FIC: Metaphysical (Supernatural AU, Gen, R, 6/8)
Previous Part | Master Post
The door to the cargo hold, thin but sturdy in order to not increase the payload of the ship any more than necessary, was wide open. But that in itself wasn't alarming; as cargo was currently being offloaded via aeroconveyance, an open access point was to be expected. What was more alarming was what they found inside.
"Well, if it isn't the Winchester boys." Apparently, the demon Miss Masters was not going to prove herself hard to find. "Did you get lost on the way?"
"We just stopped to catch up with a few friends," said Dean, raising his weapon. "Nice to see you again, Margaret."
"Meg, please, we don't go for formalities around here," she said, her gaze drifting to Captain Kaur. "Ah, yes, we expected you might find yourself up there." The doors closed behind them, and there was the sound of a complicated locking mechanism grinding into place. "I see you've met my brother."
The man whom Captain Kaur had addressed as Harsharan gave them a slow grin and crossed the room to stand at his sister's side.
"His other suit is being laundered," she explained coolly.
"Christo," spat Dean, and her eyes flashed a fathomless black.
There was no hesitation at all. The moment Meg was revealed as truly, inarguably inhuman, Captain Kaur raised her weapon and fired, sending a metal bolt straight into Meg's shoulder. She jerked back, her skirts flaring as she stumbled, but made no sound to show that she had been hurt by the weapon.
"That wasn't very nice," she said, yanking it out and dropping it to the floor, ignoring the blood that seeped down into her corset. "I haven't even introduced you to all my friends yet."
Sam shot his eyes sideways at Sam and hoped he remembered his exorcisms better than Dean did, though just in case he began running through the Latin in his head.
The cargo hold was worse than the pilothouse, by far. The pilothouse at least had sealed windows that Dean could assume would keep him safe from the ground below. The cargo hold had no such protection, the side where the aeroconveyance shipping volley operated wide open to the winds and the world.
"Come meet Max," she said, as a wiry young man stepped out from behind a stack of tea crates poised to be sent down the aeroconveyance but never loaded. "This poor boy has such a sad tale to tell. Maybe you know it already. Young boy loses his mother at the age of six months in a terrible fire."
"Another one?" murmured Sam.
"Oh, haven't you figured that out yet?" said Meg. "I'm sure it's only a matter of time. Poor Max here, though, he didn't have a daddy to watch over him. We plucked him right out of an orphanage a few years ago, didn't we, Max?"
Max didn't say anything, but a knife that had been mounted on a beam near the crates to aid in their opening suddenly came loose from its bindings and floated in the air between them.
"You didn't think you were the only special little boy out there, did you, Sam?" said Meg. "But your visions aren't as useful as this, are they?"
"This is where it all happens," said Sam. "This is what I saw, Dean."
"Now's a fine time to figure that out," said Dean with a grunt. "You did notice there's a knife in the air pointed at us, right?"
"I did notice that," said Sam.
"I'm glad we're all caught up," said Meg. "And now that we're clear on who has the upper hand, we'd like Sam."
"Over my dead body you'll have Sam," said Dean, and didn't even ask what they wanted Sam for. He didn't care what they wanted Sam for. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus--"
One moment he was speaking, the next he felt himself sliding relentlessly across the floor towards the cargo opening. He grappled for something, anything, to stop him, but nothing did until he stumbled over a crate of tea and found himself pinned there. From that vantage point he could see that Captain Kaur was similarly pinned against the wall next to the door by the man she'd once called her officer.
Dean wondered, because wondering was just about the only thing he could do at the moment, whether he was still in there somewhere.
"I'm not going anywhere with you," said Sam, "and I have no idea why you think I would."
"But my daddy wants you to," she said. "And he's willing to go after your daddy to get you."
Sam stilled. "What do you want?"
"Sam, no!" said Dean, but even just two words were hard to force out. He was sure she wouldn't be able to keep this up, though, not and taunt his brother at the same time. He didn't have a lot of experience with demons but Bobby'd made sure they'd all done their research.
"Just you," she said. "That's not asking too much is it?"
"And you had to get us up here to get me?" said Sam. "Was that really a necessary part of this plan?"
"You don't get to know all parts of the plan, Sam," she said, crooking a finger at him. "Come with us and everyone else gets to go."
"I find it difficult to believe you," he said, glancing towards Dean, just for a moment. A few more moments and Dean was going to be able to... yes, there, a crack in her resolve and Dean was able to break free of her telekinetic hold. Captain Kaur, however, had no such experience to be able to handle the demon herself, and since she was the nearer he stumbled across the floor, regained his balance, and pulled a flask of holy water out of his coat to send directly into Harsharan's eyes.
They flashed an ugly black but Jaipal was immediately released, and just as quickly raised her weapon again.
"Wait," said Dean. "Your shipmate is still in there."
She didn't fire, but she kept her weapon trained on his chest as he hissed away the pain of the holy water. By the steadiness of her hand and the unflinching resolve in her eyes, Dean had to wonder just how many pirates she'd fended off. He handed her the holy water to hold in her other hand, a much more effective weapon in this particular fight.
"There's more where that came from," said Dean, and started all over again. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu + Christi...."
He shook with every word Dean spoke, but unconstrained and untied to this body he didn't stick around to be sent back to hell. He threw his head back and opened his mouth and an oily black smoke came billowing out, massing in the air above his head before streaming straight out the cargo opening.
Dean steeled himself and rushed as close as he dared to watch where it went, but as close as he dared wasn't as close as a person could conceivably get, and he could only watch it wash over the bird-like grapples of the aeroconveyance and enter into one of the automatons on the loading dock.
Dean had never seen or heard of anyone other than a human being possessed. But times had changed since the books he read had been written, and apparently these days automatons were enough like human to substitute.
"Now why'd you have to do that?" said Meg. Dean jerked away from the hole, his heart pounding at the thought of sliding through it again, but at the back of his neck he felt the prick of the knife that had been suspended in the air. "Isn't Max a good boy?"
"Leave him alone," said Sam. "It's me you want."
"Do you even know who you are, Sam Winchester?" she said. "So you know what you are?"
"I'm a Winchester," he said.
Meg never saw it coming, her attention so focused on Sam and Dean. The holy water hit her right in the face, thrown by the arm of Captain Jaipal Kaur.
"Exorcizamus te--" Sam began, but Meg didn't wait around for the rest of it.
Dean felt the knife at the back of his neck drop, and at the same time heard the aeroconveyance start back to life again, the brass, clawfoot birds beginning their circular trip from the airship to the platform and back again. There was no one near the controls, but whatever telekinetic force Max possessed in order to threaten them with suspended weapons, it was more than enough to flip a switch and start a conveyor.
Meg grabbed hold of the first one she reached and let loose the brake, zipping down the line instantly, landing on the cargo platform and disappearing amongst the crates, inside the spire.
Dean automatically stepped forward to watch her go, unthinking. And then he didn't have time to think before he felt himself falling, pushed by some unseen hand when he dared move just close enough to the open air.
He grabbed frantically for the cable but his fingertips just brushed it before he fell beyond reach, accelerating towards the ground with no way left to stop it. This was not how he planned to go, falling from a docked airship to be splattered all over the streets of Chicago.
He never made it that far, though. His trajectory sent him not to the ground but right into the very edge of the cargo platform instead, landing hard on one ankle. He reached for the safety cable ringing the platform and this time managed to grab hold before he slipped off this, too. When he tried to stand up, though, his ankle couldn't hold the weight, even if the rest of his injuries from the fall were, at the moment, easy to ignore.
It didn't matter, though. Meg and Max were nowhere to be seen.
: : :
While Captain Kaur dealt with the station authorities - no mean feat considering they'd narrowly avoided an airship explosion and spilled a fair amount of blood in the cargo hold and on the platform - Sam raced off the ship and sprinted down to the cargo platform, ignoring every single uniformed authority that tried to stop him. That is, until Bobby Singer was suddenly right in front of him, grabbing him by both shoulders and stopping him in his tracks.
"Where's your brother?"
"He fell," said Sam shortly, and knew his expression had to be as frantic as he felt when instead of asking any more questions Bobby just let him go and followed when Sam dashed past him and down the corridor.
The way onto the platform wasn't clear, nor was it easy. It wasn't generally open to the public, and as an open-air space with precious cargo, it was more heavily monitored than the passenger corridors. There were not only automatons to bar his way, but station guards and locked doors.
Sam didn't care about any of that.
Drawing on a couple decades of knowledge he'd never entirely forgotten, he picked locks, evaded guards and dodged workers in his relentless drive towards his brother. And what he didn't get though cleanly, Bobby took care of right behind him.
Dean was sitting upright when they finally burst onto the platform, what felt like an hour later but could only have been minutes, since no one had even come to offer Dean assistance yet. Sam pushed past the remaining automatons, still working despite the interruption, stumbling to his knees at Dean's side.
"Hey, Sam," he said. "I lost them."
"I thought I lost you," said Sam, dropping to his knees next to him and pressing a hand over Dean's heart.
"Bobby?" said Dean, his eyes fixing on something past Sam's shoulder. "How did you get here?"
"When we heard there was a ruckus at Central Station I knew it had to be you boys," said Bobby. "Pamela's holding down the fort right now, in case you showed up back there before I got to you. Didn't we have a talk about letting me know before you went off willy nilly after these demons yourselves?"
"There was no time," said Dean. "If we came to get you they would've lost us."
"Yeah, and I'll bet they were counting on that," said Bobby. "Can we move you, Dean, or do I need to go find you a doctor? I'm sure the station medical unit will be here any moment."
"I can't walk," said Dean, though it looked like it pained him on more than a physical level to admit it. "But I can move if you help me."
"Nevermind that, I'll carry you out," said Sam, reaching to put an arm under Dean's knees.
"You'll do no such thing!" said Dean. "You guys should be going after Meg, she's getting away."
"She's already long gone, Dean," said Sam remorsefully, hand resting on Dean's knee but not under it. "No doubt she had her escape planned from the beginning."
"Just try," said Dean, but Sam shook his head. It was too late.
: : :
Dean's ankle hurt like a sonofabitch, but once he came back to himself that just served to make him sharper. He looked at every damn one of those automatons, muttering "Christo" under his breath, but the one harboring a demon had gotten away, or more likely the demon had hopped to a more hospitable host.
Sam and Bobby had backed off for the moment, but the way they were conferring with one another, Dean had the feeling it had more to do with his current condition than the hunt.
He was going to have to let Sam carry him out of there, unless he wanted to deal with a lot of questions he didn't want to have to answer, but he grabbed these last few minutes of dignity while he could.
His ankle wasn't the only thing that hurt; pain radiated from his chest too, particularly when he moved the wrong way, and he suspected that he had a broken rib or two again. Nothing he couldn't endure, but nothing he wanted to either.
He dared a glance over the edge of the platform that held him, braced against a support and in no danger of going anywhere despite the open air and the wind, and looked up, not down. Looked up at the airship he'd fallen from and in that moment could see with absolute clarity that a straight fall from that open door could never have landed him on this platform. It wasn't possible.
"Just let me carry you down to catch a taxicab," said Sam, interrupting Dean's thoughts.
But as Dean gave in and let himself be lifted, he took the opportunity to really look at his brother, and wonder if he and Max Miller had even more in common than they thought.
"Don't worry," said Sam, mistaking his expression for the confusion of pain. "We'll be home soon."
: : :
"No offense, Bobby, but you're just not as pretty as my other nurse," said Dean when Bobby pushed the door open to check on him. "Maybe if you put a dress on."
"Your other nurse is back on the road again," said Bobby, not telling Dean anything he didn't already know. Pamela'd said her good-byes last night already, heading to Milwaukee this time, or so she'd said.
"Well, I guess the omens were right," said Dean, "and we were the ones who were wrong. Dad never showed."
"No, I don't suppose he did," said Bobby, refilling Dean's water glass from the jug, but he didn't meet Dean's eyes, not even once he was done.
"Was he here?" Dean demanded, grabbing for his arm. "Was our father here, Bobby?"
"If he was, I didn't see any sign of him," said Bobby, shaking off Dean's hand, "but after what you boys told me about what that demon Meg said, I did some checking around. It looks like there was a house fire not all that different from yours just a few days ago."
"So that's what you think the omens were pointing at," said Dean, "and not our little encounter with Meg and her friends."
"Omens just aren't that specific," said Bobby, "and we don't have any proof this house fire was even related. There was nothing left for me to find when I went to take a look."
"We could've used an extra damn set of hands up on that airship," said Dean.
"Neither of the demons you encountered is the demon your father is looking for," said Bobby, seeming reluctant about every word out of his mouth. "The one he's looking for is the one who sits above them."
"Whatever that son of a bitch is doing, it's not sitting," said Dean. "I can't believe this."
"Dean--"
"He was here and he didn't see me? I almost died and he didn't come?"
"We don't know he was here, Dean," said Bobby, "and if he was, he probably saw he was late to the party and that you were already in good hands. You know that father of yours better than anyone. He's got it in his head that you need to be separated right now, and it takes a lot to get a notion out of your father's head."
Dean looked away fiercely, unwilling to let Bobby - or anyone - see the expression that no doubt reflected the betrayal he felt at his father's absence. Yes, maybe he had a good reason, but that didn't mean Dean didn't want him here.
"So what the hell do we do now?"
"You stay in that bed and don't go anywhere unless you want me to have to bring the doctor in again," said Bobby. "You don't want to lose a limb to infection, or worse."
"I'm not going to lose a limb," said Dean. "I've got cracked ribs, a sprained ankle, and--"
"Enough cuts and bruises to make you look like the loser in a prize fight," said Bobby. "I'll bring you up some more research materials. We have a lot to go through."
Dean couldn't argue that they had more to research than ever, even though his gut was telling him he needed to get up out of that bed and go. Staying still had never been something he was any good at.
"So what she said about the fires, that's real?" said Dean. "That happened to more than just Sammy?"
"It looks like that's one of the final things your father is tracking," said Bobby. "Not just the signs of a demon, but the signs of what he left behind. Burnt nurseries, burnt mothers, and burnt homes."
"Jesus Christ," Dean swore. "And Sam? How's he doing? He won't tell me anything."
"He's grappling with some pretty tough truths right now," said Bobby. "Give him some time, Dean, and let him fuss over you. He needs that right now."
"So there's something different about him, and it's not just these visions," said Dean.
"There may well be," said Bobby, "but he's still your brother. And right now you still need your rest. I'll bring those things up after you get some sleep."
"That's more of a threat than a promise, you know!" Dean called after him, but the truth - the truth he was sure Bobby knew as well as he did - was that Dean would do almost anything right now to stave off his helpless frustration.
: : :
They passed another week in Chicago while Dean's injuries healed; Dean would have gone off after two days, ankle be damned, but without a clear idea where they were heading Sam made him stay abed longer while he had the opportunity. Future chances might be few and far between.
"Look, see?" said Dean, hobbling down the stairs on the cane that Bobby had fashioned for him, half support and half weapon. "I can walk just fine."
"You can walk like an old man," said Sam, but he knew it was the best he was going to get. When Dean felt well enough to go, they would be going.
"You're the old man," Dean muttered as he made it down the rest of the stairs and headed straight for the fire.
"Boys, I hope you're decent, we have a guest," announced Bobby, and that was all the warning they got before Pamela Barnes joined them in the parlor.
Pamela seemed to come and go from Bobby's life, and while Sam, strictly speaking, wasn't too well bred to ask Bobby flat out whether or not she was coming around purely for business, he resisted the urge. There were some things he'd probably be happier not knowing, idle curiosity or not.
"Good to see you on your feet again, Dean," she said. "Or foot, as the case may be."
"Both feet," insisted Dean. "One's just more useful than the other at the moment. Back from Milwaukee already?"
"Now why would I stay in Milwaukee when you boys are waiting for me here in Chicago?" she said. "You might as well have a bow wrapped around you. Bobby, you got a kettle on for tea? It's nippy out there."
"Nippy's an understatement," said Bobby, "but then I think you might have too many layers on to notice. I've always wondered, if you stripped all of them off, would there be anything left of you?"
"Why, Bobby Singer," she said. "Are you saying you want to strip all my layers off me?"
Bobby turned tail and went to make the tea, and Sam guessed that answered that.
"So," said Pamela, "you boys are sitting here wondering where to pick up the trail, aren't you?"
"You don't have to be a psychic to know that," said Dean, hobbling over to a chair to sit down. Another couple of days and he probably wouldn't be hobbling anymore. "We've been trying to figure that out for almost two weeks."
"I wish I had a clearer answer for you," she said, finding her own seat, but not before she moved around behind Sam's back, brushing a bit of imaginary lint off his shoulder as she did. "Have a seat and I'll give you what I've got."
Sam made sure Dean was situated first, earning himself a not-unexpected thump on the shoulder for his trouble. It was warmer by the fire anyway, and it was definitely a winter day in Chicago.
"Let me tell you," she said, "nobody's really talking these days. If I didn't know better, I'd think they'd all gone into hibernation for the winter."
"Sometimes I think bears are the smart ones," said Dean, propping his feat up closer to the flames.
"From what I can gather, though, you boys are in for another airship adventure.
"People," said Dean, "are not meant to fly. Does that mean we're supposed to sit tight here in Chicago?"
"No, no," she said, closing her eyes as she shook her head, then cocked it to the side like she was listening to something. "That's no lake, that's definitely the big, wide ocean. Lots of people and lots of ocean. It looks like you boys are heading for the coast."
"Of the three other airships docked at the spire, two were headed for New York and one for Boston, before heading overseas," said Sam. "Our working theory is that they escaped onto one of those."
"It's a pretty sound theory," said Dean, "but it didn't help us when I wasn't even able to leave my bed."
"They want me, Dean," said Sam, "and I'm pretty sure they want us to follow them."
"Into another trap?" said Dean. "Thanks, but falling out of an airship is a once in a lifetime event for me, if it's all the same to you."
"If they wanted you so badly, wouldn't it be easier to possess you?" said Pamela. "Not that I'm encouraging that in any way."
Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a charm, one he'd never stopped carrying since he was a teenager. "They can't," he said, showing it to her. "Unless they get this off me. I wish I knew what they wanted me for, though."
"It's got to be something to do with your...."
"Visions?" supplied Pamela. "They're not exactly a secret, boys. Not to me, anyway."
"Or maybe it's just something to distract us from what's really important," said Sam. "They know Dad's after their... father, or whatever he is. And they know we're after them too. They're running scared, Dean. I think they tried to draw us out here in Chicago because we were getting close to the real mark. Or he was."
"Using us as bait to distract Dad," said Dean, nodding slowly. "And it might have worked."
"We don't know that he was here, Dean," said Sam. "Maybe he just knew that we were."
"I bet he knows that Bobby is."
"Bobby's been consulting with every hunter in the area," said Pam. "He's not exactly keeping a low profile here in the city."
Still, the visions - and whatever other abilities might come with them, which Sam was trying hard not to think about - weren't something that felt altogether natural to Sam. Maybe trying to separate him from Dean was all a ploy, but that didn't mean they didn't know something about his abilities that he didn't.
"Well, if the spirit world is telling us to head for the coast, who are we to argue?" said Dean. "And where the demons go, so goes our father, it seems."
"I've learned not to count on finding Dad anywhere we think he's going to be," said Sam, "but that's the best lead we've got."
"And we're not flying," said Dean firmly. "I don't care how fast that gets us anywhere. If I never leave the ground again, it'll be too soon."
"Nobody said we're flying anywhere."
"She said airship adventure," said Dean, looking faintly green at the prospect. "I suspect 'adventure' might've been a euphemism."
"I think you're right that we should keep to the ground on this one anyway," said Sam. "We're still not entirely clear on a destination."
"Unfortunately, I've given you all I have," said Pamela. "Those demons of yours aren't the only ones running scared these days. No one in the spirit realm seems to want to talk about it all that much. Never met a more closed-mouthed bunch of spirits. But if you want my best guess, I'd say New York."
"I hate New York," said Dean. "Nothing good ever comes out of New York. Except burlesque shows."
"If we kill this demon in New York, maybe you'll be changing your tune," said Sam. "We're closing in on them. On them and on Dad. If we stay in touch with Bobby and keep tabs on the weather patterns, we can do this."
"And with any luck we'll run into that father of ours on the way," said Dean. "Damn stubborn bastard."
"Boys, boys," said Pam. "Don't you know there's a lady present?"
"Really? Where?" said Dean, giving her ass a friendly smack. "You staying in Chicago with Bobby?"
"We're heading back to Dakota as soon as the two of you move on," she said. "You're the only reason he's hanging around now and the both of you know it."
"So you're going back with him, are you?" said Dean, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sam's fingertips brushed over a fresh scorch mark at the hem his coat, just within his reach where it was hanging near the fire to dry. Not that it had looked all that pristine in about two thousand miles.
"Sounds like you think that's your business, Dean Winchester," she said. "Be careful when you ask questions like that. One day I might just answer them."
"One day, I might want to know," said Dean, winking at her. "Well, I'm all but fit to travel now. What do you say, Sammy? We pack up Tessa in the morning and start heading east?"
"I'll start putting our things together tonight," said Sam.
He wished they had more to go on, but at least they had a rough destination in mind now, and a system in place to find a new one if need be. If there was demon activity in the northeast, the Winchester boys would be on top of it.
With any luck, all three of them.
: : :
It happened in the middle of the night, which it hadn't since.... But Sam knew it was no dream this time. He woke up shaking and sweating, sitting bolt upright in his bed. A moment later Dean was at his door, light in hand and looking as shaken as Sam felt.
"You shouted my name, Sam," he said, looking him over quickly and frowning. "If you say you saw me falling again I'm never leaving this house."
"You weren't falling," Sam said quickly, leaning forward with his head in his hands and trying to will the pain away. "We were in a city, lots of people, somewhere I've been, I think."
"You've been a lot of places, Sammy," said Dean. "Could it have been New York?"
"I could smell the ocean."
"That's not the first smell I think of when it comes to New York, but okay, it could fit."
"And there was someone else there. A girl."
"Meg?"
"I don't know. Maybe," said Sam. "That's it, Dean. That's all I've got." And he couldn't be sorry for it, not when his head didn't seem like it could take any more than it was already taking. "Could you bring me some water?"
He must have looked rough because Dean didn't even argue, just disappeared out of his doorway, light and all, and returned a couple of minutes later with a glass of water that he set at Sam's bedside.
"So it sounds to me like Pamela had it right," he said, sitting down in the chair next to the bed. "Can I ask you something, Sam?"
"Since when do you hesitate?" he said, sipping the water slowly. His throat stung as it went down, and he wondered just how loudly he'd shouted.
"Do you think Dad was really here in Chicago?"
"I don't know," said Sam. "Is it better or worse if he was?"
"I don't know. Both," said Dean, elbows on the armrests and folding his hands comfortable in front of himself. "He's wrongheaded about this whole thing, Sam, and he's going to get himself killed."
"Not if we catch up with him first and have his back," said Sam. "I want to be the one to kill it, Dean. I want to be the one to send this demon back to hell."
"We all want to be the one to kill it," said Dean, and it was hard to say who among the three of them deserved it the most. "All right, if you're done with your hollering, I'm going back to bed."
"It's over," said Sam, breathing a sigh of relief as the pain really started to subside. It would likely linger at the back of his head all night, though, which didn't make for a restful sleep.
"Good," said Dean, pushing himself up out of the chair and grabbing the lamp again.
"You didn't bring your cane," Sam noted as Dean walked back across the room to the door.
"See?" said Dean. "Fit as a fiddle and ready to be back on the road in the morning. Get some more sleep, Sammy. You're going to need it."
Defiance, Ohio
It was Sam, of course, after all the fuss that had been made about Dean's injuries, who ended up falling ill while they were on the road. While in his head he thought perhaps it was for the best, that even though they were days outside of Chicago now Dean could still use the rest to finish healing, the cough that rattled his chest seemed a large sacrifice to make.
"You certainly do go to great lengths to keep from having to sleep on the ground in wintertime," said Dean, feeling Sam's forehead with the back of his hand and frowning.
"I go to great lengths to keep from having to sleep on the ground in summertime too," admitted Sam, feeling his voice grate through his throat, "but not these lengths."
It was merely a cold, one of many he'd had over the course of his life, but he also knew how quickly a cold could become something more serious when ignored. As did Dean, or he'd never have agreed to the hotel room.
Or maybe he would have, as a way to get himself some much needed rest without having to admit to needing it.
"It's a good thing we don't have anywhere to be in a hurry," he muttered with a grunt, sitting back down in a chair next to the bed and reaching for their father's journal, which never strayed far from his person. "Do you need anything?"
Sam shook his head and leaned back against his feather pillow, and the soft bed really did seem to make his body ache a little less. Which he knew Dean knew, which was why they'd stopped despite all of Dean's grumbling about the delay and the expense. He would've done it even if Sam had never asked. Which, now that he thought back on it, he wasn't entirely sure he actually had.
"Just talk to me," he said, "until I fall asleep. What are you up to in the journal?"
Dean put his foot up, and Sam tried not to smile in satisfaction, a task made easier by the fact that smiling - like nearly everything else - hurt enough to not be worth the bother.
"Ghost ship up near Boston," said Dean, flipping a page. "Apparently it's hard to fire rock salt at a ship without a canon." He flips back again, then forward. "No date. Do you remember this hunt, Sammy?"
"He didn't often tell me what he was doing," said Sam, the words drawing a cough out of him. "Neither of you did."
"Well, you made it pretty clear you didn't want to know," said Dean. "I don't remember ever being in Boston. We must have been staying somewhere else then. Maybe Pastor Jim's church."
"We stayed a lot of different places," said Sam, closing his eyes. "He could've left us anywhere."
"Sammy, you know he didn't--"
"You know he did," said Sam, and coughed again. "Tell me about the ghost ship."
Dean sighed heavily, but he settled in more comfortably, obviously planning to stay put for a while, and flipped up a newspaper clipping to read what had been written underneath. "Well, what do you know, he did get his hands on a canon. I'll bet that was sure something to see."
Sam really wasn't sure he wanted to know what his father would've done after getting his hands on a canon. "Did it work?"
"To disperse the spirit? Sure did," said Dean. "He had to round up some artifacts to get rid of it, though. He should have brought me along on that one; I always was great at sneaking into people's homes."
"I'm sure he had his reasons," said Sam.
"Hush, don't talk," said Dean. "Jesus, Sammy, I hurt when you talk. Drink your tea before it gets cold."
"If you don't want me to talk, keep reading," said Sam, and sat up far enough to take a careful sip. It was already cooling, but he could taste that Dean went to the trouble to put lemon in and he almost smiled.
Dean flipped the newspaper clipping back down, glanced at it, then flipped it up again with an almost imperceptible shrug. "A ghost ship is still about the people and not the boat itself," he said, obviously paraphrasing their father's notes. "It's just a different kind of manifestation. Like that ghost locomotive when we were kids, do you remember that?"
"Though you didn't want me to talk," said Sam, sipping his tea again.
Dean grunted and flipped the page. "Looks like Dad only ever encountered the one. Well, it's not as though we were out at the coast often, though you'd think there might be one haunting the Mississippi."
"Don't tempt fate, Dean," said Sam.
There had to be more there, more not only about the case their father had worked but about their father himself, his insights, his life when he'd left his children behind. But either Dean didn't want to talk about it, or he thought Sam wouldn't want to hear about it. Perhaps both.
Sam cleared his throat again, tried to make his voice sound like less of a croak. "Did you ever find anything in there about what you think you saw?"
"Shhh," said Dean again, and for a moment Sam thought he wasn't going to answer until he finally shook his head. "I know what I saw, Sam. The demon possessed that automaton. There are references to demons possessing people and animals before, but this is something new."
But it made sense to Sam, in a twisted kind of a way. They made their own people, and demons found a way to use their creations against them.
"Guess we'd better update the journal, huh?" he said, but Sam knew it would be going into his own, not his father's. Dean hadn't made a single mark in his father's journal since the day he'd received it.
"Just keep reading," said Sam, setting his tea back down the bedside table. "You've got to keep me entertained for at least a couple more days."
Dean made a show of sighing heavily at him, but Sam had a feeling he really didn't mind.
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
Dean had to stop to top up the water and kerosene midway through Pennsylvania, and while he was paying the distributor for the fuel Sam browsed through a copy of the local paper, dated two weeks earlier and currently being used to mop up grease on a wooden tabletop.
"Madame Rushkin," he said, "descended from European royalty, invites you to a séance in her home--"
"Oh no," said Dean, "do not read that to me, Sam, you'll just make me want to do something about it, and no good can come of that."
"Descended from European royalty," scoffed Sam, torn paper still in hand. "Aren't they all?"
"I mean it, Sam," said Dean, hefting the metal jug and testing the weight with one arm. "I'm mere seconds away from tearing that paper out of your hands."
"For all of your spiritual needs," Sam said, holding the paper out of reach. "What do you think, Dean, do you think she can meet all of my spiritual needs?"
"I think we have a stop to make in town," said Dean, sighing heavily. "You know what Dad says about séances. Bugger them when they're frauds and bugger them twice when they're not."
"Does that mean we're going to sleep in beds again tonight?" said Sam, which Dean was beginning to suspect had been his motivation all along. Séances were kid stuff, in the grand scheme of things.
"Yes, you big baby," said Dean. "There's a low stakes game out at the Peashoot Saloon at the edge of town; I can sit in on a few hands."
"How do you even know that?" said Sam. "This is the only stop we've made in town."
"You're good at your things, Sammy, and I'm good at mine," he said. It wasn't his fault that Sam somehow never overheard the same things he did, or didn't know where to listen. "We can check out this Madame Rushkin tomorrow and figure out on which side of the line she falls."
"European royalty," said Sam with a smirk. "We used to have fun with these, remember?"
"Back when you thought anything about the job was fun," muttered Dean, but it brought a smile to his face anyway. Once upon a time they'd been two fresh-faced kids debunking the hell out of séances all over the north-east, while their father did damage control in the background. Their father hated it almost as much as Sam and Dean had a good time.
"People think kids will believe anything," said Sam. "They were always underestimating us."
"When weren't people underestimating us?" said Dean, giving the gauges on Tessa's rear end a check and tweaking a few knobs in rapid succession to start her up before getting back into the driver's seat. "I suppose it might be fun, for old times' sake. Madame Rushkin, descended from European royalty, probably needs a good comeuppance."
"It certainly would be responsible to investigate her," said Sam, which was close enough to agreement for Dean. "While we're already here."
"Do you remember the time you exposed that psychic in Albany and she wasn't wearing anything but her underthings?"
"I've spent the last fifteen years trying to forget that one, Dean. Who disguises themselves as a spirit and leaves their skirts in the cupboard?"
"Someone trying to make as little noise as possible," said Dean. "I don't know about you, but I always wished she'd left the rest of it in the cupboard as well."
"Dean, you're indecent," said Sam, but as Dean got Tessa back onto the road into town, all he did was smile.
: : :
"It seems as though spiritualists are still doing brisk business," said Dean, looking up at the large and well-kept house. "Or she's in some serious debt."
"Or she really is descended from European royalty."
Dean just looked at him and snorted, not missing Sam's faint smirk at the notion. "People pay for the craziest things, Sammy," he said. "Even if this did work, who'd want a ghost hanging around in your business all the time?"
"People who miss their loved ones, I suppose," said Sam. "People who don't know what's out there will go to great lengths to contact the other side."
"People on this side have no business contacting the other one," said Dean. "Not like this, anyway, and especially not when they don't know what they're getting into. Ghosts aren't people. Their loved ones are gone."
He knew perfectly well that Sam knew all of that, but he had that look in his eyes, the kind of look he had right after he lost Jess, yearning for her return, and Dean felt it couldn't hurt to say it all again.
"So what do you say we see if Madame Rushkin's afternoon session has room for two more?"
"I say that I hope it doesn't involve disrobement," said Sam, leading the way up the stairs. Dean would reserve judgment on that until he discovered just what this Madame Ruskin looked like.
She wasn't in the entry hall when they stepped in the front door (open, with a sign indicating guests should wait in the parlor), so Dean took the opportunity to snoop through everything he could get his hands on and into: drawers, cupboards and even around the picture frames. It wasn't likely that they would be wired out here in the parlor, but Dean'd seen stranger things.
It was unfortunate that Madame Rushkin entered the parlor to greet them at the exact moment Dean was fingering a photograph.
"Lovely family," he said, giving her his most distracting smile.
"Indeed," she said, taking the photo from his hands, dusting it with her kerchief and setting it back on her mantle. "Sam and Dean Murray, I presume?"
"I see our note arrived in good time," said Sam, standing to greet her. Sam, for all that Dean was used to his size and manner, did make a striking figure when people first encountered him. Madame Ruskin's tight smile became marginally warmer, at any rate.
"I'm terribly sorry to hear of the passing of your mother," she said, with practiced condolences. "I can imagine that you were both quite close to her."
"She was our whole world," said Dean. "I hope you can help us."
She sat down in an ornate armchair, one that served as something of a throne, and it was Sam's hand she reached for. "Ordinarily, of course, I would have more notice before a visit such as this, but I understand you'll be in town for a very short time."
"Only a couple of days," said Sam apologetically, "but your reputation is impeccable, Madame Rushkin, and we felt we'd be privileged to witness a manifestation with you."
When Madame Rushkin looked sharply in his direction, Dean carefully set down the vase he had been trying to oh-so-casually examine.
"I hate to disappoint you," she said, speaking to Sam but looking at Dean, "but your brother clearly has a strong magnetic temperament. It would disrupt the power of the spirits and prevent a manifestation."
Oh, Dean just bet that it would.
"Surely one person couldn't disrupt things to such an extent," insisted Sam. "We've come all this way."
"Oh, contacting the spirit realm takes a great deal of delicacy," she said, patting him on the hand, more patronizing than consoling. "I truly am sorry for your loss, but I'm afraid I cannot conduct a séance with your brother in attendance."
"What if it was just me?" said Sam, shooting Dean a look, but Dean was already primed to go.
"You're absolutely certain the spirits won't manifest if I'm in the room?" said Dean. "I wonder why that is."
"There are some people who are of such a type that they interfere with a manifestation," she said. "You wouldn't understand. You need to be in tune with the workings of the spirit world to be aware of such things."
"You don't say," said Dean dryly. "So I guess that means attending the séance this afternoon is out."
"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you boys," she said. "Either of you boys. Now if you'll excuse me, my guests are already waiting inside, and I must get set to begin."
"You mean you're not already set?" said Dean, with imperfect innocence. Sam sighed and shook his head.
"Good day, gentlemen," she said, and all in one motion she lifted herself from the seat and swept back out of the room again.
"This was so much easier when we were kids," said Sam. "Of course, if you hadn't been caught with your fingers in the cookie jar...."
"I was admiring her heirlooms," said Dean defensively. "There's nothing suspicious about that."
"Charlatans are very good at observing the intentions of others," said Sam. "It's how they work, Dean. We were made the moment she came in the room, she just played it out for propriety."
"I wouldn't have wanted to see her out of her skirts anyway," said Dean, stepping up onto a chair to check the moldings on the ceiling. "I don't see anything in here. I suppose she doesn't do any work in here after all."
"We might as well be on our way," said Sam, "unless you want to burst into her sitting room and interrupt the proceedings."
"Tempting," said Dean. "I could at least listen at the door for a little while. Did you see which room she went into?"
"I saw only as much as you did, Dean, though I suspect it won't be difficult to figure it out," said Sam. "It'll likely be the only room that's occupied, and you'll have to pick the lock if you want to get in."
They never had to find out, though. A moment later all the lights in the house flickered, and there was a suddenly and noticeable drop in temperature despite the roaring, guttering fire.
"Son of a bitch," said Dean, looking up at the ceiling. "You have got to be kidding me."
"Bugger her twice," muttered Sam under his breath, loud enough to be heard in the calm before the inevitable storm. "Do you have your magnetometer in your coat?"
"Do you really think I need it right now?" said Dean, though he felt for an inside pocket and pulled out the device. There was no time to use it, though, before there was a shriek from somewhere inside the house, and the sound of a door slamming closed, then open, then closed again.
A moment later a flood of people streamed towards the door.
"What have you done?"
"Us?" said Sam, getting to his feet calmly as though he hadn't any idea what was going on. "We were just waiting here in the parlor hoping you'd consent to speak with us when you were finished with today's session. After all, we'd come all this way."
"It was Uncle Albert," said one breathless woman, fanning herself madly. "I knew it the moment he appeared. Oh, we should never have asked him to return!"
Well, she had that much right, anyway. No one in their right mind asked a spirit to return. But then, nobody was returning who wasn't hanging around already anyway.
"Why did you?" he asked uncharitably. "He have some kind of inheritance you wanted to get your hands on?"
"No, of course not!" she said with a gasp of affront. "We wanted to ask him if he'd been murdered."
The lights flickered again and Dean rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. "My money's on yes," he said. "Your Uncle Albert, what was his full name? Was he from around here?"
"Albert Montrose," she said promptly before Madam Rushkin could silence her. "Born and raised in Harrisburg."
"You're not skeptics," said Madam Rushkin, all but dropping the affected accent and looking at them with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
"No, ma'am, we're not," said Sam, as Dean neatly ducked around what remained of the séance - at least half of the participants had dashed right out the door and headed on their way - and used the magnetometer to detect the disturbance. It was faint, but when he eliminated the obvious natural sources it led him straight to the parlor where Madame Rushkin held her séances. There was nothing remaining of the manifestation, though, just a series of overturned chairs and, to Dean's trained eye, the telltale signs of the tricks Madame Rushkin ordinarily used to fake the manifestations.
She hadn't summoned the spirit, the spirit had just leapt upon the opportunity to show himself to the family members he'd obviously attached himself to.
He put the instrument away, made a cursory examination of the room for other evidence, and returned to the parlor. Madame Rushkin gave him an angry, wary look, but Dean decided it wasn't the moment to expose her and her tricks. Not when they had an actual spirit to dispatch.
"Whatever it was, it's gone now," he said, bringing the news he knew they hoped to hear from him. "I guess he didn't manifest in the usual way, huh?"
"No, he was far more violent than the spirits I normally deal with," said Madame Rushkin.
"Perhaps it's time to get out of the business," Dean suggested, a hint of warning in his voice. "You never know when this sort of thing might happen."
"I had been considering retirement," she said. "Spiritualism is so taxing on the body and the spirit."
Lady, you don't know taxing, he wanted to say, but he pressed his lips together and nodded his head again. "Sammy?" he said. "Are we ready to go?"
Sam had the delicate woman's hand between his own, obviously consoling her, and looked up to give Dean a nod. "Miss Montrose was just telling me of the circumstances of her uncle's death," he said. "Miss Montrose, my condolences on your loss. I hope both you and your uncle find peace."
"Oh, you're so kind, Mr. Murray," she said. "Will you be in town for long?"
Dean coughed politely, and raised an eyebrow when his brother looked.
"I'm afraid not," he said, letting her down easy. "We must be returning home. But it was certainly a pleasure to meet you, even under these unfortunate circumstances."
"Come on, Sam," said Dean. "It's time to leave these people to their business. Good day, ladies."
: : :
They approached St. Michael's Cemetery close to midnight, Tessa running silently up to the iron gate and for once not even making a rattle as Dean shut her down.
"At least this'll be a quick one," he said. "I don't suppose your acquaintance with Miss Montrose extended to her detailing just where to find Uncle Albert's grave?"
"There's never really a discreet way to ask that," said Sam. "We were lucky to get the cemetery name, and that one she just blurted out unprompted. Apparently it was a lively funeral."
"Lively because Uncle Albert made an appearance?"
"Lively because one half of the family accused the other half of being murderers right in the middle of the service," said Sam. "She mentioned there were trees nearby, but that describes nearly the entire graveyard."
"Well, let's start at one side and work our way over," he said. They were leaving tracks in the snow, just old enough to have an icy crust on top, but visitors to the graveyard were apparently not rare and theirs weren't the only tracks on the ground.
The moon was bright enough to allow them to see their way around, but not quite so bright that they didn't need some additional illumination to actually be able to read the inscriptions.
"Dean, wait," said Sam, as he was about to ignite the lantern. "Over there."
He looked up and quickly spotted what Sam was talking about: a shadowy figure near a tree towards the back of the graveyard.
"Well, hello Uncle Albert. I guess we start over there," he said, and together they moved quickly and as quietly as they could over the snow, wincing at each faint crunch of it that forecast their arrival. When they were near enough, and had memorized the location, Dean raised his scattergun and blasted a load of rock salt in the spirit's direction.
Only to hear a yelp of pain and watch a second figure join the first, leaping out from within the grave.
"Run!" one of them said, and they took off for the back fence of the graveyard at full speed, stumbling only once over an exposed root.
"What do you think?" said Sam. "Zombies? Ghouls?"
"Worse," said Dean, spitting on the ground and definitely not wasting any of his time chasing after them. "Medical students. On the bright side, if there's been a bodysnatching problem, they're going to blame Uncle Albert's disturbed grave on them.
They continued to watch as the two figures fled into the night, gait uneven as they tried to compensate for rock salt in the arse, finally scrambling over the iron fence and disappearing.
"Back to work?" Sam said finally.
"Back to work," said Dean, finally igniting the lantern and hoisting his shovel over his shoulder. The grave the students had been excavating was not Albert Montrose's - they weren't that lucky - and they made a point of roughly filling it back in before moving on. There was no sense asking for trouble.
After that they systematically went from tombstone to tombstone, shining a light on each of them in turn until they found the one they were looking for."
"This is so much easier in the summertime," said Dean, moving a shovelful of snow out of their way. It was a light covering, which was better than what it might have been. "I hate winter."
"At least the grave is fresh and the weather has been relatively mild," said Sam, but that, of course, brought its own complications. "Did you bring the clothespins?"
"I hate winter and fresh graves," Dean amended, and pulled one out of his pocket to hand to Sam, preparing for the opening of the coffin.
"Fresh graves are worse in the summer," Sam reminded him, and started to dig.
The stench, Dean thought when they finally broke through the body box, was still fairly incredible. But at least they made short work of the body, and thus the spirit, of Albert Montrose, and that was a success he couldn't really complain about.
Allentown, Pennsylvania
They were outside of the automobile but not yet inside the saloon when Sam felt a pain in his head so intense that he instantly fell to his knees on the dirt. His visions were certainly no comfort at the best of times, but this one seemed to be more vicious than most.
He could feel Dean touching his shoulder in a distant sort of a way, but most of his attention was on the images that were flashing in front of him. Streets full of people and tall buildings, and one particularly cavernous one that seemed vaguely familiar. He didn't have time to wonder whether he was meant to recognize it, though, because that was when the piece de resistance of the vision appeared.
His father. The father he hadn't seen in well over three years. His father with a scattergun over his shoulder, smiling at Sam like the estrangement was nothing but a memory.
He didn't miss that there was also smoke and blood and sweat, but that smile was what stayed with him as the vision finally receded and he was aware of where he really was again.
"Sam?" Dean was saying. "Sam, can you hear me? Sammy?"
"I'm here," he said, the very words - like every part of his body - painful.
"Jesus, Sammy, you really scared me there," he said, taking Sam's elbow to help him to his feet. "What was it this time?"
Sam took a moment to find his feet and clear his head, then looked straight at Dean and said, "I saw Dad, Dean. Dad was in my vision. We're going to find him."
Next Part | Master Post
The door to the cargo hold, thin but sturdy in order to not increase the payload of the ship any more than necessary, was wide open. But that in itself wasn't alarming; as cargo was currently being offloaded via aeroconveyance, an open access point was to be expected. What was more alarming was what they found inside.
"Well, if it isn't the Winchester boys." Apparently, the demon Miss Masters was not going to prove herself hard to find. "Did you get lost on the way?"
"We just stopped to catch up with a few friends," said Dean, raising his weapon. "Nice to see you again, Margaret."
"Meg, please, we don't go for formalities around here," she said, her gaze drifting to Captain Kaur. "Ah, yes, we expected you might find yourself up there." The doors closed behind them, and there was the sound of a complicated locking mechanism grinding into place. "I see you've met my brother."
The man whom Captain Kaur had addressed as Harsharan gave them a slow grin and crossed the room to stand at his sister's side.
"His other suit is being laundered," she explained coolly.
"Christo," spat Dean, and her eyes flashed a fathomless black.
There was no hesitation at all. The moment Meg was revealed as truly, inarguably inhuman, Captain Kaur raised her weapon and fired, sending a metal bolt straight into Meg's shoulder. She jerked back, her skirts flaring as she stumbled, but made no sound to show that she had been hurt by the weapon.
"That wasn't very nice," she said, yanking it out and dropping it to the floor, ignoring the blood that seeped down into her corset. "I haven't even introduced you to all my friends yet."
Sam shot his eyes sideways at Sam and hoped he remembered his exorcisms better than Dean did, though just in case he began running through the Latin in his head.
The cargo hold was worse than the pilothouse, by far. The pilothouse at least had sealed windows that Dean could assume would keep him safe from the ground below. The cargo hold had no such protection, the side where the aeroconveyance shipping volley operated wide open to the winds and the world.
"Come meet Max," she said, as a wiry young man stepped out from behind a stack of tea crates poised to be sent down the aeroconveyance but never loaded. "This poor boy has such a sad tale to tell. Maybe you know it already. Young boy loses his mother at the age of six months in a terrible fire."
"Another one?" murmured Sam.
"Oh, haven't you figured that out yet?" said Meg. "I'm sure it's only a matter of time. Poor Max here, though, he didn't have a daddy to watch over him. We plucked him right out of an orphanage a few years ago, didn't we, Max?"
Max didn't say anything, but a knife that had been mounted on a beam near the crates to aid in their opening suddenly came loose from its bindings and floated in the air between them.
"You didn't think you were the only special little boy out there, did you, Sam?" said Meg. "But your visions aren't as useful as this, are they?"
"This is where it all happens," said Sam. "This is what I saw, Dean."
"Now's a fine time to figure that out," said Dean with a grunt. "You did notice there's a knife in the air pointed at us, right?"
"I did notice that," said Sam.
"I'm glad we're all caught up," said Meg. "And now that we're clear on who has the upper hand, we'd like Sam."
"Over my dead body you'll have Sam," said Dean, and didn't even ask what they wanted Sam for. He didn't care what they wanted Sam for. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus--"
One moment he was speaking, the next he felt himself sliding relentlessly across the floor towards the cargo opening. He grappled for something, anything, to stop him, but nothing did until he stumbled over a crate of tea and found himself pinned there. From that vantage point he could see that Captain Kaur was similarly pinned against the wall next to the door by the man she'd once called her officer.
Dean wondered, because wondering was just about the only thing he could do at the moment, whether he was still in there somewhere.
"I'm not going anywhere with you," said Sam, "and I have no idea why you think I would."
"But my daddy wants you to," she said. "And he's willing to go after your daddy to get you."
Sam stilled. "What do you want?"
"Sam, no!" said Dean, but even just two words were hard to force out. He was sure she wouldn't be able to keep this up, though, not and taunt his brother at the same time. He didn't have a lot of experience with demons but Bobby'd made sure they'd all done their research.
"Just you," she said. "That's not asking too much is it?"
"And you had to get us up here to get me?" said Sam. "Was that really a necessary part of this plan?"
"You don't get to know all parts of the plan, Sam," she said, crooking a finger at him. "Come with us and everyone else gets to go."
"I find it difficult to believe you," he said, glancing towards Dean, just for a moment. A few more moments and Dean was going to be able to... yes, there, a crack in her resolve and Dean was able to break free of her telekinetic hold. Captain Kaur, however, had no such experience to be able to handle the demon herself, and since she was the nearer he stumbled across the floor, regained his balance, and pulled a flask of holy water out of his coat to send directly into Harsharan's eyes.
They flashed an ugly black but Jaipal was immediately released, and just as quickly raised her weapon again.
"Wait," said Dean. "Your shipmate is still in there."
She didn't fire, but she kept her weapon trained on his chest as he hissed away the pain of the holy water. By the steadiness of her hand and the unflinching resolve in her eyes, Dean had to wonder just how many pirates she'd fended off. He handed her the holy water to hold in her other hand, a much more effective weapon in this particular fight.
"There's more where that came from," said Dean, and started all over again. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu + Christi...."
He shook with every word Dean spoke, but unconstrained and untied to this body he didn't stick around to be sent back to hell. He threw his head back and opened his mouth and an oily black smoke came billowing out, massing in the air above his head before streaming straight out the cargo opening.
Dean steeled himself and rushed as close as he dared to watch where it went, but as close as he dared wasn't as close as a person could conceivably get, and he could only watch it wash over the bird-like grapples of the aeroconveyance and enter into one of the automatons on the loading dock.
Dean had never seen or heard of anyone other than a human being possessed. But times had changed since the books he read had been written, and apparently these days automatons were enough like human to substitute.
"Now why'd you have to do that?" said Meg. Dean jerked away from the hole, his heart pounding at the thought of sliding through it again, but at the back of his neck he felt the prick of the knife that had been suspended in the air. "Isn't Max a good boy?"
"Leave him alone," said Sam. "It's me you want."
"Do you even know who you are, Sam Winchester?" she said. "So you know what you are?"
"I'm a Winchester," he said.
Meg never saw it coming, her attention so focused on Sam and Dean. The holy water hit her right in the face, thrown by the arm of Captain Jaipal Kaur.
"Exorcizamus te--" Sam began, but Meg didn't wait around for the rest of it.
Dean felt the knife at the back of his neck drop, and at the same time heard the aeroconveyance start back to life again, the brass, clawfoot birds beginning their circular trip from the airship to the platform and back again. There was no one near the controls, but whatever telekinetic force Max possessed in order to threaten them with suspended weapons, it was more than enough to flip a switch and start a conveyor.
Meg grabbed hold of the first one she reached and let loose the brake, zipping down the line instantly, landing on the cargo platform and disappearing amongst the crates, inside the spire.
Dean automatically stepped forward to watch her go, unthinking. And then he didn't have time to think before he felt himself falling, pushed by some unseen hand when he dared move just close enough to the open air.
He grabbed frantically for the cable but his fingertips just brushed it before he fell beyond reach, accelerating towards the ground with no way left to stop it. This was not how he planned to go, falling from a docked airship to be splattered all over the streets of Chicago.
He never made it that far, though. His trajectory sent him not to the ground but right into the very edge of the cargo platform instead, landing hard on one ankle. He reached for the safety cable ringing the platform and this time managed to grab hold before he slipped off this, too. When he tried to stand up, though, his ankle couldn't hold the weight, even if the rest of his injuries from the fall were, at the moment, easy to ignore.
It didn't matter, though. Meg and Max were nowhere to be seen.
: : :
While Captain Kaur dealt with the station authorities - no mean feat considering they'd narrowly avoided an airship explosion and spilled a fair amount of blood in the cargo hold and on the platform - Sam raced off the ship and sprinted down to the cargo platform, ignoring every single uniformed authority that tried to stop him. That is, until Bobby Singer was suddenly right in front of him, grabbing him by both shoulders and stopping him in his tracks.
"Where's your brother?"
"He fell," said Sam shortly, and knew his expression had to be as frantic as he felt when instead of asking any more questions Bobby just let him go and followed when Sam dashed past him and down the corridor.
The way onto the platform wasn't clear, nor was it easy. It wasn't generally open to the public, and as an open-air space with precious cargo, it was more heavily monitored than the passenger corridors. There were not only automatons to bar his way, but station guards and locked doors.
Sam didn't care about any of that.
Drawing on a couple decades of knowledge he'd never entirely forgotten, he picked locks, evaded guards and dodged workers in his relentless drive towards his brother. And what he didn't get though cleanly, Bobby took care of right behind him.
Dean was sitting upright when they finally burst onto the platform, what felt like an hour later but could only have been minutes, since no one had even come to offer Dean assistance yet. Sam pushed past the remaining automatons, still working despite the interruption, stumbling to his knees at Dean's side.
"Hey, Sam," he said. "I lost them."
"I thought I lost you," said Sam, dropping to his knees next to him and pressing a hand over Dean's heart.
"Bobby?" said Dean, his eyes fixing on something past Sam's shoulder. "How did you get here?"
"When we heard there was a ruckus at Central Station I knew it had to be you boys," said Bobby. "Pamela's holding down the fort right now, in case you showed up back there before I got to you. Didn't we have a talk about letting me know before you went off willy nilly after these demons yourselves?"
"There was no time," said Dean. "If we came to get you they would've lost us."
"Yeah, and I'll bet they were counting on that," said Bobby. "Can we move you, Dean, or do I need to go find you a doctor? I'm sure the station medical unit will be here any moment."
"I can't walk," said Dean, though it looked like it pained him on more than a physical level to admit it. "But I can move if you help me."
"Nevermind that, I'll carry you out," said Sam, reaching to put an arm under Dean's knees.
"You'll do no such thing!" said Dean. "You guys should be going after Meg, she's getting away."
"She's already long gone, Dean," said Sam remorsefully, hand resting on Dean's knee but not under it. "No doubt she had her escape planned from the beginning."
"Just try," said Dean, but Sam shook his head. It was too late.
: : :
Dean's ankle hurt like a sonofabitch, but once he came back to himself that just served to make him sharper. He looked at every damn one of those automatons, muttering "Christo" under his breath, but the one harboring a demon had gotten away, or more likely the demon had hopped to a more hospitable host.
Sam and Bobby had backed off for the moment, but the way they were conferring with one another, Dean had the feeling it had more to do with his current condition than the hunt.
He was going to have to let Sam carry him out of there, unless he wanted to deal with a lot of questions he didn't want to have to answer, but he grabbed these last few minutes of dignity while he could.
His ankle wasn't the only thing that hurt; pain radiated from his chest too, particularly when he moved the wrong way, and he suspected that he had a broken rib or two again. Nothing he couldn't endure, but nothing he wanted to either.
He dared a glance over the edge of the platform that held him, braced against a support and in no danger of going anywhere despite the open air and the wind, and looked up, not down. Looked up at the airship he'd fallen from and in that moment could see with absolute clarity that a straight fall from that open door could never have landed him on this platform. It wasn't possible.
"Just let me carry you down to catch a taxicab," said Sam, interrupting Dean's thoughts.
But as Dean gave in and let himself be lifted, he took the opportunity to really look at his brother, and wonder if he and Max Miller had even more in common than they thought.
"Don't worry," said Sam, mistaking his expression for the confusion of pain. "We'll be home soon."
: : :
"No offense, Bobby, but you're just not as pretty as my other nurse," said Dean when Bobby pushed the door open to check on him. "Maybe if you put a dress on."
"Your other nurse is back on the road again," said Bobby, not telling Dean anything he didn't already know. Pamela'd said her good-byes last night already, heading to Milwaukee this time, or so she'd said.
"Well, I guess the omens were right," said Dean, "and we were the ones who were wrong. Dad never showed."
"No, I don't suppose he did," said Bobby, refilling Dean's water glass from the jug, but he didn't meet Dean's eyes, not even once he was done.
"Was he here?" Dean demanded, grabbing for his arm. "Was our father here, Bobby?"
"If he was, I didn't see any sign of him," said Bobby, shaking off Dean's hand, "but after what you boys told me about what that demon Meg said, I did some checking around. It looks like there was a house fire not all that different from yours just a few days ago."
"So that's what you think the omens were pointing at," said Dean, "and not our little encounter with Meg and her friends."
"Omens just aren't that specific," said Bobby, "and we don't have any proof this house fire was even related. There was nothing left for me to find when I went to take a look."
"We could've used an extra damn set of hands up on that airship," said Dean.
"Neither of the demons you encountered is the demon your father is looking for," said Bobby, seeming reluctant about every word out of his mouth. "The one he's looking for is the one who sits above them."
"Whatever that son of a bitch is doing, it's not sitting," said Dean. "I can't believe this."
"Dean--"
"He was here and he didn't see me? I almost died and he didn't come?"
"We don't know he was here, Dean," said Bobby, "and if he was, he probably saw he was late to the party and that you were already in good hands. You know that father of yours better than anyone. He's got it in his head that you need to be separated right now, and it takes a lot to get a notion out of your father's head."
Dean looked away fiercely, unwilling to let Bobby - or anyone - see the expression that no doubt reflected the betrayal he felt at his father's absence. Yes, maybe he had a good reason, but that didn't mean Dean didn't want him here.
"So what the hell do we do now?"
"You stay in that bed and don't go anywhere unless you want me to have to bring the doctor in again," said Bobby. "You don't want to lose a limb to infection, or worse."
"I'm not going to lose a limb," said Dean. "I've got cracked ribs, a sprained ankle, and--"
"Enough cuts and bruises to make you look like the loser in a prize fight," said Bobby. "I'll bring you up some more research materials. We have a lot to go through."
Dean couldn't argue that they had more to research than ever, even though his gut was telling him he needed to get up out of that bed and go. Staying still had never been something he was any good at.
"So what she said about the fires, that's real?" said Dean. "That happened to more than just Sammy?"
"It looks like that's one of the final things your father is tracking," said Bobby. "Not just the signs of a demon, but the signs of what he left behind. Burnt nurseries, burnt mothers, and burnt homes."
"Jesus Christ," Dean swore. "And Sam? How's he doing? He won't tell me anything."
"He's grappling with some pretty tough truths right now," said Bobby. "Give him some time, Dean, and let him fuss over you. He needs that right now."
"So there's something different about him, and it's not just these visions," said Dean.
"There may well be," said Bobby, "but he's still your brother. And right now you still need your rest. I'll bring those things up after you get some sleep."
"That's more of a threat than a promise, you know!" Dean called after him, but the truth - the truth he was sure Bobby knew as well as he did - was that Dean would do almost anything right now to stave off his helpless frustration.
: : :
They passed another week in Chicago while Dean's injuries healed; Dean would have gone off after two days, ankle be damned, but without a clear idea where they were heading Sam made him stay abed longer while he had the opportunity. Future chances might be few and far between.
"Look, see?" said Dean, hobbling down the stairs on the cane that Bobby had fashioned for him, half support and half weapon. "I can walk just fine."
"You can walk like an old man," said Sam, but he knew it was the best he was going to get. When Dean felt well enough to go, they would be going.
"You're the old man," Dean muttered as he made it down the rest of the stairs and headed straight for the fire.
"Boys, I hope you're decent, we have a guest," announced Bobby, and that was all the warning they got before Pamela Barnes joined them in the parlor.
Pamela seemed to come and go from Bobby's life, and while Sam, strictly speaking, wasn't too well bred to ask Bobby flat out whether or not she was coming around purely for business, he resisted the urge. There were some things he'd probably be happier not knowing, idle curiosity or not.
"Good to see you on your feet again, Dean," she said. "Or foot, as the case may be."
"Both feet," insisted Dean. "One's just more useful than the other at the moment. Back from Milwaukee already?"
"Now why would I stay in Milwaukee when you boys are waiting for me here in Chicago?" she said. "You might as well have a bow wrapped around you. Bobby, you got a kettle on for tea? It's nippy out there."
"Nippy's an understatement," said Bobby, "but then I think you might have too many layers on to notice. I've always wondered, if you stripped all of them off, would there be anything left of you?"
"Why, Bobby Singer," she said. "Are you saying you want to strip all my layers off me?"
Bobby turned tail and went to make the tea, and Sam guessed that answered that.
"So," said Pamela, "you boys are sitting here wondering where to pick up the trail, aren't you?"
"You don't have to be a psychic to know that," said Dean, hobbling over to a chair to sit down. Another couple of days and he probably wouldn't be hobbling anymore. "We've been trying to figure that out for almost two weeks."
"I wish I had a clearer answer for you," she said, finding her own seat, but not before she moved around behind Sam's back, brushing a bit of imaginary lint off his shoulder as she did. "Have a seat and I'll give you what I've got."
Sam made sure Dean was situated first, earning himself a not-unexpected thump on the shoulder for his trouble. It was warmer by the fire anyway, and it was definitely a winter day in Chicago.
"Let me tell you," she said, "nobody's really talking these days. If I didn't know better, I'd think they'd all gone into hibernation for the winter."
"Sometimes I think bears are the smart ones," said Dean, propping his feat up closer to the flames.
"From what I can gather, though, you boys are in for another airship adventure.
"People," said Dean, "are not meant to fly. Does that mean we're supposed to sit tight here in Chicago?"
"No, no," she said, closing her eyes as she shook her head, then cocked it to the side like she was listening to something. "That's no lake, that's definitely the big, wide ocean. Lots of people and lots of ocean. It looks like you boys are heading for the coast."
"Of the three other airships docked at the spire, two were headed for New York and one for Boston, before heading overseas," said Sam. "Our working theory is that they escaped onto one of those."
"It's a pretty sound theory," said Dean, "but it didn't help us when I wasn't even able to leave my bed."
"They want me, Dean," said Sam, "and I'm pretty sure they want us to follow them."
"Into another trap?" said Dean. "Thanks, but falling out of an airship is a once in a lifetime event for me, if it's all the same to you."
"If they wanted you so badly, wouldn't it be easier to possess you?" said Pamela. "Not that I'm encouraging that in any way."
Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out a charm, one he'd never stopped carrying since he was a teenager. "They can't," he said, showing it to her. "Unless they get this off me. I wish I knew what they wanted me for, though."
"It's got to be something to do with your...."
"Visions?" supplied Pamela. "They're not exactly a secret, boys. Not to me, anyway."
"Or maybe it's just something to distract us from what's really important," said Sam. "They know Dad's after their... father, or whatever he is. And they know we're after them too. They're running scared, Dean. I think they tried to draw us out here in Chicago because we were getting close to the real mark. Or he was."
"Using us as bait to distract Dad," said Dean, nodding slowly. "And it might have worked."
"We don't know that he was here, Dean," said Sam. "Maybe he just knew that we were."
"I bet he knows that Bobby is."
"Bobby's been consulting with every hunter in the area," said Pam. "He's not exactly keeping a low profile here in the city."
Still, the visions - and whatever other abilities might come with them, which Sam was trying hard not to think about - weren't something that felt altogether natural to Sam. Maybe trying to separate him from Dean was all a ploy, but that didn't mean they didn't know something about his abilities that he didn't.
"Well, if the spirit world is telling us to head for the coast, who are we to argue?" said Dean. "And where the demons go, so goes our father, it seems."
"I've learned not to count on finding Dad anywhere we think he's going to be," said Sam, "but that's the best lead we've got."
"And we're not flying," said Dean firmly. "I don't care how fast that gets us anywhere. If I never leave the ground again, it'll be too soon."
"Nobody said we're flying anywhere."
"She said airship adventure," said Dean, looking faintly green at the prospect. "I suspect 'adventure' might've been a euphemism."
"I think you're right that we should keep to the ground on this one anyway," said Sam. "We're still not entirely clear on a destination."
"Unfortunately, I've given you all I have," said Pamela. "Those demons of yours aren't the only ones running scared these days. No one in the spirit realm seems to want to talk about it all that much. Never met a more closed-mouthed bunch of spirits. But if you want my best guess, I'd say New York."
"I hate New York," said Dean. "Nothing good ever comes out of New York. Except burlesque shows."
"If we kill this demon in New York, maybe you'll be changing your tune," said Sam. "We're closing in on them. On them and on Dad. If we stay in touch with Bobby and keep tabs on the weather patterns, we can do this."
"And with any luck we'll run into that father of ours on the way," said Dean. "Damn stubborn bastard."
"Boys, boys," said Pam. "Don't you know there's a lady present?"
"Really? Where?" said Dean, giving her ass a friendly smack. "You staying in Chicago with Bobby?"
"We're heading back to Dakota as soon as the two of you move on," she said. "You're the only reason he's hanging around now and the both of you know it."
"So you're going back with him, are you?" said Dean, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sam's fingertips brushed over a fresh scorch mark at the hem his coat, just within his reach where it was hanging near the fire to dry. Not that it had looked all that pristine in about two thousand miles.
"Sounds like you think that's your business, Dean Winchester," she said. "Be careful when you ask questions like that. One day I might just answer them."
"One day, I might want to know," said Dean, winking at her. "Well, I'm all but fit to travel now. What do you say, Sammy? We pack up Tessa in the morning and start heading east?"
"I'll start putting our things together tonight," said Sam.
He wished they had more to go on, but at least they had a rough destination in mind now, and a system in place to find a new one if need be. If there was demon activity in the northeast, the Winchester boys would be on top of it.
With any luck, all three of them.
: : :
It happened in the middle of the night, which it hadn't since.... But Sam knew it was no dream this time. He woke up shaking and sweating, sitting bolt upright in his bed. A moment later Dean was at his door, light in hand and looking as shaken as Sam felt.
"You shouted my name, Sam," he said, looking him over quickly and frowning. "If you say you saw me falling again I'm never leaving this house."
"You weren't falling," Sam said quickly, leaning forward with his head in his hands and trying to will the pain away. "We were in a city, lots of people, somewhere I've been, I think."
"You've been a lot of places, Sammy," said Dean. "Could it have been New York?"
"I could smell the ocean."
"That's not the first smell I think of when it comes to New York, but okay, it could fit."
"And there was someone else there. A girl."
"Meg?"
"I don't know. Maybe," said Sam. "That's it, Dean. That's all I've got." And he couldn't be sorry for it, not when his head didn't seem like it could take any more than it was already taking. "Could you bring me some water?"
He must have looked rough because Dean didn't even argue, just disappeared out of his doorway, light and all, and returned a couple of minutes later with a glass of water that he set at Sam's bedside.
"So it sounds to me like Pamela had it right," he said, sitting down in the chair next to the bed. "Can I ask you something, Sam?"
"Since when do you hesitate?" he said, sipping the water slowly. His throat stung as it went down, and he wondered just how loudly he'd shouted.
"Do you think Dad was really here in Chicago?"
"I don't know," said Sam. "Is it better or worse if he was?"
"I don't know. Both," said Dean, elbows on the armrests and folding his hands comfortable in front of himself. "He's wrongheaded about this whole thing, Sam, and he's going to get himself killed."
"Not if we catch up with him first and have his back," said Sam. "I want to be the one to kill it, Dean. I want to be the one to send this demon back to hell."
"We all want to be the one to kill it," said Dean, and it was hard to say who among the three of them deserved it the most. "All right, if you're done with your hollering, I'm going back to bed."
"It's over," said Sam, breathing a sigh of relief as the pain really started to subside. It would likely linger at the back of his head all night, though, which didn't make for a restful sleep.
"Good," said Dean, pushing himself up out of the chair and grabbing the lamp again.
"You didn't bring your cane," Sam noted as Dean walked back across the room to the door.
"See?" said Dean. "Fit as a fiddle and ready to be back on the road in the morning. Get some more sleep, Sammy. You're going to need it."
Defiance, Ohio
It was Sam, of course, after all the fuss that had been made about Dean's injuries, who ended up falling ill while they were on the road. While in his head he thought perhaps it was for the best, that even though they were days outside of Chicago now Dean could still use the rest to finish healing, the cough that rattled his chest seemed a large sacrifice to make.
"You certainly do go to great lengths to keep from having to sleep on the ground in wintertime," said Dean, feeling Sam's forehead with the back of his hand and frowning.
"I go to great lengths to keep from having to sleep on the ground in summertime too," admitted Sam, feeling his voice grate through his throat, "but not these lengths."
It was merely a cold, one of many he'd had over the course of his life, but he also knew how quickly a cold could become something more serious when ignored. As did Dean, or he'd never have agreed to the hotel room.
Or maybe he would have, as a way to get himself some much needed rest without having to admit to needing it.
"It's a good thing we don't have anywhere to be in a hurry," he muttered with a grunt, sitting back down in a chair next to the bed and reaching for their father's journal, which never strayed far from his person. "Do you need anything?"
Sam shook his head and leaned back against his feather pillow, and the soft bed really did seem to make his body ache a little less. Which he knew Dean knew, which was why they'd stopped despite all of Dean's grumbling about the delay and the expense. He would've done it even if Sam had never asked. Which, now that he thought back on it, he wasn't entirely sure he actually had.
"Just talk to me," he said, "until I fall asleep. What are you up to in the journal?"
Dean put his foot up, and Sam tried not to smile in satisfaction, a task made easier by the fact that smiling - like nearly everything else - hurt enough to not be worth the bother.
"Ghost ship up near Boston," said Dean, flipping a page. "Apparently it's hard to fire rock salt at a ship without a canon." He flips back again, then forward. "No date. Do you remember this hunt, Sammy?"
"He didn't often tell me what he was doing," said Sam, the words drawing a cough out of him. "Neither of you did."
"Well, you made it pretty clear you didn't want to know," said Dean. "I don't remember ever being in Boston. We must have been staying somewhere else then. Maybe Pastor Jim's church."
"We stayed a lot of different places," said Sam, closing his eyes. "He could've left us anywhere."
"Sammy, you know he didn't--"
"You know he did," said Sam, and coughed again. "Tell me about the ghost ship."
Dean sighed heavily, but he settled in more comfortably, obviously planning to stay put for a while, and flipped up a newspaper clipping to read what had been written underneath. "Well, what do you know, he did get his hands on a canon. I'll bet that was sure something to see."
Sam really wasn't sure he wanted to know what his father would've done after getting his hands on a canon. "Did it work?"
"To disperse the spirit? Sure did," said Dean. "He had to round up some artifacts to get rid of it, though. He should have brought me along on that one; I always was great at sneaking into people's homes."
"I'm sure he had his reasons," said Sam.
"Hush, don't talk," said Dean. "Jesus, Sammy, I hurt when you talk. Drink your tea before it gets cold."
"If you don't want me to talk, keep reading," said Sam, and sat up far enough to take a careful sip. It was already cooling, but he could taste that Dean went to the trouble to put lemon in and he almost smiled.
Dean flipped the newspaper clipping back down, glanced at it, then flipped it up again with an almost imperceptible shrug. "A ghost ship is still about the people and not the boat itself," he said, obviously paraphrasing their father's notes. "It's just a different kind of manifestation. Like that ghost locomotive when we were kids, do you remember that?"
"Though you didn't want me to talk," said Sam, sipping his tea again.
Dean grunted and flipped the page. "Looks like Dad only ever encountered the one. Well, it's not as though we were out at the coast often, though you'd think there might be one haunting the Mississippi."
"Don't tempt fate, Dean," said Sam.
There had to be more there, more not only about the case their father had worked but about their father himself, his insights, his life when he'd left his children behind. But either Dean didn't want to talk about it, or he thought Sam wouldn't want to hear about it. Perhaps both.
Sam cleared his throat again, tried to make his voice sound like less of a croak. "Did you ever find anything in there about what you think you saw?"
"Shhh," said Dean again, and for a moment Sam thought he wasn't going to answer until he finally shook his head. "I know what I saw, Sam. The demon possessed that automaton. There are references to demons possessing people and animals before, but this is something new."
But it made sense to Sam, in a twisted kind of a way. They made their own people, and demons found a way to use their creations against them.
"Guess we'd better update the journal, huh?" he said, but Sam knew it would be going into his own, not his father's. Dean hadn't made a single mark in his father's journal since the day he'd received it.
"Just keep reading," said Sam, setting his tea back down the bedside table. "You've got to keep me entertained for at least a couple more days."
Dean made a show of sighing heavily at him, but Sam had a feeling he really didn't mind.
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
Dean had to stop to top up the water and kerosene midway through Pennsylvania, and while he was paying the distributor for the fuel Sam browsed through a copy of the local paper, dated two weeks earlier and currently being used to mop up grease on a wooden tabletop.
"Madame Rushkin," he said, "descended from European royalty, invites you to a séance in her home--"
"Oh no," said Dean, "do not read that to me, Sam, you'll just make me want to do something about it, and no good can come of that."
"Descended from European royalty," scoffed Sam, torn paper still in hand. "Aren't they all?"
"I mean it, Sam," said Dean, hefting the metal jug and testing the weight with one arm. "I'm mere seconds away from tearing that paper out of your hands."
"For all of your spiritual needs," Sam said, holding the paper out of reach. "What do you think, Dean, do you think she can meet all of my spiritual needs?"
"I think we have a stop to make in town," said Dean, sighing heavily. "You know what Dad says about séances. Bugger them when they're frauds and bugger them twice when they're not."
"Does that mean we're going to sleep in beds again tonight?" said Sam, which Dean was beginning to suspect had been his motivation all along. Séances were kid stuff, in the grand scheme of things.
"Yes, you big baby," said Dean. "There's a low stakes game out at the Peashoot Saloon at the edge of town; I can sit in on a few hands."
"How do you even know that?" said Sam. "This is the only stop we've made in town."
"You're good at your things, Sammy, and I'm good at mine," he said. It wasn't his fault that Sam somehow never overheard the same things he did, or didn't know where to listen. "We can check out this Madame Rushkin tomorrow and figure out on which side of the line she falls."
"European royalty," said Sam with a smirk. "We used to have fun with these, remember?"
"Back when you thought anything about the job was fun," muttered Dean, but it brought a smile to his face anyway. Once upon a time they'd been two fresh-faced kids debunking the hell out of séances all over the north-east, while their father did damage control in the background. Their father hated it almost as much as Sam and Dean had a good time.
"People think kids will believe anything," said Sam. "They were always underestimating us."
"When weren't people underestimating us?" said Dean, giving the gauges on Tessa's rear end a check and tweaking a few knobs in rapid succession to start her up before getting back into the driver's seat. "I suppose it might be fun, for old times' sake. Madame Rushkin, descended from European royalty, probably needs a good comeuppance."
"It certainly would be responsible to investigate her," said Sam, which was close enough to agreement for Dean. "While we're already here."
"Do you remember the time you exposed that psychic in Albany and she wasn't wearing anything but her underthings?"
"I've spent the last fifteen years trying to forget that one, Dean. Who disguises themselves as a spirit and leaves their skirts in the cupboard?"
"Someone trying to make as little noise as possible," said Dean. "I don't know about you, but I always wished she'd left the rest of it in the cupboard as well."
"Dean, you're indecent," said Sam, but as Dean got Tessa back onto the road into town, all he did was smile.
: : :
"It seems as though spiritualists are still doing brisk business," said Dean, looking up at the large and well-kept house. "Or she's in some serious debt."
"Or she really is descended from European royalty."
Dean just looked at him and snorted, not missing Sam's faint smirk at the notion. "People pay for the craziest things, Sammy," he said. "Even if this did work, who'd want a ghost hanging around in your business all the time?"
"People who miss their loved ones, I suppose," said Sam. "People who don't know what's out there will go to great lengths to contact the other side."
"People on this side have no business contacting the other one," said Dean. "Not like this, anyway, and especially not when they don't know what they're getting into. Ghosts aren't people. Their loved ones are gone."
He knew perfectly well that Sam knew all of that, but he had that look in his eyes, the kind of look he had right after he lost Jess, yearning for her return, and Dean felt it couldn't hurt to say it all again.
"So what do you say we see if Madame Rushkin's afternoon session has room for two more?"
"I say that I hope it doesn't involve disrobement," said Sam, leading the way up the stairs. Dean would reserve judgment on that until he discovered just what this Madame Ruskin looked like.
She wasn't in the entry hall when they stepped in the front door (open, with a sign indicating guests should wait in the parlor), so Dean took the opportunity to snoop through everything he could get his hands on and into: drawers, cupboards and even around the picture frames. It wasn't likely that they would be wired out here in the parlor, but Dean'd seen stranger things.
It was unfortunate that Madame Rushkin entered the parlor to greet them at the exact moment Dean was fingering a photograph.
"Lovely family," he said, giving her his most distracting smile.
"Indeed," she said, taking the photo from his hands, dusting it with her kerchief and setting it back on her mantle. "Sam and Dean Murray, I presume?"
"I see our note arrived in good time," said Sam, standing to greet her. Sam, for all that Dean was used to his size and manner, did make a striking figure when people first encountered him. Madame Ruskin's tight smile became marginally warmer, at any rate.
"I'm terribly sorry to hear of the passing of your mother," she said, with practiced condolences. "I can imagine that you were both quite close to her."
"She was our whole world," said Dean. "I hope you can help us."
She sat down in an ornate armchair, one that served as something of a throne, and it was Sam's hand she reached for. "Ordinarily, of course, I would have more notice before a visit such as this, but I understand you'll be in town for a very short time."
"Only a couple of days," said Sam apologetically, "but your reputation is impeccable, Madame Rushkin, and we felt we'd be privileged to witness a manifestation with you."
When Madame Rushkin looked sharply in his direction, Dean carefully set down the vase he had been trying to oh-so-casually examine.
"I hate to disappoint you," she said, speaking to Sam but looking at Dean, "but your brother clearly has a strong magnetic temperament. It would disrupt the power of the spirits and prevent a manifestation."
Oh, Dean just bet that it would.
"Surely one person couldn't disrupt things to such an extent," insisted Sam. "We've come all this way."
"Oh, contacting the spirit realm takes a great deal of delicacy," she said, patting him on the hand, more patronizing than consoling. "I truly am sorry for your loss, but I'm afraid I cannot conduct a séance with your brother in attendance."
"What if it was just me?" said Sam, shooting Dean a look, but Dean was already primed to go.
"You're absolutely certain the spirits won't manifest if I'm in the room?" said Dean. "I wonder why that is."
"There are some people who are of such a type that they interfere with a manifestation," she said. "You wouldn't understand. You need to be in tune with the workings of the spirit world to be aware of such things."
"You don't say," said Dean dryly. "So I guess that means attending the séance this afternoon is out."
"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you boys," she said. "Either of you boys. Now if you'll excuse me, my guests are already waiting inside, and I must get set to begin."
"You mean you're not already set?" said Dean, with imperfect innocence. Sam sighed and shook his head.
"Good day, gentlemen," she said, and all in one motion she lifted herself from the seat and swept back out of the room again.
"This was so much easier when we were kids," said Sam. "Of course, if you hadn't been caught with your fingers in the cookie jar...."
"I was admiring her heirlooms," said Dean defensively. "There's nothing suspicious about that."
"Charlatans are very good at observing the intentions of others," said Sam. "It's how they work, Dean. We were made the moment she came in the room, she just played it out for propriety."
"I wouldn't have wanted to see her out of her skirts anyway," said Dean, stepping up onto a chair to check the moldings on the ceiling. "I don't see anything in here. I suppose she doesn't do any work in here after all."
"We might as well be on our way," said Sam, "unless you want to burst into her sitting room and interrupt the proceedings."
"Tempting," said Dean. "I could at least listen at the door for a little while. Did you see which room she went into?"
"I saw only as much as you did, Dean, though I suspect it won't be difficult to figure it out," said Sam. "It'll likely be the only room that's occupied, and you'll have to pick the lock if you want to get in."
They never had to find out, though. A moment later all the lights in the house flickered, and there was a suddenly and noticeable drop in temperature despite the roaring, guttering fire.
"Son of a bitch," said Dean, looking up at the ceiling. "You have got to be kidding me."
"Bugger her twice," muttered Sam under his breath, loud enough to be heard in the calm before the inevitable storm. "Do you have your magnetometer in your coat?"
"Do you really think I need it right now?" said Dean, though he felt for an inside pocket and pulled out the device. There was no time to use it, though, before there was a shriek from somewhere inside the house, and the sound of a door slamming closed, then open, then closed again.
A moment later a flood of people streamed towards the door.
"What have you done?"
"Us?" said Sam, getting to his feet calmly as though he hadn't any idea what was going on. "We were just waiting here in the parlor hoping you'd consent to speak with us when you were finished with today's session. After all, we'd come all this way."
"It was Uncle Albert," said one breathless woman, fanning herself madly. "I knew it the moment he appeared. Oh, we should never have asked him to return!"
Well, she had that much right, anyway. No one in their right mind asked a spirit to return. But then, nobody was returning who wasn't hanging around already anyway.
"Why did you?" he asked uncharitably. "He have some kind of inheritance you wanted to get your hands on?"
"No, of course not!" she said with a gasp of affront. "We wanted to ask him if he'd been murdered."
The lights flickered again and Dean rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. "My money's on yes," he said. "Your Uncle Albert, what was his full name? Was he from around here?"
"Albert Montrose," she said promptly before Madam Rushkin could silence her. "Born and raised in Harrisburg."
"You're not skeptics," said Madam Rushkin, all but dropping the affected accent and looking at them with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
"No, ma'am, we're not," said Sam, as Dean neatly ducked around what remained of the séance - at least half of the participants had dashed right out the door and headed on their way - and used the magnetometer to detect the disturbance. It was faint, but when he eliminated the obvious natural sources it led him straight to the parlor where Madame Rushkin held her séances. There was nothing remaining of the manifestation, though, just a series of overturned chairs and, to Dean's trained eye, the telltale signs of the tricks Madame Rushkin ordinarily used to fake the manifestations.
She hadn't summoned the spirit, the spirit had just leapt upon the opportunity to show himself to the family members he'd obviously attached himself to.
He put the instrument away, made a cursory examination of the room for other evidence, and returned to the parlor. Madame Rushkin gave him an angry, wary look, but Dean decided it wasn't the moment to expose her and her tricks. Not when they had an actual spirit to dispatch.
"Whatever it was, it's gone now," he said, bringing the news he knew they hoped to hear from him. "I guess he didn't manifest in the usual way, huh?"
"No, he was far more violent than the spirits I normally deal with," said Madame Rushkin.
"Perhaps it's time to get out of the business," Dean suggested, a hint of warning in his voice. "You never know when this sort of thing might happen."
"I had been considering retirement," she said. "Spiritualism is so taxing on the body and the spirit."
Lady, you don't know taxing, he wanted to say, but he pressed his lips together and nodded his head again. "Sammy?" he said. "Are we ready to go?"
Sam had the delicate woman's hand between his own, obviously consoling her, and looked up to give Dean a nod. "Miss Montrose was just telling me of the circumstances of her uncle's death," he said. "Miss Montrose, my condolences on your loss. I hope both you and your uncle find peace."
"Oh, you're so kind, Mr. Murray," she said. "Will you be in town for long?"
Dean coughed politely, and raised an eyebrow when his brother looked.
"I'm afraid not," he said, letting her down easy. "We must be returning home. But it was certainly a pleasure to meet you, even under these unfortunate circumstances."
"Come on, Sam," said Dean. "It's time to leave these people to their business. Good day, ladies."
: : :
They approached St. Michael's Cemetery close to midnight, Tessa running silently up to the iron gate and for once not even making a rattle as Dean shut her down.
"At least this'll be a quick one," he said. "I don't suppose your acquaintance with Miss Montrose extended to her detailing just where to find Uncle Albert's grave?"
"There's never really a discreet way to ask that," said Sam. "We were lucky to get the cemetery name, and that one she just blurted out unprompted. Apparently it was a lively funeral."
"Lively because Uncle Albert made an appearance?"
"Lively because one half of the family accused the other half of being murderers right in the middle of the service," said Sam. "She mentioned there were trees nearby, but that describes nearly the entire graveyard."
"Well, let's start at one side and work our way over," he said. They were leaving tracks in the snow, just old enough to have an icy crust on top, but visitors to the graveyard were apparently not rare and theirs weren't the only tracks on the ground.
The moon was bright enough to allow them to see their way around, but not quite so bright that they didn't need some additional illumination to actually be able to read the inscriptions.
"Dean, wait," said Sam, as he was about to ignite the lantern. "Over there."
He looked up and quickly spotted what Sam was talking about: a shadowy figure near a tree towards the back of the graveyard.
"Well, hello Uncle Albert. I guess we start over there," he said, and together they moved quickly and as quietly as they could over the snow, wincing at each faint crunch of it that forecast their arrival. When they were near enough, and had memorized the location, Dean raised his scattergun and blasted a load of rock salt in the spirit's direction.
Only to hear a yelp of pain and watch a second figure join the first, leaping out from within the grave.
"Run!" one of them said, and they took off for the back fence of the graveyard at full speed, stumbling only once over an exposed root.
"What do you think?" said Sam. "Zombies? Ghouls?"
"Worse," said Dean, spitting on the ground and definitely not wasting any of his time chasing after them. "Medical students. On the bright side, if there's been a bodysnatching problem, they're going to blame Uncle Albert's disturbed grave on them.
They continued to watch as the two figures fled into the night, gait uneven as they tried to compensate for rock salt in the arse, finally scrambling over the iron fence and disappearing.
"Back to work?" Sam said finally.
"Back to work," said Dean, finally igniting the lantern and hoisting his shovel over his shoulder. The grave the students had been excavating was not Albert Montrose's - they weren't that lucky - and they made a point of roughly filling it back in before moving on. There was no sense asking for trouble.
After that they systematically went from tombstone to tombstone, shining a light on each of them in turn until they found the one they were looking for."
"This is so much easier in the summertime," said Dean, moving a shovelful of snow out of their way. It was a light covering, which was better than what it might have been. "I hate winter."
"At least the grave is fresh and the weather has been relatively mild," said Sam, but that, of course, brought its own complications. "Did you bring the clothespins?"
"I hate winter and fresh graves," Dean amended, and pulled one out of his pocket to hand to Sam, preparing for the opening of the coffin.
"Fresh graves are worse in the summer," Sam reminded him, and started to dig.
The stench, Dean thought when they finally broke through the body box, was still fairly incredible. But at least they made short work of the body, and thus the spirit, of Albert Montrose, and that was a success he couldn't really complain about.
Allentown, Pennsylvania
They were outside of the automobile but not yet inside the saloon when Sam felt a pain in his head so intense that he instantly fell to his knees on the dirt. His visions were certainly no comfort at the best of times, but this one seemed to be more vicious than most.
He could feel Dean touching his shoulder in a distant sort of a way, but most of his attention was on the images that were flashing in front of him. Streets full of people and tall buildings, and one particularly cavernous one that seemed vaguely familiar. He didn't have time to wonder whether he was meant to recognize it, though, because that was when the piece de resistance of the vision appeared.
His father. The father he hadn't seen in well over three years. His father with a scattergun over his shoulder, smiling at Sam like the estrangement was nothing but a memory.
He didn't miss that there was also smoke and blood and sweat, but that smile was what stayed with him as the vision finally receded and he was aware of where he really was again.
"Sam?" Dean was saying. "Sam, can you hear me? Sammy?"
"I'm here," he said, the very words - like every part of his body - painful.
"Jesus, Sammy, you really scared me there," he said, taking Sam's elbow to help him to his feet. "What was it this time?"
Sam took a moment to find his feet and clear his head, then looked straight at Dean and said, "I saw Dad, Dean. Dad was in my vision. We're going to find him."
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