided us to a sprawling building, three stories high and wide enough to fit at least two good-sized houses within. The inside was lined wall to wall with expensive items—artwork, pottery, jewelry, and furniture—meticulously placed on white cloth-covered tables and metallic stands. Gold-accented plates held finger foods, and shimmery flutes were filled with champagne. No one person beside me and the boys were under fifty, and they were all dressed to the nines in stuffy suits and perfectly pressed cocktail dresses. Needless to say, I felt very out of place in my jeans and T-shirt.
"Consignment auctions, estate sales. Looks like a garage sale for WASPs if you ask me," Dean said with disdain, plucking a couple of hors d'oeuvres off a plate as we passed. He offered me a tiny pastry, but I declined. We shouldn't be here, and it was painfully obvious. I didn't think my stomach could handle any food right now. Dean shrugged and shoved one of them into his mouth.
"Can I help you?" an abrupt, abrasive male voice asked from behind. I turned and found an older, well-to-do man in a black suit armed with daggers for eyes.
Dean shuffled the food to his cheek. "I'd like some champagne, please," he said in a posh voice.
"He's not a waiter," Sam informed sharply, extending his hand to the man, sporting a polite smile. "I'm Sam Connors," he introduced. The man stared at Sam's hand, not making any move to shake it. Eventually, Sam allowed the gesture to drop at his side. "That's my brother, Dean, and his wife, Victoria. We're art dealers with Connors Limited."
Dean coughed at the wife title but otherwise didn't make much of a fuss. The man cocked his head to the side, looking each of us up and down with a disapproving sneer. "You… are art dealers?" he questioned.
I straightened my spine, unwilling to let his pompous ass get under my skin. It's one thing for me to think we didn't belong, but I'd be damned if I allowed somebody else to make me feel that way. "Yes, we are," I said, lifting my chin defiantly.
"I'm Daniel Blake; this is my auction house," he said, tugging at his suit jacket with pride. "Now, this is a private showing, and I don't remember seeing you on the guest list."
"We're there, chuckles," Dean stated assuredly. "You just need to take another look." Before Blake could respond, a waiter arrived with a tray of champagne. "Oh. Finally," Dean said, swiping two glasses and handing one to me. I pinched the stem between my fingertips. It was just about as thin as the auction house owner's patience. Dean sniffed the champagne, flashing his eyebrows under Blake's scrutinizing glare before turning and walking away.
Nothing more needed to be said, so I followed him. Sam mumbled, "Cheers," to the man before exiting in the same fashion as his brother and me. Dean stopped a few tables down to knock back his entire glass in one go.
"Hey," I scolded quietly, looking over my shoulder at Blake, who was still staring—maybe even more so now.
"What?" Dean asked innocently.
"You're supposed to sip it," I said.
"Yeah, and that's dumb."
I laughed and offered him my glass after Blake finally walked away. "Want more?"
"You don't want it?" he checked. I shook my head and pushed the flute into his hand. It wasn't long before that one was emptied, and he discarded both glasses on a passing waiter's tray.
Eventually, we found what we'd been searching for: the section devoted to the Telescas. An estate sale evoked the image of an elderly person's belongings getting sold, so the last thing that came to mind was a relatively young couple. It didn't seem right that their things were being pawned off this way.
Amid all the brass pottery and diamond jewelry sat a large, worn painting of a stoic family. A man stood behind a seated woman, two boys to their right, and a little girl clutching a doll to their left. I could feel the family's strained emotions through each brush stroke. Staring at it too long tied my stomach in knots. I had to look away.
"A fine example of American Primitive, wouldn't you say?" an airy, feminine voice spoke from behind. I turned toward the sound, finding a woman around our age at the top of a spiral staircase. Her dark brown hair was styled in a low bun, with curled wisps framing her face and extending past her collarbones.
I avoided a response; not only did I not know how to answer, but it wasn't me she was speaking to, anyway. Her eyes were glued to Sam. In the brief moment she broke her gaze to wrap around the spiral, Dean hit his brother's arm with a clenched fist.
Now, when she reappeared, Sam faced her. "Well, I'd say it's more Grant Wood than Grandma Moses," he finally replied. The brunette flashed sparkling white teeth and looked down as her full cheeks flushed red. Sam's face lit up with a tentative smile of his own. "But you knew that; you just wanted to see if I did," he added knowingly.
Was this… flirting? I couldn't decide, and Dean was no help, now focused on grabbing more food from another passing waiter. I definitely shouldn't have been staring at Sam and this mystery girl the way I was—lips parted, and brows ticked up to my hairline—but I couldn't stop.
"Guilty," she admitted. "And clumsy. I apologize. I'm Sarah Blake."
Blake. A relative of Daniel, no doubt, only her presence was far less crucifying.
"I'm Sam. This is—" Sam's introduction came to a hard stop when he found me frozen in place, mouth agape like a fish, and Dean with his cheek puffed out like a hamster. "My brother, Dean," he finally forced himself to continue, "and his wife, Victoria."
This time, Dean barely acknowledged Sam calling me his wife. Instead, he wrapped an arm around my waist. I internally smacked the shock that I still wore due to Sam's flirtatious nature with Sarah off my face and smiled at her. "Nice to meet you," I said.
"Likewise," she replied sweetly, hands clasped before her. "Dean, can we get you some more mini-quiche?"
"Mh-mnh," Dean declined through the food in his mouth. "I'm good, thanks."
Judging by the smile Sarah sported, she saw me not-so-discreetly nudge Dean's ribs in an effort to get him to swallow. When she returned her eyes to Sam, they lit up like fireworks. He had to have seen that, right? There's no way he could ignore it. "Can I help you with something?" she asked.
"Yeah, actually," Sam said. "What can you tell us about the Telesca estate?"
"The whole thing's pretty grisly if you ask me, selling their things this soon," Sarah said. "But Dad's right about one thing. Sensationalism brings out the crowds—even the rich ones."
This time, when the two exchanged dewy-eyed smiles, Dean took notice. He looked at me to confirm that I had seen the same thing. I seconded his shock with a short nod that hopefully only he would pay attention to. Though I was about ninety-five percent sure neither Sarah nor Sam would've noticed, they were far too lost in each other's eyes.
"Is it possible to see the provenances?" Sam inquired hopefully.
"I'm afraid there isn't any chance of that," Daniel Blake materialized behind Sarah, answering before she could reply.
"Why not?"
"You're not on the guest list. And I think it's time to leave."
"Well, we don't have to be told twice–" Dean said in an even more exaggerated version of the ritzy voice he'd done before.
Blake's nose twitched in an almost menacing way. "Apparently, you do," he retorted.
"Okay. It's all right," Sam said, holding up his hands. "We don't want any trouble; we'll go."
One sharp right turn down the road took you from the hoity-toity side of town into a less aesthetically appealing section of shopping centers and hotels. A short ten-minute drive later, we arrived at the motel where we'd be staying for at least the next few days while we attempted to get to the bottom of all this mess.
The sun was out, shining warmth down on us, a much-welcomed break from the otherwise bleak weather we'd been stuck in. I slipped out of the backseat, dragging my bag along with me. I barely stood before Dean took it out of my hand and slung it over his shoulder. Since he was carrying the bags, I snatched the keys and headed for the door.
"Grant Wood, Grandma Moses?" Dean continued his barrage of questions about his brother's knowledge, which started as soon as we left the auction house.
"Art history course," Sam defended his proficiency on the obscure subject. "I heard it was good for meeting girls."
I paused with the key halfway in the lock and asked, "Did it work?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah, actually."
"It's like I don't even know you," Dean commented.
The laugh bubbling from my throat cut off abruptly as I swung the door open. Two of the four walls were black, leaving the others covered in a horrendously eye-crossing black and white houndstooth wallpaper. All the chairs were metal and looked like they belonged more in an art gallery than a motel room in the middle of nowhere. The divider separating the kitchenette from the beds was a bunch of little silver circles and beads. And speaking of the beds, they certainly didn't assist with vertigo—covered in a bedspread with a pattern similar to the walls. It was as though the seventies' retro era projectile vomited everywhere.
"Huh." Sam and Dean mumbled in unison.
"What is this, Saturday Night Fever?" I mumbled, inspecting the Do Not Disturb sign with a silhouette of a disco-dancing man on it. "I'm picking the place we stay next time."
"Yeah, good idea," Dean said, plopping the bags on the floor near one of the two beds and claiming it as ours. "Hey, what was providence?"
"Prov-e-nance," Sam corrected. "It's a certificate of origin, like a biography. You know we can use them to check the history of the pieces, see if any of them have a freaky past."
"Well, we're not getting anything out of chuckles, but," Dean snapped his fingers appreciatively, "Sarah."
Sam grinned, beginning to dig around his bag for shirts to unpack. "Yeah, maybe you can get her to write it all down on a cocktail napkin."
Dean laughed, "Not me."
"Who then? Tori?"
"She was pretty hot," I teased.
Dean's head whipped around so fast I heard his neck crack. "Wait, what?" he asked.
"Whatever you're thinking—" I held up a hand and said, "don't." His shoulders slumped, and he returned to unpacking while I perched on the edge of our bed. "It's gotta be you, Sam."
"Why me?" he asked. "Pick-ups are Dean's thing."
"It wasn't my butt she was checking out," Dean mumbled.
"He's right," I pointed out. I nudged Dean's leg with the toe of my boot and whispered, "It was mine."
"Come on," Dean said, almost reprimanding. I gave up the joke and sobered for his benefit.
"She was totally into you, Sam," I said, busying myself untying my shoelaces.
"How do you know?" Sam inquired, looking more available to the idea than before.
"Because I'm a girl, and we don't smile like that at just anybody. Trust me; she wouldn't say no."
His features filled with realization. "So, you guys want me to use her to get information."
"Sometimes you gotta take one for the team," Dean said, shrugging like it was no big deal. Because to him, it wasn't. "Call her."
"It can't hurt," I agreed. "You might even have a little fun."
Although he tried to appear like he didn't want to do it, there was a smidge of excitement beneath Sam's guarded exterior as he took out his phone and went outside. I wasn't worried for one single second that he'd face rejection. Sarah would probably say yes before the question even left his lips.
Dean sighed and peeled off his jacket, tossing it onto a chair. "Only Sam would meet a hot chick at an estate sale."
I chuckled and kicked off my boots. "It's certainly more fitting than a bar, don't you think?"
"Doesn't make it any less nuts."
"I think she really likes him."
Dean nodded thoughtfully. "You know, I haven't seen him look at someone like that since Annie Martin."
"The head of the book club in Billings?" I asked, just to confirm that my memory hadn't failed, and she was the Annie we went to high school with for about a week and a half.
"That's the one."
"God, Sam had a huge crush on her," I said, momentarily drifting back. Every single day, Annie wore her red hair in braids and constantly had to push thick glasses up her freckled nose. She was incredibly sweet, and Sam was enthralled. After he got over his nerves, they started sitting together at lunch and bonding over whatever they were both interested in at the time. Then, John returned, and we had to leave a few days later, and Sam never spoke about her again.
The door creaked open, and Sam let out a loud sigh as he reentered the room. I teetered on the edge of the mattress, waiting for the outcome. He fought very hard to keep his smile at bay. "She said yes," he said. "So…"
"Told you so," Dean mumbled, unfurling a pair of jeans from his bag.
"Where are you taking her?" I asked.
"Where–" Sam blinked a few times. "Well, I hadn't thought about that."
"It's gotta be somewhere good."
"Yeah, but–"
"And you have to look nice," I insisted, going to his bed to sort through his unpacked bag. Sam certainly couldn't take her out in jeans and a canvas jacket; I wouldn't allow it. All this sorting through clothes reminded me of years past when I would help him prepare for dates. Granted, we were kids, but it wasn't about to stop just because he was twenty-three. This was still special, and he had to act like it.
Eventually, we—really I—settled on a light blue button-down and a pair of dress pants he never wanted to wear because they weren't comfortable enough. The joke Dean cracked about them not being on for long if Sam played his cards right—while funny—didn't help ease his brother's nerves. Sam barely cracked a smile. Thankfully, he seemed to have calmed down considerably by the time he left to pick Sarah up.
Dean walked up behind me, hands squeezing my arms. "They grow up so fast," he joked, eliciting a laugh from me as I leaned back into his embrace.
"Well, now we've got the whole night alone," I said with a grin. "Again."
"When does that ever happen?" he asked, lips brushing against my neck. "Too bad we're stuck in Disco Fever. What a buzzkill."
"Well, I don't know, there is one upside to this room…" I trailed off, maintaining my coy smirk.
"Oh yeah?" Dean looked intrigued, his curiosity piqued by my suggestive tone. "What's that? The groovy wallpaper?"
"No. The bathtub is huge," I revealed.
"You don't say?" he played along just as I hoped he would. "Well, I think we need to test it out. You know, for quality control. Make sure it can fit two people."
"Funny," I replied with a mischievous glint in my eye, "I was thinking the exact same thing."
The tips of my hair dipped just below the surface of the warm, soapy water as I nestled against Dean's chest. These days, it was a rare opportunity to have an entire night all to ourselves, let alone two in a row. I basked in every moment, the tender kisses Dean placed on my head and the soft trails he made down my arms with his fingertips.
"This is nice," I murmured, slipping lower beneath the water until it reached my collarbones. "What are the chances we get to do this more often?"
"Pretty good, as long as we keep ditching Sam," Dean joked, although there was an underlying layer of seriousness there.
"Wait a minute, I thought we didn't do that?"
"Eh," he said with a shrug, not fully committing to the admission. "Look, he's gotta spread his wings. Get back out there."
"At least he went out tonight," I reasoned.
"Yeah," Dean scoffed. "Only for the info."
"Whatever works."
"Hopefully, he won't ruin it by being a giant dork."
"Some girls like dorks," I said, absentmindedly adding, "I like you."
"Whoa." Dean's head snapped back incredulously. The sharp movement made the water slosh. "I am not a dork."
I peered back at him, nose scrunched. "Just a little."
He huffed out a laugh. "Not a chance."
"There's nothing wrong with it, you know. You're passionate about the things you like; it's cute."
"Cute?" Dean protested.
I lifted my shoulders and let them drop, making waves in the bubbles. "I said what I said."
He scowled. "Nothing I like is dorky, anyway."
"Sure," I laughed. "But you do know that not everyone knows the difference between the Vulcans and the Romans–"
"Back up." Dean held up a finger. "They're called Romulans," he corrected. "How could you not know the difference?"
"They literally look the same!" I defended.
"Well, they're not! I mean, yeah, technically, they're related, but really, the only reason they look the same in the original series is because of the—" Dean caught the slack-jawed expression I sported and rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter. Bottom line, that's not dorky. Those are essential aspects of civilized American culture."
"Star Trek?" I asked, simultaneously flabbergasted and endeared by his enthusiasm.
"Hell, yeah." Dean nodded ardently. "Now, what's dorky is art history, which is why Sam did so good in it. I mean, who cares what style it is? Art is art!"
"Baby," I interjected, trying to suppress my amusement, "you're gonna pop a blood vessel."
"Hey, I just wanna make sure we're on the same page about what's dorky and what's not," he said, sitting up a little straighter, proud of his convictions.
"Oh, yeah." I deadpanned. "That totally cleared it up."
"Besides." A devilish look came across Dean's face as his hand dipped below the water and started traveling across my stomach; anticipation coursed through me. "You think a dork would do this?"
Feigning indifference, I raised a playful eyebrow. "Depends."
"Oh yeah?" he prompted, his smoldering gaze locking me in as his fingers drifted further south. "On what?"
I couldn't help but tease him, my lips curling into a smirk. "On whether he knows what he's doing," I replied coyly.
Dean traced lingering patterns on my skin. "Well, you tell me," he whispered into my ear, his voice husky with desire. "Do I seem like I know what I'm doing?"
My breath hitched at his proximity, the heat of his body sending shivers racing down my spine. "Maybe," I murmured, unable to suppress the longing in my voice any longer. Our conversation quickly became a distant memory after that.
Neither of us anticipated Sam being out the entire night; however, his return precisely at eleven p.m. was not in the cards. Dean and I had just finished getting into some comfy clothes and settled in bed to start a movie when the lock clicked, and the door inched open. After ensuring the coast was clear and we were dressed, Sam shuffled inside, clutching a manilla folder.
"Back so soon?" Dean quipped, shutting off the TV and tossing the remote on the bed between us.
Sam plopped the folder on the table and shrugged off his suit jacket. "I've been gone for four hours," he stated, as though it were a significant amount of time. For him, it was, I suppose, considering it was the first time in a while that he'd gone somewhere not hunting-related.
Seconds passed, the air between us growing increasingly stagnant. I thought for sure that by now, Sam would've divulged a detail or two or, at the very least, said he had a good time. Instead, he seemed preoccupied only with getting comfortable.
"So...?" I prodded, hoping to prompt some conversation.
"Yeah?" Sam glanced up from undoing the top button on his shirt, appearing oblivious to my impatience.
Rolling my eyes, I pressed, "How did your date go?"
"It wasn't a date," he denied and sat down to take off his shoes.
I shared a confused look with Dean. "It wasn't?" he asked.
"No," Sam replied.
"What the hell was it then?" I wondered.
"I mean, it was… nice, I guess." He shrugged. "I got what we need."
"Nice? That's it?" Dean wondered, not at all trying to hide his confusion. "And she just handed the providences over to you?"
"Provenances," Sam corrected. "We went back to her place; I got a copy of the papers–"
"And then?" I inquired, perhaps sounding more hopeful than I should.
"And then, nothing," Sam replied flatly, avoiding eye contact with either of us like the plague as he began to leaf through the documents.
It was my turn to allow disappointment to shine. "Really?"
"Yes. Really."
"You didn't have to con her or do any special favors or anything like that?" Dean asked playfully but with a hint of skepticism.
Sam let his hands fall to his lap with a quiet slap. "Would you guys get your minds out of the gutter, please?" he requested snippily.
I held my hands up in surrender. "All we're saying is that she brought you back there for a reason," I pointed out. It wasn't a stretch to imagine Sarah wanted more out of it all if she allowed him into her home.
"Yeah," Sam replied in an obvious tone and lifted the short stack of papers, "to get a copy of the provenances."
I tried and failed to massage the tension out of my temple. There's no way he was that clueless, right?
Dean clicked his tongue in disapproval. "How are we related?" he asked incredulously.
"You know, it's a little creepy how interested you two are in my… personal relationships," Sam said with a hint of embarrassment.
"Personal relationships?" Dean barked out a laugh. "What are you, Amish?"
Sam pursed his lips so hard his nostrils flared. "Very funny," he mumbled dryly.
"Hang on a second, I'm serious here," Dean insisted, sobering up. "You know, when this whole thing's done, we could stick around for a bit."
"Why?"
"So you could take her out again. It's obvious you're into her, even I can see that," Dean said.
Rather than acknowledge his brother, Sam returned to the papers. My internal frustration was mirrored by Dean tossing up a hand in disbelief. Before either of us could find something else to add, Sam announced, "Wait, I think I've got something here."
Dean sighed and begrudgingly crossed the room to take a look at the page. "Portrait of Isaiah Merchant's family painted nineteen-ten," he read.
"Now compare the names of the owners with Dad's journal," Sam said, pushing the leather-bound book across the table.
"First purchased in nineteen-twelve, Peter Simms." Dean leafed through the documents and compared all the evidence. "Peter Simms murdered nineteen-twelve. Same thing in nineteen-forty-five, and then again in nineteen-seventy."
"Then stored until it was donated to a charity auction last month where the Telescas bought it," Sam said. "So what do you think? Is it haunted or cursed?"
"Maybe it's both," I suggested. "You know, started cursed and then became haunted after all the death it caused."
Dean considered it, then tilted his lips in a shrug. "Either way, it's toast," he decided.
A running start was all it took for the boys to scale the tall gate separating us from the Blake's auction house. One after another, they landed on the other side with a quiet thump and waited for me. The high mental loomed above—seemingly too high to get over. There was no time to contemplate another route, though; this was it.
"Come on!" Dean hissed when I took longer than a second to clear it.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm not eight thousand feet tall!" I shot back, gaining two eye rolls in response.
Once I got a good grip on the iron with my gloved hand and sandwiched my foot between the bars, I pulled, using the momentum to lift myself high enough so my other foot could reach the second horizontal rung. Finally, I reached the top of the fence and swung my leg over. Surprisingly, getting down was the easy part. I positioned myself in the center of the gate and slid toward the ground.
Halfway down, Dean helped me to my feet by gripping my waist. He kept hold of me long after my boots were flat on the concrete. I peered over my shoulder at him. "All right, all right," I said, playfully elbowing him off.
"What? I'm just helping," Dean claimed innocently, throwing a wink my way.
"Let's go," Sam prompted, gesturing pointedly toward the dark auction house.
One disarmed security system and picked lock later, and we were in. The painting had been moved since we were last here, but the eyesore passed off as artwork wasn't too challenging to locate. Dean used his switchblade to cut the canvas from its gaudy gold frame. I carefully rolled up the painting and tucked it under my arm so we could make our escape.
Deep into the forest on a desolate dirt road fifteen minutes from Blake's auction house, with only the moonlight to guide us, we dug a shallow grave and plopped the painting in. It unfurled to look at us, almost like it knew what we were about to do.
"Ugly ass thing," Dean commented, pulling out a box of matches and striking one. "If you ask me, we're doing the art world a favor."
"Couldn't agree more," I agreed, propping my hands on my hips. "Torch the sucker."
With a flick of his wrist, Dean tossed the lit match. It landed squarely in the center of the canvas; shades of orange and yellow flickered and danced across the image, casting eerie shadows in the darkness. Gradually, the painting curled and blackened, turning to ash before our eyes.
Our return to the motel gave us just enough time to catch a few hours of sleep before getting back on the road—at least, that's what Sam thought.
"We got a problem," Dean announced, rushing out of the bathroom and patting his pockets. "I can't find my wallet."
"How is that our problem?" Sam asked, looking up from the shirt he was meticulously folding.
"'Cause I think I dropped it in the warehouse last night!" Dean exclaimed, voice wobbling as he tugged on his jacket in a panic. I was actually quite surprised at how hard he was selling this impromptu scheme he cooked up at the crack of dawn. At first, I was a little hesitant when Dean asked if I'd be down to play along. Although I didn't want to pressure Sam into a situation he was uncomfortable with, it was evident that he had feelings for Sarah, but it was also painfully obvious he wouldn't act on them without a gentle nudge in the right direction.
"You're kidding me, right?" I asked, forcing my voice to tremble with irritation I didn't really feel.
"Nope. Not kidding," Dean said, tossing my jacket to me. I hurried up and shrugged it on. "It's got my prints, my ID–" he corrected himself, "Well, my fake ID anyway. We gotta get it before someone else finds it."
Sam huffed but otherwise remained calm. "All right, well, you guys go look for it, and I'll stay here and finish packing," he offered, putting a sizeable dent in our plan. Thankfully, I wasn't facing him because the wide-eyed look I shot Dean would've been a dead giveaway.
"No way, man," Dean said, not breaking a sweat at the hiccup or his stride to the door. "This is an all-hands-on-deck situation. Let's go."
"You gotta be kidding," Sam complained, looking to me for support.
"We can pack later; this is more important," I reiterated, heading for the car. It wasn't a lie, not totally. This was more important. Behind me, I heard the shirt Sam was folding hit the bed with a slap against the comforter. Dean was already in the Impala when I slipped into the backseat. "He's gonna kill us when he finds out," I said.
"He'll get over it," Dean said, laying on the horn until Sam dashed from the room.
Even though the auction house had only been open for twenty minutes or so, a fair number of people had already trickled in. We retraced the path we'd taken last night to look for the wallet. Whenever Sam was otherwise preoccupied, Dean and I half-assed our search, barely overturning items or peering inside doorways, or looking through storage crates.
All the while avoiding employees… except for the one we wanted to run into, of course.
"How do you lose your wallet, Dean?" Sam remarked in frustration. Dean threw his hands up and ducked to look beneath an old, rickety table. I inspected the soil beneath the fans of a large potted palm tree plant. Sam probably would've noticed that my search lacked urgency if he hadn't been so frantic. I almost felt bad for getting him so frazzled until, through the sharp leaves, I spotted Sarah on her way to the roped-off steps leading upstairs. I perked up long before she caught sight of us and skidded to a stop, her black heels clinking along the linoleum floor as she did.
"Hey guys!" she greeted us brightly.
"Sarah!" Sam exclaimed in a mixture of shock and fear, hurrying to set down the box he'd just picked up and face her. "Hey!"
The brunette looked over the scene before her with furrowed brows: Sam panting heavily, Dean awkwardly resting on an antique cabinet, and me half-hidden behind a plant. "What are you doing here?" she asked.
"We are—" Sam stuttered, struggling to devise a decent excuse on the fly. "We're leaving town, and, you know, we came to say goodbye." The instant Sarah heard this, all the light in her eyes dissipated. She looked gutted by the news.
"What are you talking about, Sam?" Dean asked, approaching his brother. I took it as my cue to abandon my post at the palm tree and follow him. "We're sticking around for at least another day or two."
Thoroughly confused, Sam silently asked me for an explanation of this sudden change in plans. I didn't give him one, though, instead turning to Dean. "Don't forget to give Sam that money you owe him," I said and redirected my attention to Sarah. "He never remembers."
"Oh, duh." Dean tapped the side of his temple. "She's right," he told the amused brunette, "I always forget." He smiled wide and produced the wallet from his pocket, where it had been all along. Behind the calm front Sam put on for Sarah's sake, he was burning with annoyance. Dean pulled out a twenty and handed it over. "There you go."
Sam snatched the money and stuffed it into his pocket. There's no way Dean would be getting that back.
"Well, we'll leave you two crazy kids alone. We gotta go do something… somewhere," Dean said, draping an arm around my shoulders. Sarah's smile told me everything: she wasn't stupid. She knew what we were up to but didn't seem to mind one bit. I patted Sam's arm as Dean and I left, going just far enough away that we were out of sight but remaining close enough to listen.
"So..." Sam trailed off, rocking back and forth.
"I had a good time last night," Sarah said sweetly.
"Aww," I cooed quietly, excitedly squeezing Dean's arm.
Sam stuffed his hands into his pockets and answered her, "Yeah, yeah. I did, too."
"Maybe we should do it again sometime," she suggested eagerly.
From our vantage point, I couldn't see Sam's face, but his shoulders drooped in a way that signaled disaster. My grip on Dean loosened in disappointment. "You know. I'd love to," he began sadly, "I really would. But they were just screwing around. We really are taking off today."
"You've gotta be joking," I mumbled, dropping my forehead against Dean's upper arm. How on earth Sam could find a way to weasel out of this one was beyond me.
"Whatever," Dean complained, abruptly walking away and leaving me to steady myself in a sea of brass antiques and worn-down woodwork. I couldn't blame him for his frustration. It seemed as though the whole endeavor was hopeless. Although I should've gone, I stayed and bided my time inspecting an old blue and white vase.
"That's too bad," Sarah said, words laden with disappointment.
"Oh my god!" Sam's abrupt shout nearly startled the vase straight out of my hands. Thankfully, after some juggling, I caught it before it shattered on the ground.
Apparently, Sarah had jumped, too. Now, she was standing nearly a whole foot from where she'd previously been. "What?" she asked, looking around.
"The– that painting… looks so good!" Sam clamored stuntedly, trying to cover his outburst. I followed his gaze to the framed canvas being carried back into the display area by a couple of employees, and my jaw dropped. It was the same painting that the Telescas had bought, the one we burned last night. My hair lashed my face as I searched for Dean but came up empty.
"If you can call that monstrosity good, then, yeah, I guess," Sarah said with a disinterested shrug.
"What do you know about the painting?" Sam inquired.
"Not much—just that it creeps me out. We sold it to the Telescas at a charity auction the night they were murdered."
"Yeah, and now you're just going to sell it again?"
"As much as my Dad wants to, no. I won't let him." Sarah raised her chin proudly. "I think it'd be in bad taste."
"Good. Yeah. You know what? Don't," Sam said, speaking fast. "Make sure you don't, okay?"
"Why?" Sarah asked. "Don't tell me you're interested in that?"
"No. God, no. Not in buying it, no," Sam uttered, beginning to back up. "You know what? I gotta go– I gotta take care of something. But, um, I will call you back…" his voice drifted in and out of coherency. I couldn't decide what was more painful, that burning the painting didn't work or watching him flop around like a fish out of water. "I will call you— I mean, I'll see you later!"
"Wait, so you're not leaving tonight?" Sarah asked quizically, slowing his stride, if only for a moment.
"No, I guess not," Sam stammered, finally breaking away from her and heading toward me.
"Way to play it cool, Sam," I said once he was close enough.
"I tried! The painting—it caught me off guard."
"Sure, yeah," I mumbled, focusing on finding Dean. Just before we reached the exit, I saw him by one of the food tables. I should've known, I thought, grabbing his hand as we passed and announcing, "We gotta leave."
Dean placed his empty glass on one of the display tables. "What's going on?" he asked.
I let him go once he was steadily keeping stride with me. "Major problem."
"The painting is back," Sam finished.
"That's impossible," Dean argued.
"Yeah, but I saw it, too," I insisted.
Dean's furrowed brows began to soften, showing that he believed us. "Well, shit. What the hell does that mean?"
"Beats me."
"I just don't understand," Sam began, waiting until we slipped outside into a beam of midday sunlight to add, "We burned the damn thing."
"Yeah, thank you, Captain Obvious," Dean remarked, unlocking the Impala. We all piled in, taking advantage of the private space to speak at a regular volume. "All right, we just need to figure out another way to get rid of it. Any ideas?"
As far as destroying the painting itself, I had none. But maybe there was another way we could handle the situation. "Almost every bit of lore about haunted paintings says it's the painting's subject that haunts it," I said.
"Yeah," Dean agreed. "So we just need to figure out everything there is to know about that creepy-ass family and that creepy-ass painting. What were their names again?"
Nestled in the center of town was the local library, a small building swimming with the scent of aging paper and faint hints of coffee from a cafe next door. Its bookshelves stood tall, nearly touching the ceiling, and stuffed with endless rows of bound pages. It was a quaint book-lovers dream, but we weren't here to bask in the quiet coziness of it all. We were here for one thing, and one thing only: info.
The floorboards creaked under our feet as we made our way through the narrow aisles, barely wide enough for two people to pass each other without brushing shoulders, until we reached the long wooden counter at the back of the room. A plump man with fading, wispy white hair and a salt-and-pepper mustache sat behind the desk, contentedly reading a book through his thin, round glasses. When Sam addressed him, asking for any old records they may have on a family from the nineteen hundreds, he was quick to spring to his feet, happily telling us to "wait here a minute" while he went to retrieve them.
In the meantime, we each found ways to pass the minutes. I drifted down one of the smaller aisles nearby, running my fingers across the rows of old, cracked spines. Each book was worn and weathered, undoubtedly thumbed through by numerous people. I couldn't help but wonder if they could speak, the kind of stories they would tell.
When I ventured back out, it was almost like stepping into a different world. The light was much brighter out here; it took my eyes a moment to adjust, but when they did, they found Dean flipping through a book about the history of guns. When he felt my gaze on him, he gave me a warm smile that I returned.
Finally, the librarian arrived with two huge books, one so big it almost dwarfed the length of his torso and the other much more manageable to carry tucked under his arm. "You said the Isaiah Merchant family, right?" he double-checked, putting the books down and pushing up his glasses.
"Yeah, that's right," Sam confirmed.
"I dug up every scrap of local history I could find," the clerk said, cracking open the more oversized book. Inside were old sheets of newspaper, carefully pressed and preserved within the clear plastic lining each page. "So, are you kids crime buffs?"
"Kinda. Yeah," Dean said, sitting on the edge of the table. "Why do you ask?"
"Well..." he trailed off, carefully holding up one of the tea-stained papers. The main headline told of the sinking of the new Titanic. My eyes skimmed straight past it and zeroed in on the smaller article below titled: Father Slaughters Family, Kills Himself.
"Yes." Dean snapped his fingers. "Yeah, that sounds about right."
"The whole family was killed?" Sam asked.
"It seems this Isaiah, he slits his kids' throats, then his wife, then himself," the librarian explained with a little too much enthusiasm for my taste, given the topic. "Now, he was a barber by trade. Used a straight razor."
"Why would he do that?" I asked.
"Let's look!" he said excitedly, flipping the paper around to read the passage. "People who knew him describe Isaiah as having a stern and harsh temperament. He controlled his family with an iron fist." The man began to skim, mumbling, "Wife, two sons, adopted daughter—yeah, yeah. Oh!" he cheered and continued reading, "There were whispers that the wife was gonna take the kids and leave." He took a moment to peer up at us over his glasses. "Which, of course, you know, in that day and age… so instead, old man Isaiah, well, he gave them all a shave!"
With a pointed finger, the librarian dragged a line across his throat and made a slicing sound before divulging into a fit of laughter. Dean chuckled heartily, eyes crinkled with mirth. I, on the other hand, only managed a strained smile. The short breath I released through my nose made Dean realize he was the only one—aside from the eccentric man before us—who was so amused and quickly shifted back to a solemn tone.
"Does it say what happened to the bodies?" he asked, pointing to the newspaper.
"They were all cremated," the librarian said.
"And that's all?" I wondered. Even for an incident as old as that one, there had to be more involved.
"Actually, I found a picture of the family," he declared, searching through the smaller book until he found the page he was looking for. On it was a small printout of the painting from the auction house. Something about it seemed different, but I didn't have the time to figure out what when he pulled it away too fast. Thankfully, Sam asked for a copy of the photo, so when we returned to the motel, pulling it out of the envelope and scanning it was the first thing I did.
"What is different about this?" I asked, setting it on the table where we all sat. I can't figure it out."
Sam pulled the picture across the stream of papers we'd set out and scanned it. On his third pass, his eyes widened. "I got it," he said. "The Dad—Isaiah, he's looking in a different direction."
"What?" Dean asked, brows furrowed. He held his hand out for the picture.
"I'm telling you. I'm sure of it," Sam insisted, passing it over. I leaned over to take another look at the photograph. "In the painting at the auction house, Dad is looking down. In the painting here, Dad's looking out," Sam explained. His words jogged my memory. The night we grabbed and burned the painting, Isaiah was most definitely not looking straight ahead, but here he was.
"I think he's right," I said. "The painting changed."
Dean pondered the implications. "All right, so what? Daddy Dearest is trapped in the painting and is handing out Colombian neckties like he did with his family?" he asked.
"I mean, that seems like the most likely explanation," I said, settling upright in my seat. Of course, that answer would be anything but likely to an average person. However, to us, it was another day.
"But if his bones are already dusted, then how are we gonna stop him?" Sam inquired.
"There's gotta be something else keeping him around," I mused, drumming my fingers on the table. "Something that belonged to him?"
"If Isaiah's position changed, then maybe some other things in the painting changed as well," Dean said, his tone thoughtful. "You know, it could give us some clues to what that is."
"Like a Da Vinci Code deal?" Sam asked, appearing intrigued by the notion.
I nodded. "It's a good idea."
Dean stared at both of us blankly. "I don't know. I'm still waiting for the movie on that one," he said, pushing up from the table. While Sam's expression drooped in shock, I couldn't help but smile. "Anyway," Dean continued to the bed, plopping down, crossing his arms and ankles, "we gotta get back in and see that painting. Which is a good thing, 'cause you can get some more time to crush on your girlfriend."
"All right, enough already," Sam huffed, all traces of patience gone.
"What?" Dean asked innocently.
"Ever since we got here, you two have been trying to pimp me out to Sarah," Sam barked, not letting me off the hook for my part in all this. "Just back off, all right?"
Dean didn't pay one iota of attention to his brother's request. "Well, you like her, don't you?" he asked. Sam kept quiet, but the look of longing on his face screamed yes. "All right, so you do like her," Dean added flatly. "And she likes you—you're both consenting adults…"
"What's the point?" Sam questioned, voice raising and then dipping as he spoke, "We'll just leave! We always leave..."
"Well, I'm not talking about marriage, Sam."
"You know, I don't get it." Sam sat back in his seat and bounced his knee a few times. "What do you care if I hook up?"
"'Cause then maybe you wouldn't be so cranky all the time," Dean replied cooly. Sam was growing increasingly upset, all while he remained calm and collected, and I was caught in the crossfire.
"Sam, we didn't mean to overstep, okay?" I interjected. "But it's not just about hooking up—"
"Well, what else is it about?" he interrupted, unable to let go of his frustration.
"We think that Sarah could be good for you," Dean implored, sitting upright. "And... I don't mean any disrespect," he broached the topic with gentle caution, "but I'm sure this is about Jessica. Now, I don't know what it's like to lose somebody like that, but I would think that she would want you to be happy. God forbid have fun once in a while." Dean looked at me to corroborate my own opinion. "Right?"
I nodded but flashed an eyebrow. Maybe not that much fun.
"Tor," Dean reprimanded.
"Hm?" I looked over, seeing his expression tightened with disappointment. Then, I realized those words left my lips instead of staying inside my head where they were supposed to. All he was doing was trying to comfort Sam, and I crashed into it like one big, stupid wrecking ball. "Oh god, I'm so sorry!" I apologized. "That's not– she would." I reached across the short table and squeezed Sam's arm. "She would want you to be happy; of course, she would."
By some miracle, my scrambling to pry my foot out of my mouth made Sam snicker. I internally breathed a sigh of relief. "No, she– she would," he agreed, his tone softening. "Part of this is about Jessica. But not the main part."
"What's it about?" Dean asked, taking the reigns back. I didn't mind letting him, afraid of what else would unintentionally slip out of my mouth. Sam looked down, signaling the end of our conversation. "Yeah, all right," Dean relented, returning to his spot resting against the headboard. "Well, we still gotta see that painting, which means you still gotta call Sarah, so..."
I gave Sam a reassuring smile as he fished his phone from his pocket and cleared his throat, dialing Sarah's number with a shaky thumb. "Sarah, hey," he replied after she answered. "Good. Good, yeah. Um, what about you?" Another beat went by as Sarah spoke, and Sam's smile grew. "Good. yeah. I– I'm really, really good," he gushed.
"Smooth," Dean commented. I chuckled, half-heartedly waving at him to stop teasing his brother. At least for right now.
"So, uh… listen, my family and I were thinking that maybe we'd like to come back in and look at the painting again. I think maybe we are interested in buying it," Sam said. There was a moment of silence, and then his whole demeanor shifted. "What?!"
I practically jumped out of my seat at his panic. "What happened?" I whispered.
"Who'd you sell it to?" Sam asked Sarah, steadily but urgently rising to his feet. "I need an address right now."
Ten minutes later, the Impala skidded to a stop on the mist-covered driveway behind a blue Jeep. The large home was faceted with grey brick and iron fixtures. Inside the lavish exterior was the glow of lights. It appeared quiet, but I knew the lack of activity didn't come from whoever was inside having gone to bed for the night. It was much, much worse.
As we left the Impala, the Jeep's door opened, and Sarah hopped out. Surprise flew through me at the unexpected sight of her. Despite the gravity of the situation, her presence momentarily threw me off course. She was the last person I expected to see.
"Sam, what's happening?" Sarah asked. Despite us passing right by, she readjusted her sights and pursued us up the sizable porch's steep stone steps.
"I told you, you shouldn't have come," Sam replied, beginning to try and find a way inside.
"Hello, anyone home?" Dean called through the tall front door. Windows lined either side of it, but they were frosted over and impossible to see through.
"You said Evelyn might be in danger," Sarah panted. "What sort of danger?"
"I can't knock this sucker down. I gotta pick it," Dean said, pulling out his lock pick and getting to work.
I searched for another possible entry point and, in the chaos of all four of us crowded on the porch, wound up at a barred-over bay window with Sam. The bars were sturdy and heavy, with a gap of only a few inches between each one. "Dammit," I huffed, uselessly smacking the glass beyond. It felt thick, almost bulletproof. It'd be impossible to break even if we tried.
Sarah watched it all with incredulous eyes. "What are you guys, burglars?" she questioned, a hint of fear coloring her voice.
"I wish it was that simple," Sam said, returning to her. "Look, you really should wait in the car. It's for your own good."
"The hell I will," Sarah argued, her eyes flashing with determination. "Evelyn's a friend."
"Got it," Dean announced, pushing the hefty door open. He and I bolted inside, with Sam and Sarah bringing up the rear. The air faintly smelled of cinnamon and firewood, dimly lit with a warm light coming from the adjacent room.
"Evelyn?" Sarah called as we crossed the foyer into the lounge. It was filled with antique items, almost to an excessive degree. Every surface was decorated with various trinkets and curiosities, yet despite the clutter, it was neat. The couch, although rigid and uncomfortable-looking, matched two armchairs. On one of them sat a grey-haired woman. She didn't react to our presence, not even a little bit.
Dean tapped my arm, nodding toward the fireplace. The mantle, in particular, stood out, adorned with an array of knick-knacks and candleholders. However, it was what hung above it that truly captured my attention. Looming over the room was that damn painting. Just as we'd suspected, Isaiah's head was tilted down, not facing out as it had been in the photograph.
Sarah carefully stepped over to her friend. "Evelyn? It's Sarah Blake," she said. "Are you all right?"
"Sarah, don't!" Sam called urgently, unable to stop her before she touched Evelyn's shoulder. The slight pressure from her fingertips undid the tedious balancing act, and the woman's head tipped back, exposing the large slash across her throat from ear to ear. Sarah screamed, stumbling back into Sam's arms, and after a bit of coaxing, he quickly led her from the house.
When I looked back at the painting this time, my heart skipped a beat. Just like in the photograph, Isaiah was now facing straight ahead. I could've sworn he was staring right at us. Even after we fled outside, I couldn't shake that horrendous, sick feeling churning in the pit of my stomach.
Ensuring Sarah was as okay as she could be in the moment, we instructed her to call the cops—maybe even begged a little that she kept us out of the conversation—and then left, hoping to God that she would do us this favor. She didn't owe us anything. If she ratted us out, I suppose I couldn't blame her.
Several sleepless hours later, the sun had risen, and we were no closer to solving anything. I sat beside Dean at the bar in our room, resting my head on his shoulder as he clicked away on the laptop. Doing what, exactly, I couldn't be sure. I was too busy worrying about the cops knocking down our door.
"Why don't you get some sleep?" Dean offered quietly. I shook my head, hair rubbing against his sleeve and clicking with static. Even if I wanted to, sleep wouldn't take me with the noise of Sam pacing back and forth across the room.
A knock rattled through the wood, forcing my back ramrod straight. I held my breath, waiting as Sam shuffled to the peephole, peering through. He sighed and opened the door, revealing Sarah. She forced her way inside, barely allowing him to move over.
"Are you all right?" Sam checked softly.
"No, actually, I just lied to the cops and told them I went to Evelyn's alone and found her like that," Sarah replied stiffly. Although she was clearly unhappy, this news made me relax. It was a relief to have my worry of the cops breathing down our necks checked off my list.
"Thank you," Sam spoke for all of us.
"Oh, don't thank me. I'm about to call them right back if you don't tell me what the hell's going on," she threatened. "Who's killing these people?"
Sam glanced back at Dean and me, silently asking for advice on whether or not he should tell her. It was far too late now to keep her locked away in the dark, so I nodded. Dean did the same, and Sam returned to Sarah, now a completely open book. "What," he said.
"What?" she repeated, confused.
"It's not who. It's what is killing those people," he clarified. She looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Sarah, you saw that painting move."
"No," Sarah shook her head, loosening her carefully woven braids. "No. I was—I was seeing things," she denied, walking in a small circle to shake her nerves. When she stopped, tears welled in her eyes. "It's impossible."
"Yeah, well, welcome to our world," Dean mumbled.
"Sarah, I know this sounds crazy… but we think that that painting is haunted," Sam told her.
"You're joking," Sarah scoffed, staring at Sam for a moment before her eyes darted to Dean and me, only to find us wearing the same serious expression. "You're not joking. God, the guys I go out with."
"Sarah, think about it. Evelyn, the Telescas," Sam ticked off on his fingers, "they both had the painting. And there have been others before that. Wherever this thing goes, people die. And we're just trying to stop it. That's the truth."
Sarah took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Then I guess you'd better show me," she declared. "I'm coming with you."
"No," Sam shook his head, "Sarah, no, you should just go home. This stuff can get dangerous, and I don't want you to get hurt," he pleaded softly and heartfeltly. This was just too cute.
"Look, you guys are probably crazy. But if you're right about this? Well, me and my Dad sold that painting that might've gotten these people killed," Sarah said, voice brimming with conviction. "Look, I'm not saying I'm not scared because I am scared as hell. But… I'm not going to run and hide, either." She marched toward the door and halted halfway outside, poised between the room and the sidewalk. "So, are we going or what?"
"Sam?" Dean called his brother after Sarah disappeared from view, and her heel clicks had faded.
"Yeah?" Sam asked, looking every bit as stunned as us that she—totally unaware of this world just twelve hours ago—had taken such a strong initiative so fast.
"Marry that girl," he said.
Sam's cheeks blazed crimson, his feet shuffling nervously before carrying him outside. Dean chuckled and shut the laptop lid with a triumphant click.
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" I remarked, giving him a playful nudge with my shoulder.
"You bet I am," he replied with a wide grin.
Back at Evelyn's, the police were long gone, leaving crime scene tape in their wake. It wrapped around her property line and across her porch. A few small strips of yellow tape weren't going to stop us; we ducked beneath it and stopped at the door.
"Isn't this a crime scene?" Sarah asked, glancing over at me.
"Technically, yes," I answered.
"But you've already lied to the cops. What's another infraction?" Dean teased, shooting her a small smile as she gaped at him. With his knife, he cut the Do Not Enter sticker that was pressed to the doorjamb.
Inside the home, the once comforting scent of cinnamon had dissipated, replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of copper. It lingered in the air and clung to my senses in a way that only blood could. As we entered the lounge area, the source of the odor became apparent: the seat Evelyn had occupied was drenched in crimson. The sight was unsettling, the deep red staining the fabric and seeping through to the back of the chair.
Sam effortlessly reached above the fireplace mantle to retrieve the painting. With delicate care, he placed it on the couch, where the four of us gathered around it. I scrutinized the canvas, searching for any subtle changes or clues, but my attention kept returning to Isaiah's piercing gaze, which seemed to follow me no matter where I looked.
"Aren't you worried that it's gonna kill us?" Sarah asked.
"No, it seems to do its thing at night," Sam said, crouching inches from the frame. "I think we're all right in the daylight."
Sarah's eyes widened. "You think?" she repeated, looking at me.
"Fifty-fifty," I said.
"Hey, check it out," Dean said, holding the picture of the painting out next to the actual painting. "The razor, it's closed in this one," he thumbed the bottom right corner of the printout, then nodded to the canvas, "but it's open in that one."
"What are you guys looking for?" Sarah asked.
"Well, if the spirit's changing aspects of the painting, then it's doing so for a reason," Dean explained.
I shifted my gaze beyond Isaiah's figure to the background of the canvas, noting the small painting beside his head. It was of a gritty, dusk-laden mausoleum, but in the photograph, it depicted a lush mountainscape. "The painting in the painting is different, too," I observed, pointing to the upper right corner.
Dean inspected my find and nodded in agreement. "Looks like a crypt or something," he confirmed.
I leaned closer. "Something's written on it, but I can't make it out."
Briefly breaking away from us to search the side tables, Dean returned with an ashtray and used it as a magnifying glass over the smudged text. "Merchant," he read.
Despite the bizarre turn her day had taken, Sarah remained surprisingly composed, her determination matching Sam's. Dean and I made it a point to keep some space between us and them, observing their deepening connection from afar.
After two hours of trudging through graveyards, we had absolutely nothing to show for it. Not a single headstone bore the last name Merchant, let alone an entire mausoleum dedicated to them. Only a handful of cemeteries were in the area, and this final one was our last hope. If we didn't find what we were looking for here, I wasn't sure what our next move would be.
"This is the third boneyard we've checked," Dean complained, stomping through a particularly overgrown section of grass with disgust. "I think this ghost is jerking us around."
"I'm beginning to agree," I said, holding his arm to steady myself through a slippery patch of mud.
Sarah peered up at Sam, squinting in the overcast daylight. "So, this is what you guys do for a living?" she wondered.
"Not exactly," Sam replied, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "We don't get paid."
With widening eyes that read, who the hell would do this for free? Sarah somehow managed a smile. "Well, Mazel tov," she muttered.
As we followed the dirt path, it led us to a crossroads. Headstones flanked us on both sides, but directly ahead stood a sizable crypt. It felt reminiscent of the one in the painting, but our suspicions were confirmed when we got close enough to make out the name Merchant engraved into the stone.
"Well, I guess it is always the last place you look, huh," I mumbled.
"Guess so," Dean said, pulling a pair of lock cutters from his jacket and snapping the padlocked chain that kept the doors shut. For such a foreboding structure, they were surprisingly flimsy, made of cracking and decaying wood.
Cobwebs strung from corner to corner of the entryway welcomed us. Dean used the lock cutters to clear the way for everyone to enter the hollow space. To the left were brass plaques centered on marble, with names embossed above the person's date of birth and death, and to the right were four urns set before four glass boxes set into the wall. Each one housed a different item: a couple of stuffed animals, a carefully folded dress, and a porcelain doll adorned with long, dark curls.
Sarah peered into the box with the doll. "Okay, that right there is the creepiest thing I've ever seen," she said.
"Consider yourself lucky," I said, keeping my eyes peeled for the spiders that created those webs.
"Doing that, it was a sort of tradition at the time," Sam explained, gesturing to the doll. "Whenever a child died, sometimes they'd preserve the kid's favorite toy in a glass case, put it next to the headstone or crypt."
Dean became transfixed on the urns, but not in the same way we were; his gaze was different, calculating. I could tell he found something. "What is it?" I wondered.
"Notice anything strange in here?" he asked.
"Where do I start?" Sarah joked, tucking her hands into her back pockets. If Sam's behavior over the past forty-eight hours hadn't already proven his feelings for her, the way he smiled and stared at her with googly eyes right now certainly did.
"No, that's not what I mean," Dean clarified. "Look at the urns."
Again, I went over the small ceramic containers—one for each brother, one for the daughter, and one for their mother. "There are only four," I said, struck with realization.
"Daddy dearest isn't here."
"So where is he?" Sam asked.
Staying with Sarah and Sam wasn't in my original plan, but after the look of sheer panic he shot my way, I decided to stick around as Dean disappeared into the revolving doors of the local Department of Health office. Sam sat beside Sarah on the edge of a long brick planter, leaving enough space between them for me to occupy. I rolled my eyes and deliberately sat on the other side of her, ensuring a good few inches separated us. It was one thing to act as a slight buffer; it was another thing entirely to be a roadblock.
"So…" Sarah began, hiking her leg onto the ledge. "What exactly is Dean doing in there?"
"Searching county death certificates trying to find out what happened to Isaiah's body," Sam replied.
"How'd he even get in the door?"
"Lying and subterfuge mostly," he joked. His eyes caught hers in a strange state I struggled to place. Sam raised a hand and pointed vaguely to the right side of his face. "You have, uh– you have an eyelash…"
Sarah attempted to brush it away, but when she failed, Sam offered. "Do you mind if I get it?" he asked. Sarah shook her head.
As his hand neared her face, I couldn't help but feel like I was third-wheeling on an intimate moment. After plucking the stray lash, he told her to make a wish; Sarah blew away the eyelash, and I wished the breeze that took it would take me, too.
In a lull of silence that enveloped us, I sensed Sarah's hesitation to speak freely in my presence. I rose to my feet. "I should… go," I announced.
"What?" Sam asked, confused.
I jutted a thumb over my shoulder at nothing in particular. "I mean, I gotta be— there are reasons, so… I'm just gonna leave."
Upon fleeing to a neighboring planter, I didn't intend to hide behind the foliage and listen in on their conversation, but when they started speaking, and I realized I could hear, I made no attempt to move.
Sarah cleared her throat. "Sam, can I ask you something?"
"Yeah, sure," he agreed, sounding hesitant.
"I don't mean to be forward, but a girl could wait here forever. Is there something between us? Or am I delusional?" she laughed it off, but I could tell how deeply concerned she was with the answer.
"You're not delusional," Sam admitted, voice shaking like a leaf.
Sarah started off relieved, but that faded fast. "But there's a but coming."
"But…" Sam made her prediction reality. "I don't think this would be a good idea."
"Can I ask why?" Sarah wondered, remaining composed, if not a bit perplexed.
"'Cause I like you."
I could only imagine that Sarah's expression mirrored my own: widened eyes accompanied by puzzled, furrowed brows. "Wait," she said. "You lost me."
"Look, it's hard to explain," Sam struggled to articulate. "It's just when people are around me—I don't know, they get hurt."
Is that really what he thinks? That he's some kind of disaster-magnet?
"What do you mean?" Sarah asked.
"I mean like physically hurt. Me and my family, what we do, it's—" Sam paused to release a heavy breath, but his voice still sounded like it was being crushed under mountains of weight. "Sarah, I had a girlfriend. And she died. And my Mom died, too. I don't know, it's like— it's like I'm cursed or something. Like death just follows me around. Look, I'm not scared of much, but if I let myself have feelings for anybody..."
"You're scared they'd get hurt, too," Sarah easily understood. "That's very sweet. And very archaic."
The leaves bristled, probably in the same way Sam just had. "Sorry?" he asked.
"Look, I'm a big girl, Sam. It's not your job to make decisions for me. There's always a chance of getting hurt," Sarah reasoned.
"I'm not talking about a broken heart and a tub of Haagen Dazs. I'm talking about life and death."
"And tomorrow, I could get hit by a bus. That's what life is. Look, I know losing somebody you love—it's terrible. You shut yourself off. Believe me, I know," she said empathetically. "But when you shut out pain, you shut out everything else, too."
"Sarah, you don't understand. The pain that I went through…" Sam's voice cracked along with his composure. "I can't go through it again. I can't."
My teeth bore down on the inside of my cheeks to keep my emotions at bay. If I had known his pain ran this deep, I wouldn't have pushed all this stuff with Sarah so hard.
"Whatcha doin'?" Dean whispered, mere inches from my head.
The frightened breath I took in was so sharp it made me cough. "Don't do that!" I hissed, smacking his chest.
He chuckled, unphased, and asked, "Are you eavesdropping?"
"No!" I protested quietly. "I didn't think I'd be able to hear them over here."
Dean flashed his brows. "Sure."
"Did you find anything?" I changed the subject, eying the rolled paper he carried.
"Sure did," he said, waving the parchment. He nodded to his brother and Sarah. "Come on, I'll fill you in along with the lovebirds. You know, the ones you weren't spying on."
I pursed my lips and hopped down off the planter's ledge. "I wasn't," I insisted, dusting dirt off the back of my jeans.
"If you say so," Dean jested, setting off in the opposite direction with me in tow.
Sam perked up upon seeing us approach, looking glad to get back on track with the case. "So, what'd you get?" he asked.
"Paydirt," Dean informed with a cocky grin. "Apparently, the surviving relatives of the Merchant family were so ashamed of Isaiah that they didn't want him interred with the rest of the family. So, they handed him over to the county, and the county gave him a pauper's funeral. Economy style. Turns out he wasn't cremated; he was buried in a pine box."
"So there are bones to burn," Sam said.
Dean nodded. "There are bones to burn."
"Bones to… did you say burn?" Sarah questioned, eyes opening wide.
"Destroying remains is the only way to get rid of a spirit," I explained. My calm about the subject did nothing to ease her shock. In fact, she looked more unsettled than before.
"Tell me you know where he was buried," Sam pressed.
"I do." Dean nodded again, this time with his self-satisfied smirk in place. "But do you and Sarah want a few more minutes? Tori and I can go—"
Sam rolled his eyes and set off for the car. In his typical big brother fashion, Dean openly laughed at Sam before trekking in his footsteps. In an unforeseen turn of events, Sarah and I found ourselves lagging, keeping stride with one another.
"I can see what you two are doing, you know," she said with a knowing grin.
"And here I thought we were being so subtle about it," I said with playful sarcasm. We were being the complete opposite of subtle.
"Oh, no, no," Sarah matched my energy immediately. "You guys are doing a great job at that. I just have stellar intuition."
I chuckled, appreciating her quick wit, then shifted gears to address the elephant in the room. "Listen, Sarah, I've known these guys practically my whole life. Sam is like my little brother, and Dean and I just want to see him happy. I'm sorry if we're overdoing it," I apologized. "We don't mean to make anybody uncomfortable."
Sarah smiled warmly, her eyes reflecting understanding. "Actually, I think it's sweet that you guys care so much."
"We really just want what's best for him."
"And you think that's me?" she asked, slightly taken aback.
"I think so, yeah," I admitted.
Sarah's cheeks tinted red. "That's nice to hear," she said as we approached the car where Sam was staring nervously, undoubtedly wondering what she and I were talking about. I tried to silently communicate that he could calm down, but it didn't work; he remained as anxious as ever until we reached the graveyard. Then, he snapped into hunter mode, gathering shovels, kerosene, and salt in a duffle bag.
Finding Isaiah's grave would've been a nearly impossible feat without the chart Dean had been given. The Merchant family patriarch's headstone was weathered and covered in soot, obscuring his thinly engraved name. Each armed with a shovel—except for Sarah, who held the flashlight—we got to work painstakingly digging into Isaiah's final resting place.
About twenty minutes later, we'd dug deep enough that Sam could stand inside and have only the top of his head visible. Sarah shifted uncomfortably beside the large mound of earth. "You guys seem to be uncomfortably comfortable with this," she commented.
"Well, this isn't exactly the first grave we've dug," Sam said, climbing to stand beside her. He dusted dirt off his shirt and smiled. "Still think I'm a catch?"
Dean pushed his shovel into the dirt again, hitting something solid with a thud. "I think I've got something," he said. I scaled the wall of dirt and sat on the edge, getting out of the way so Dean could use his shovel to crack open the coffin lid, revealing a web-covered skeleton.
While Dean pulled himself from the grave, I retrieved a salt container and kerosene canister from the duffle. The four of us stood around the grave once the bones were doused with lighter fluid and covered in salt.
"You've been a real pain in the ass, Isaiah," Dean grumbled, lighting a match and tossing it into the casket. "Good riddance."
Even though everything was most likely done and over with, we felt the need to be absolutely sure. The boys and I collectively agreed that one way to do so was to burn the painting. Perhaps a piece of old artwork didn't have any real effect on all this, but we were nothing if not thorough.
"Keep the motor running," Sam told Dean as the Impala rolled along Evelyn's driveway.
Sarah leaned up on the top of the front seat. "I thought the painting was harmless now?" she asked.
"Better safe than sorry. We're gonna bury the sucker." Sam was about to exit the passenger seat when Sarah decisively jumped to follow.
"I'm gonna come with you," she asserted.
"Are you sure?" he asked. Sarah's reply came in the form of going to wait near the steps.
"Hey, hey," Dean called in a hushed tone before his brother could leave. "We'll stay here. You go make you move."
Sam clicked his tongue disapprovingly and got out without a word.
"Sam, I'm serious!" Dean persisted, his voice bouncing back into the car when Sam shut the door.
Dean glanced over his shoulder at me and righted himself, flicking on the radio. As he slung his arm across the back of the seat, the slow drum beat I instantly recognized as Ready For Love by Bad Company filtered through the speakers and out of the open window. Sam skidded to a stop so fast I swore I saw little dust clouds puff up behind his heels like in cartoons. Even in the shadows of the porch, I could make out his discomfort as he waved his hand in a motion that screamed cut it out. I stretched over Dean's arm and clicked the radio off.
"Hey, I thought you were all in on this?" he asked.
"I was, but maybe we should ease up a bit," I said, knowing now that Sam didn't need us to add more pressure. He was already putting himself through enough.
As I returned to the backseat, a flash of movement caught my eye. I looked up just in time to see the door shut so forcefully that it rattled the windows on each side. Without hesitation, I sprung from the backseat. Noticing my urgency, Dean was quick to follow. "What's wrong?" he asked as we bounded up the steps.
"The door shut!"
Dean looked at me like I was crazy. "They do that," he stated blankly.
In my desperation to open the door, I managed to find a moment to stop and glare at him. "I know that, Dean, but it slammed shut, and now, it's not budging!" I huffed, using all my weight to twist and push the handle.
Realizing this was serious, his eyes filled with worry. "All right, watch. Move over," he instructed, waiting until I was clear before hitting the center of the door several times with his shoulder in an attempt to bust it open. He'd probably have bruises later, but I'm sure that hadn't even crossed his mind.
"Guys!?" Sam called from the other side. "Is that you?"
"It's us!" I reassured, hand pressed flat against the dark wood.
"Sammy, you all right?" Dean asked. His phone rang, and he answered it, putting it on speaker. "Tell me you slammed the front door."
"Nope, it wasn't me," Sam replied through the receiver. "I think it was the little girl."
"What girl?" I asked, taking the phone Dean handed over so he could try to pick the lock.
"Yeah, she's out of the painting. I think it might've been her all along."
"So, it's the daughter killing people?" I said in disbelief.
"Wasn't the Dad looking down at her?" Dean wondered. "Maybe he was trying to warn us."
"Hey, let's recap later, all right?" Sam rushed, sounding nervous for the first time in a long time. "Just get us out of here."
"I'm trying to pick the lock, but it's not working."
"Well, knock the door down!" Sam said as though it was the most simple solution in the world.
Dean ripped the tools from the lock and stood upright. "Okay, genius, let me just grab my battering ram!" he bit back.
"Dean, the damn thing is coming!"
"You gotta buy us time to figure something out, Sam," I said, trying to remain calm despite the way my heart banged against my ribcage.
"Get some salt or iron," Dean spoke clearly, keeping a level head.
Through the speaker, I could hear Sam telling Sarah what to look for and her asking why they'd need it while their footsteps carried. "Give me a sec, guys, don't go anywhere, okay?" Sam requested.
I kept my voice low so only Dean could hear. "What the hell are we gonna do?"
"There's gotta be another way out," he reasoned. "A window or something."
"All the windows are barred," I argued, letting dread rear its ugly head.
"What kind of house doesn't have salt?" Sam complained through a crackle of static. "Low-sodium freaks."
"We have to check. You take the left; I'll take the right," Dean said, gesturing to the corresponding side of the house he assigned.
As I made my way to the back of the property, the feeble glow of the streetlight faded even further, leaving me in complete darkness. Each window I passed was barred and locked, and even the basement hatch was tightly sealed. My blood pumped in my ears with hard and fast thumps. We'd seen firsthand what that spirit was capable of, and it was only a matter of time before she struck. The thought sent a shiver down my spine, urging me back to the front of the house.
Dean was rounding the opposite corner at the same time, still on the phone. "Are you okay?" he asked Sam. If they were still talking, then he and Sarah were still all right. Knowing that calmed me, if only a fraction.
"Yeah," Sam said. "She's gone for now."
"She already showed up?" I interjected, my brief moment of serenity disappearing in an instant.
Dean stopped short and waited for me to reach him "You find anything?" he asked. I shook my head. "How are we gonna waste her?"
"I don't know," Sam replied, speaking fast. "She was already cremated. There's nothing left to burn."
"Well, she stuck around; something has to be keeping her here," I said, wracking my brain to think of what that something could be.
"Sam, wait," Sarah's voice echoed in the background. "We used to handle antique dolls at the auction."
"Well, that's fascinating, Sarah, but is it important right now?" Sam asked, his tone carrying a mix of impatient curiosity.
"Well, back then, they used to make the dolls in the kids' image," she informed. "I mean everything. They would use the kid's real hair."
"So, if her hair is in the doll, those are human remains; it's the same as bones," I said.
"The mausoleum!" Sam and Dean exclaimed simultaneously. I rolled my eyes and rushed to the car.
…
We arrived at the cemetery in record time, but it was so late that the gate was now closed. With a forlorn look, Dean groaned out, "Hold on," and gunned it. The Impala's engine steadily growled as we picked up speed; I grimaced as the grille connected with the bars, metal scraping against metal as it busted through. He drove directly up to the crypt, barely putting the car in park before we bolted to its doors.
Lucky for us, the doll hadn't magically disappeared from its spot on the other side of the clear commemorative case. Unlucky, however, that it wouldn't break no matter how hard Dean pounded on the glass with his fist.
"Damn it! It's too thick," he said, pulling his gun from his waistband and using the butt of it to smack the center of the container a few more times.
It'd been quite some time since panic overtook every single side of my brain. No pattern of thought went by without being drenched in fear. I took a few deep breaths, trying to calm my racing thoughts of that little girl looming closer and closer to Sam and Sarah, out for blood, as they scrambled to look for things that would buy them more time.
On heavy legs, I turned back to the Impala in search of something to break the glass. An ax or a sledgehammer. I'm sure we had one in the trunk.
"Who puts a doll behind bulletproof glass?" I complained, halfway out of the mausoleum. I paused, feeling like my brain screeched to a halt as Dean and I glanced at each other, then at the unfired, backward gun in his hands. I suddenly felt like the dumbest person ever.
"Oh, God, come on," Dean mumbled under his breath, quickly striding a few steps away as he brought the gun up. A flash of light and a sharp pop bounded through the narrow concrete room and into my ears. I hurried over as he knocked the remaining glass away, reaching in to grab the doll. The fabric of its dress was stiff and cold; it almost felt frozen over.
Dean pulled out his lighter and flicked the wheel, repeatedly creating nothing but a spark.
"Come on, Dean!" I urged, tightening my grip on the porcelain.
"Do you not see me trying here?" he countered.
Finally, the lighter caught on the curled tips of the brown locks; I held my breath as the tiny blaze flickered and seemed to dim, but it soon roared to life, engulfing the dark hair in bright orange. The air filled with the smell of burning hair, a disgusting mix of plastic, sulfur, and charcoal. Before the fire could reach my fingers, I dropped the doll with disgust and hurried to fish out my phone and dial Sam's number.
The first ring barely finished before he answered, easing the jackhammer beat of my heart. "Are you guys doing okay?" I asked.
"Not bad," Sam muttered, his breathing labored.
While in the moment, neither Dean nor I were willing to admit just how scared we'd been for Sam, now that it was over, we allowed it to happen—albeit silently. Our eyes met, relief shining through a prominent gleam of fear. I stepped over the doll and pulled him to me in a tight hug.
…
The Impala screeched to a stop before Evelyn's mansion as Sam and Sarah made their way out. They were disheveled, but neither one was harmed, something I was endlessly grateful for. Sarah seemed remarkably composed for someone who just had their first real encounter with the supernatural. Perhaps Sam had already spoken to her and calmed her nerves, but regardless, I made sure to give her a reassuring squeeze when we hugged. Only then did I notice her trembling hands.
When morning rolled around, we found ourselves back at the auction house. After a quick run for some newly unearthed paperwork, Dean and I met up with Sarah and Sam, who were supervising two employees crating up that god-awful painting.
"This was archived in the county records," Dean announced as we approached, lifting up the thin stack of papers. "The Merchant's adopted daughter, Melanie. Know why she was up for adoption? 'Cause her real family was murdered in their beds."
Sarah balked, "She killed them?"
"Yeah. Who'd suspect her? A sweet little girl. So then she kills Isaiah and his family. The old man takes the blame."
"He's been trying to warn people the whole time," I added.
"Where's this one go?" one of the workers asked Sarah, nodding to the crate.
"Take it out back and burn it," she stated unequivocally. Both men stopped, gaping at her in disbelief. "I'm serious guys. Thanks."
"Whatever you say," the other man mumbled, using the toe of his shoe to get the moving dolly rolling.
"So," Sarah waited for them to get a decent ways away before continuing. "Why'd the girl do it?"
"Some people are just born tortured," Sam answered sympathetically. "So, when they die, their spirits are just as dark."
"Maybe," Dean interjected. "I don't really care. It's over; we move on," he finished with a slight smile.
A shuddered breath tumbled from Sarah's lips, drooping the corners of her once bright smile. "I guess this means you're leaving…" she trailed off, the look in her eyes hoping against all odds that we'd deny it. The room seemed to shrink as an uncomfortable silence settled over us like a heavy blanket.
After Sam shot Dean and me a silent but unmistakable glance, urging us to leave, we exchanged a knowing look. "We'll go wait in the car," Dean declared, glancing at the brunette almost expectantly. When all she did was smile and nod, his lips tightened. "See you, Sarah."
"Soon, hopefully," I added.
"I'd like that," she said sweetly, yet it was clear that she was impatiently waiting for a moment alone with Sam.
At that, we broke away from them with Dean mumbling, "We're the ones that burned the doll, destroyed the spirit, but don't thank us or anything," under his breath.
I smirked and replied, "I guess we'll just have to settle for the satisfaction of a job well done, huh?"
Dean clicked his tongue. "Guess so," he conceded with a hint of impish sarcasm. We couldn't take it personally. Because of his impending departure, Sarah only had eyes for Sam.
Even with the distance between us, their conversation drifted in fragments. Sam told her he'd miss her. And Sarah reassured him of the lesson in all this—that she didn't get hurt, so he couldn't be cursed. To my surprise, Sam promised he'd come back to see her. I wondered how much he meant that as the rest of their exchange faded when Dean and I stepped outside.
We hadn't been waiting at the trunk of the Impala long before the door opened, and Sam slipped out without another glance back at Sarah. Dean rolled his eyes, pushed off the bumper, and headed for the driver's side. Sam hesitated to follow the path to the car, so I stayed put, curious to see what he'd do next.
Bracing himself with a deep breath, Sam turned and knocked on the door. Sarah either couldn't have gotten far or was waiting for him because it opened lightning fast. The air between them seemed to crackle with quiet electricity; Sam reached out, gently tangling his fingers in Sarah's hair as he leaned down to kiss her.
Although it warmed my heart, I didn't want to linger too long, so I averted my eyes behind me and caught Dean's proud smile as he watched his little brother. "That's my boy," he praised.
I walked up beside him and patted his back. "Maybe we should give them a little privacy?" I suggested. Dean agreed with a nod and opened the back door for me. I slid into the car, watching him through the window as he gave one last look of approval in their direction before settling behind the wheel.
The past few days were one big, unexpected whirlwind of events—most good, but others less so. The former came in the way Sam was with Sarah. I wasn't sure of the last time I'd seen him look so at ease. But the latter, that came with the realization that his lack of tranquility stemmed from locking himself in a cage of guilt and throwing away the key. Not only did he carry the impossible weight of Jessica's death, but his mother's, too. It wasn't right; it wasn't true.
If our time spent here did nothing else, I hoped it would allow him to see a glimpse of the fact that he wasn't the reason for all the bad in the world—that he wasn't cursed. And no matter what happened in the past, it was okay for him to allow himself to feel again, to be some form of happy, whatever that meant for him.
Thanks for reading! Can you believe we're almost at season two? I'm sooo excited, and I hope you are, too! Please leave some reviews, or feel free to PM me; I love hearing from you guys!
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