[Wincest] Don't Let It Ride You
Don't Let It Ride You
11,000+ words.
Underage [Dean is 19, Sam is 15]. NC17. Established Wincest.
Dean and Sam hole up in a South Carolina motel while their Dad lays countless spirits to rest in the haunted grounds of Charleston. It's as close to an ideal summer as they'll get. Dad has plenty of work, and Dean has Sam. That is, until locals start dying and the Winchester brothers realize that something other than a spirit, possibly more sinister, is at work in the Lowcountry.
Unitarian Church and Graveyard - Charleston, South Carolina.
It's hot enough that the sparklers can almost ignite on their own. The moon's pull drags the tides up over marsh grass and Lowcountry, higher than the waters have been all month. There's moisture heavy in the air and it slows everything down, even the insects. The sky's painted with bright watercolor pinks and gray-blues, swirling in trails to follow the setting sun. Halogen street lamps are unsure whether night is coming or going, so flicker with indecision instead.
The cracked cement is warm under Dean's bare feet. Too humid for socks and shoes, even for jeans, but shorts are out of the question. He suffers through, sweat tingling down his back under the thin, tight shirt to catch on the denim waistband. He stays quiet, watching his brother through the summer haze as Sam lights another sparkler from the pack-courtesy of Dean's five finger discount-and waves it halfheartedly.
Sam is wearing as little as he can get away with: olive khaki shorts sitting low on his brother's bony hips, one of Dean's hand-me-down gray tanks clinging to his torso. Fifteen and skinny, Sam doesn't carry an ounce of extra weight. Picking at diner-food, the Winchester brand of exercise, and teenage attitudes keep him lean.
The whoosh-crackle of the sparkler gets louder in Dean's ears. Sam comes closer over the shabby motel's concrete courtyard, thick blades of grass making a valiant effort to push through the large pavers. His brother's face is lit by the bright, fizzling sparks. Dean can see Sam's bright eyes behind the hot, shooting powder, hazel reflecting the light. There's a secret smile for Dean between the sizzling lines, like he and Dean are the center of the universe tonight. Feels like it: waves crashing down on the hard-packed sand, heat that makes Dean dizzy, and his brother waiting until the sparks have all died before he moves fully into Dean's space, and then the heat increases ten fold.
* * *
Three weeks already on the South Carolina coast and surprisingly Dean's not restless yet. The motor court masquerading as home has seen better days. Tucked on the coast between multi-million dollar cottages to the south and double-wides to the north, its residents are largely ignored and inconspicuous. Perfect for nomadic Winchesters who happen to get stuck in a place with more than its fair share of restless spirits and a myriad of local legends.
Dad's out more than he's in, taking the truck and accelerating away into the morning-avoiding something, or avoiding them. Plenty of jobs keep him busy: the blemished histories of the southern plantations provide their share of restless spirits, eager for the blood of the Bukrah that the shades can no longer distinguish from their former masters.
The arrangement suits Dean and Sam. They've gone on a few salt n' burns, helped with research. Sam takes newspapers and library copies from their Dad down to the beach; Dean keeps the food stocked and the weapons clean. The summer days pass and when their stay creeps towards a solid month, the hard and wary edge to Sam's eyes disappears and Dean breathes a little easier.
In the height of summer, there's no school for Sam, but he reads tattered paperbacks and well-thumbed classics Dean gathers from garage sales without really looking at their titles. And Sam never cares what Dean gets, just accepts the box with a grin and starts digging through.
The breeze today is cooler and salty, blown in off the Atlantic. Dean makes his way towards the rickety boardwalk running over the dunes and onto the sand.
He hears the low, sweet whistling before he sees her. The motel owner's wife moves slowly, a handful of sweetgrass clutched in her arms while she steps heavily over the planks and keeps her distance from Dean. She hasn't spoken to any of the Winchesters since they checked in. Didn't shake Dean's hand when he tried to introduce himself on the first day, just kept singing and whistling in her way-melancholy and creepy. She sits in the sun, in simple but colorful clothing, and watches the coming and going of the motel's few guests, weaving her baskets and humming to herself.
The large woman passes by, but at the last minute her coal eyes find Dean's.
"Don' let de hag ride 'ja," she says, mix of Gullah and creole thick on her tongue.
And then she turns away like nothing happened.
Not wanting to think about it, and pushing away the idea that he's probably just been cursed in some sort of hoo-doo tongue, Dean turns to find Sam seated Indian-style on the sand. Lunch is nothing more than crunchy peanut butter and strawberry jelly on generic white bread, but Sam looks happy anyway. He grabs one of the offered colas and scooches closer to Dean when he sits down on the threadbare motel towel. Sam's bare torso is sun-hot, smells like the tropics, and Dean doesn't mind the extra warmth. His little brother's mouth is full of sticky peanut butter when he starts rambling about the research Dad set him to.
Boardwalk and dunes - Kiawah Island, Charleston.
* * *
One last shovel full of dirt and Dean finally hears the tell tale crack of a wooden coffin lid.
"About time." Dad grumbles and lowers a hand, dragging Dean out of the grave. He could have dug faster, but Sam was squatting at the edge of the hole with a rifle perched on his knees-just watching-sharp angles drawing Dean's eyes again and again.
It can hardly be called a graveyard, set deep on the old plantation grounds. Crude iron fencing barely two feet high, half-broken stones with initials and numbers rather than name and epitaphs. It's a crude step down from the beautifully landscaped, historically celebrated graveyards in downtown Charleston. They're relying on luck and old records to ensure they have the right grave, but with the way their hunts have been going, Dean thinks they might as well dig up and burn every corpse in here. Dad's got the salt and gasoline ready, poured on the old bones like some sort of baptism.
"Dem don wan t'go."
Sam springs up in an instant, rifle leveled at the voice masked by shadows. The match in John's hand burns down to his fingers, extinguishing in a hiss of skin and sulfur.
"Who the hell are you?"
Not a single leaf stirs, no crunch of grass or twigs snapping. Their voyeur stands motionless.
"Dem cawpses not nun ayuh bidness." At least it's an answer, though not a helpful one. "Dey 'f 'aid."
John steps out towards the darkness. "They're hurting innocent people."
The bodiless voice's accent is as heavy as the motel owner's and his wife's, only deeper. "Bin hurt. Dem n'gwanna let go."
There's old pain in the voice, scratchy to cover centuries of embattled history.
"They're not going to stop." John sounds perfectly rational, considering. Like he's explaining to a child. "Do you want more people to get hurt?"
Silence from behind the twisting oaks. Then: "honor de'grabes. Be done wit' dis place."
Resigned, but a clear warning. John calls something back but there's no further response. The silence lasts for five more minutes-all three Winchesters remaining still-until Dad throws another match in the grave and the old indentured bones light up.
Dean chalks it up to another bought of creepiness in an overly creepy city, and watches the flames rise.
Grave overtaken by nature and time - Charleston.
* * *
Bernard Chisholm, 28, dies in his sleep.
Bernard Chisholm, of Awendaw, passed away in his sleep on Tuesday evening. He was found by his wife, Natalie, at their home on Wednesday morning. Police have not yet ruled Chisholm's death as suspicious and investigators remained at the residence today. Chisholm is survived by his wife...
Sam hands the paper back to Dean.
"Still don't see anything suspicious about it, Sammy."
"A twenty-eight year old doesn't just suddenly die of natural causes."
"Doesn't mean it's our kind of case. He could have been poisoned."
Sam huffs.
"What?" Dean throws the Post & Courier on the floor. "You know something about it that you want to share?"
Sam shakes his head, floppy hair going bronze from the constant sunlight.
"Then what, Sam?"
"I just think we should look into it."
"You think?" Sam's stare doesn't budge and Dean just sighs. "Fine, I'll tell Dad about it, if he doesn't have it flagged already."
"No!" Sam's hand shoots out to grab Dean's wrist. "Just you and me." When Dean isn't convinced, Sam throws out an ace. "You've already tried to work a couple of cases on your own. Why not this one?"
The fact that Sam has picked out a hunt is enough of a mind-trip, but he seems excited. Dean almost Christo's him for kicks.
"What made you focus on this dude's death?"
Sam's eyes dart away, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know-I just thought.... Come on, Dean."
"All right, Jesus." The newspaper crunches under his boot when he stands. Dad's been gone since sunrise, checking out a haunted courtyard downtown. They've got nothing else to do to wile away the muggy hours besides sit on the beach, or sleep. "Grab the paper, let's check out this guy's house."
"What are we going to tell Dad?"
Dean ruffles Sam's hair when he passes; whatever he is, he's still Sam's big, obnoxious brother. Sam swats his hand, but does it with a grin, already filling his old backpack.
He takes a deep breath when Sam isn't looking. Dean keeps waiting for that moment, when teenage angst will overcome being brothers. When Sam will turn on him, on their family, and become some kind of monster. He's still Sammy now-Dean's little brother, Dean's world-and God if that's not the best thing Dean's felt in his up and down life.
"Let me worry about Dad." Dean slings his own bag over his shoulder. "You ready?"
When they go, the motel owner's wife is sitting outside the motel office, a broom propped against the wall behind her. Dean hurries Sam to the Impala before she can say anything.
* * *
Chisholm's house is a bust. Zilch on the EMF and the single story home is Stepford-normal, except for the fact that it sits ten feet above the ground on solid beams. Maybe Chisholm was expecting Noah's flood.
Whatever cops were left at the house to "investigate" are gone; it's no trouble for them to slip onto the porch and jimmy a window. Dean's tucking the EMF back into his bag when Sam calls him from the back of the house.
"I got nothing, Sammy," he starts, trails off when he sees Sam looking around the Chisholm's master bedroom. "You find anything?"
"No sign of a spirit, but can't you smell it?"
"I don't smell any ozone," Dean doesn't particularly want to sniff the air again, and tries to breathe through his mouth. "All I smell is-"
"Rotting meat?"
"Dead body."
"Nope." Sam grins and goes to open a window. Even that doesn't help the smell. "The guy was only in here twelve hours at most before he was hauled off. It's not decomposition. It smells more like," Sam shrugs again, "rotting meat."
"Smells like a rotting body." Dean backs into the hallway where the air is slightly fresher. "But why, does rotten meat mean anything to you?"
"Maybe." Sam may not be riding the full teenage hormonal roller coaster, but he's developed some annoying habits in the last few years. Like that infuriating smirk saying he knows something he's not telling Dean. And in a family of hunters, that doesn't fly.
"Sam."
"I'll tell you when we get back, okay? I don't think there's anything else here, anyway."
Pulling onto Highway 17, Dean wonders when exactly he became Sam's backup on a hunt. Sitting side by side in the Impala with a fresh case in their laps, it's not a bad feeling. He can almost forget they didn't come to South Carolina by choice.
Back at the motel, Dean showers off the sour smell from the house. For once, there's no need to conserve the hot water. That's pretty much all that comes out of the pipes-heat in the air permeating into the ground. It still feels good, a near-scalding shower in ninety-five degree weather. Sam is no where to be found when he comes out, but the beach is as good a guess as any.
Dean has always felt weird about the ocean. It's gorgeous, but it's just a piece of the coast where the rocks have been ground down to fine sand over the eons. Here on the Carolina shore, it's more like a tiny sliver of pristine white that hasn't yet been eroded by waves and hurricanes. But he gets to thinking about how deep the waters can run-fathomless in Sam's words-and so much of the unknown hiding beneath the choppy surface. It's more than a little off-putting; the thought has Dean taking a step back from the tide line.
The beach is empty-the other guests apparently are not the fun-in-the-sun types. He turns to walk back to the dunes when Sam appears on the boardwalk, holding two glasses of iced, amber liquid.
"Where the hell did you go?"
"Just around." Sam offers a glass to Dean before he can get pissed at the nonchalance. "Want some sweet tea?"
"Where'd you get it?"
"From Marietta." His brother takes a sip and smacks his lips, a percussive sound that makes Dean shiver.
"Marietta?"
"Henri's wife." Sam looks at him. "The guy who runs the motel?"
"Right." A second glance at the tea reveals nothing more sinister in the glass than a lemon wedge, but he hears Sam snickering. "Dude, shut up. I think she tried to curse me." Dean swallows a large gulp of the tea to cover his flush, syrupy-sweet coolness easing the sun's rays.
"I don't blame her," Sam mocks in the perfect little-brother tone. He laughs and spins away but Dean's quicker, catching Sam by the wrist and pulling him close. Tea sloshes out of both their glasses, landing with wet thunks on the sand.
Back to front, they stand watching each wave roll in before getting sucked back to sea. The condensation on the glasses makes them slippery, so Dean sets his in the sand and sits, Sam following. A soft crinkle catches Dean's ear when he brings his legs up to frame Sam's narrow hips.
"What d'you have there?"
Sam draws out a grayish-green piece of grass, a warm blush-definitely not just from the sun-tinting his cheeks. The blades of sweetgrass have been folded and twisted, shaped into the crude form of a rose. Dean recognizes the local trinket; children sell them to flocks of tourists downtown.
"Marietta made it for me." Sam folds back against Dean's chest.
"You two becoming best friends or something?" Dean snips a little petulantly, but the large woman has never come off as anything other than disturbing. The hell does Sam see in her?
"No, she's just nice."
"Bet she is," Dean doesn't really want to argue the point. There are better ways to spend his afternoon, such as the line of Sam's shoulder exposed by the loose neck of his t-shirt. His little brother's skin is so tanned and smooth, and radiates warmth even in the dead of night. It's the perfect spot for Dean's lips, tucked into Sam's neck. They relax almost simultaneously, another afternoon without Dad's awkward side-glances and mutterings.
"So what's the next move on your hunt, Sammy?"
"My hunt?"
"Mmhmm," Dean exhales, then breathes in the unmistakably summery smell surrounding Sam. "You found it."
"Okay." Sam leans into the touch. "Do you think you can drive me to the library downtown? They have a huge local history section, and there's a few things I want to look up."
"Sure," Dean agrees, but doesn't let go of Sam. "We'll grab some lunch on the way." And Sam doesn't move either, except to bend his neck so there's more dark skin for Dean.
This is as close to an ideal summer as Dean's ever gotten. With Dad occupied more often than not, he's left with Sam to do as they please. When he's not training, or trying to drag Sam to train with him, Dean just watches Sam. Growing up together, Dean had never taken the time to stop and look, really look, to see the changes in his little brother. Now, he can see just how much Sam has grown up. And Dean did that. He helped raise this kid, now a young man. When their relationship turned, there was the inevitable guilt, but then, epiphany compliments of Beam and a few melancholy metal ballads, he realized that he was so wound up in Sam, there was no getting out. It was the most terrifying-and at the same time, the most encouraging-feeling Dean had ever known.
People are willing to spend their entire lives in a search for their other half. Nearly a year ago, Dean figured out that his had been with him all along. That Sam seemed to feel the same way was no small wonder-something Dean would never take for granted.
A few minutes later, Dean notices that Sam's eyes are closed and his tea sits forgotten on the sand. He picks up the sweetgrass rose from where it's fallen on the dune, and tucks it back into Sam's pocket. They stay there, Dean drifting while Sam sleeps, until the sun passes its apex and the tide moves away.
* * *
Elizabeth Warner, 31, found dead in her apartment on Friday morning.
The article reads the same as Chisholm's. Mysterious, non-violent death of an otherwise perfectly healthy adult. Sam drops the paper in Dean's lap as soon as he's finished rereading.
"It's got to be the same thing."
"And we have no idea what." Dean doesn't bother scanning the short article again, nor does he try to say it's not a Winchester kind of case. He hasn't forgotten the putrid, inhuman smell in Chisholm's bedroom. "Anything from your research clinking here, Sammy?"
He gets a mumbled 'no.' Sam's concentrating on his notes from the Charleston Public Library.
"You want to stay here while I check out this chick's apartment?"
"Nah, I'll go." Sam hip-checks him when he stands, and Dean kind of wants to grab him and forget about the hunt for another hour. It's achingly hot and unappealing outside.
As if Sam knows the carnal path Dean's mind is wandering, he steps out of big brother's reach, smirking. So much for that diversion.
"Later, Dean."
When they step out of the room and into the heat, a broom clatters to the concrete.
"What the hell?" Dean bends, picking up the straw broom. "Did you see this here last night?"
"No," but Sam's contemplating. His eyes dart from the object in Dean's hands, out to the parking lot, and down the line of identical doors.
"Maid must have left it here." Like it's some kind of cursed artifact, Dean gingerly sets the broom back against the wall, wishing he believed himself. "Come on, let's go before Dad gets back."
The Sword Gate, as referenced in the local tale, The Sword's Gate Romance - Charleston.
* * *
"Maybe we should tell Dad."
"No way." Sam glances at the bathroom door; they can still hear the shower running. "This is ours, you promised."
Dean's got no memory of promising anything. "Fine, but we're no closer to figuring this out and now there are two victims."
"But we've got clues." His little brother's eyes are wide and earnest, sincere intention flushing his cheeks. "The smell was in Elizabeth's place too, and look!" He brandishes a tri-folded piece of paper. "She worked at the same law firm as Bernard."
"Seriously?" Dean's eyes scan the paycheck stub Sam had lifted from the apartment. Impressive, Sammy.
"She was a junior partner and Bernard was the firm's accountant. I saw one of his business cards when we were-"
The pipes clunk and shudder in the walls when the shower is turned off. Sam huffs and rushes to stuff his notes into his backpack.
"Guess we're checking the firm out on Monday," Dean takes a deep breath, getting to his feet just as the bathroom door creaks open, releasing vapor into the already steaming air. The air conditioning has a hard time coping with the mid afternoon hot spells.
Dad emerges from the steam, redressed and looking more awake that he had half an hour ago when he walked back into the room after a night spent keeping watch over his supposedly haunted courtyard.
"Any luck?"
"It was a bust," Dad rubs his face, already red from the hot water. "I swear, half of the stories in this place are made up, and the other half...it's like no one wants to get rid of the damn spirits!"
Dean has seen plenty of evidence of that downtown. Ghost tours, themed restaurants, and compilations of local lore-not to be confused with history-in every corner shop. In the Holy City, ghosts are a bankable attraction.
It looks like Dad wants to laugh. But then his expression hardens and his eyes narrow.
'I don't care what these wackos believe." He starts repacking weapons and rock salt. "Their star-crossed, god damned lovers'll turn violent eventually. Best to stop them now before anyone gets hurt."
It almost trails off into a question, but Dean doesn't bother nodding.
"You boys ready to head out?"
"Dad, you just got back." Sam's voice is cautious, trying so hard not to be confrontational. "Don't you think -"
"Been here long enough as it is," Dad cuts him off and doesn't notice when Sam's face falls. "But I got word of another hunt in the area that I wanted to check out before going back to the courtyard tonight, and I want you boys with me."
Dean wants to slide over and grab Sam's shoulder; his brother looks so pissed off.
"Apparently, there were some nasty pirate murders up the coast a ways, back in the eighteen-hundreds. And the bodies were never quite laid to rest. Sound interesting enough?" Dad adds sternly, reading Sam's mood from across the room. He doesn't wait for their answer, always assumed compliance, before walking out with his bag.
"Dean..." Sam hisses, an angry exhale of air.
"I promise, we'll get back to your case afterward, all right?" Dean arbitrates. "And besides, it's freakin' pirates, Sammy. Come on!"
* * *
Dad doesn't bring them to the courtyard later that night. He masks the decision with the excuse of 'better sleeping arrangements'. This way, Dean and Sam can sleep in the two queens, and Dad will sleep a spell during the muggy, still evenings. No one is relegated to the floor. In theory, anyway.
Dean's pretty sure there's another reason entirely, but he keeps quiet.
Sam's facing away from him, physical distance coupled with an emotional wall Dean is getting used to climbing.
"Still pissed?"
There's no answer for a few minutes. From the rhythm of his breathing, Sam is still awake, so Dean stretches out on the bed next to his brother. Muscle-relaxing routines help bleed the tension from his frame, or else sleep would be next to impossible.
"It feels like our vacation's ending," the quieter teenager finally mutters.
Dean's not really sure what that's supposed to feel like. Vacations are as foreign to him as bouillabaisse or a lobster dinner. But Sammy's tone is somber enough that Dean feels the regret and reluctance.
"But all we've done is go on hunts, or help Dad. That's not really a vacation."
"Yeah, but I'm hunting with you."
"There's a difference?"
Sam turns over then and Dean loses whatever answer he would have seen in his eyes.
* * *
Downtown Charleston
The Hatch & Davidson law firm's building sits behind an intricately designed wrought iron gate and a small entrance yard that's landscaped with impeccable detail. But the walkway isn't swept, and the tiny dark palmetto seeds from the trees above litter the brick.
Only Dean goes in. Thanks to Sam, he can pass as a college student hoping for an internship. Inside, the office isn't nearly the bright, cheerful place promised by the exterior. The receptionist, behind her sharp-edged steel and glass desk, has red, puffy eyes and no smile for Dean.
"Can I help you?" There's a wet sniffle in her voice that doesn't sound quite like a cold.
"My name's Jeff Lawson and I called last week about a possible fall internship?"
The petite brunette glances at a haphazardly stacked pile of notes to her left, and sighs. "Sorry, it's been kind of rough here since last week. What did you say your name was again?"
"Lawson, but hey," Dean pauses and throws the receptionist his most sympathetic look. "Is everything all right around here? You seem really stressed."
"The firm's had some really bad luck lately." She pulls a tissue from a nearby box and wipes at the corners of her eyes even though they're dry. "It's crazy, but maybe we're cursed."
"Well, it's not a totally crazy thing to say, but what makes you think that?"
"Two of our employees died last week, one was my really good friend." Then she laughs and the sound is part dry humor and part sniffle. "I thought it was only celebrity deaths that came in threes."
"Three?"
"Yeah, before Bernie and Liz, our boss Mr. Hatch passed away a few weeks ago. It's just horrible." She needs the tissues now, eyes finally starting to tear, trailing dark makeup to the corners of her eyes. "I mean, who has that kind of bad luck? I just - oh, I'm sorry. I don't mean to bother you with any of this."
"It's all right," Dean grins disarmingly, the same 'tell me everything' smile employed successfully by every therapist in the country. "My friends say I'm a good listener, I don't mind."
And like so many women have before her, she falls into the Winchester ease.
"Okay."
* * *
On to Part Two.
11,000+ words.
Underage [Dean is 19, Sam is 15]. NC17. Established Wincest.
Dean and Sam hole up in a South Carolina motel while their Dad lays countless spirits to rest in the haunted grounds of Charleston. It's as close to an ideal summer as they'll get. Dad has plenty of work, and Dean has Sam. That is, until locals start dying and the Winchester brothers realize that something other than a spirit, possibly more sinister, is at work in the Lowcountry.
Unitarian Church and Graveyard - Charleston, South Carolina.
It's hot enough that the sparklers can almost ignite on their own. The moon's pull drags the tides up over marsh grass and Lowcountry, higher than the waters have been all month. There's moisture heavy in the air and it slows everything down, even the insects. The sky's painted with bright watercolor pinks and gray-blues, swirling in trails to follow the setting sun. Halogen street lamps are unsure whether night is coming or going, so flicker with indecision instead.
The cracked cement is warm under Dean's bare feet. Too humid for socks and shoes, even for jeans, but shorts are out of the question. He suffers through, sweat tingling down his back under the thin, tight shirt to catch on the denim waistband. He stays quiet, watching his brother through the summer haze as Sam lights another sparkler from the pack-courtesy of Dean's five finger discount-and waves it halfheartedly.
Sam is wearing as little as he can get away with: olive khaki shorts sitting low on his brother's bony hips, one of Dean's hand-me-down gray tanks clinging to his torso. Fifteen and skinny, Sam doesn't carry an ounce of extra weight. Picking at diner-food, the Winchester brand of exercise, and teenage attitudes keep him lean.
The whoosh-crackle of the sparkler gets louder in Dean's ears. Sam comes closer over the shabby motel's concrete courtyard, thick blades of grass making a valiant effort to push through the large pavers. His brother's face is lit by the bright, fizzling sparks. Dean can see Sam's bright eyes behind the hot, shooting powder, hazel reflecting the light. There's a secret smile for Dean between the sizzling lines, like he and Dean are the center of the universe tonight. Feels like it: waves crashing down on the hard-packed sand, heat that makes Dean dizzy, and his brother waiting until the sparks have all died before he moves fully into Dean's space, and then the heat increases ten fold.
* * *
Three weeks already on the South Carolina coast and surprisingly Dean's not restless yet. The motor court masquerading as home has seen better days. Tucked on the coast between multi-million dollar cottages to the south and double-wides to the north, its residents are largely ignored and inconspicuous. Perfect for nomadic Winchesters who happen to get stuck in a place with more than its fair share of restless spirits and a myriad of local legends.
Dad's out more than he's in, taking the truck and accelerating away into the morning-avoiding something, or avoiding them. Plenty of jobs keep him busy: the blemished histories of the southern plantations provide their share of restless spirits, eager for the blood of the Bukrah that the shades can no longer distinguish from their former masters.
The arrangement suits Dean and Sam. They've gone on a few salt n' burns, helped with research. Sam takes newspapers and library copies from their Dad down to the beach; Dean keeps the food stocked and the weapons clean. The summer days pass and when their stay creeps towards a solid month, the hard and wary edge to Sam's eyes disappears and Dean breathes a little easier.
In the height of summer, there's no school for Sam, but he reads tattered paperbacks and well-thumbed classics Dean gathers from garage sales without really looking at their titles. And Sam never cares what Dean gets, just accepts the box with a grin and starts digging through.
The breeze today is cooler and salty, blown in off the Atlantic. Dean makes his way towards the rickety boardwalk running over the dunes and onto the sand.
He hears the low, sweet whistling before he sees her. The motel owner's wife moves slowly, a handful of sweetgrass clutched in her arms while she steps heavily over the planks and keeps her distance from Dean. She hasn't spoken to any of the Winchesters since they checked in. Didn't shake Dean's hand when he tried to introduce himself on the first day, just kept singing and whistling in her way-melancholy and creepy. She sits in the sun, in simple but colorful clothing, and watches the coming and going of the motel's few guests, weaving her baskets and humming to herself.
The large woman passes by, but at the last minute her coal eyes find Dean's.
"Don' let de hag ride 'ja," she says, mix of Gullah and creole thick on her tongue.
And then she turns away like nothing happened.
Not wanting to think about it, and pushing away the idea that he's probably just been cursed in some sort of hoo-doo tongue, Dean turns to find Sam seated Indian-style on the sand. Lunch is nothing more than crunchy peanut butter and strawberry jelly on generic white bread, but Sam looks happy anyway. He grabs one of the offered colas and scooches closer to Dean when he sits down on the threadbare motel towel. Sam's bare torso is sun-hot, smells like the tropics, and Dean doesn't mind the extra warmth. His little brother's mouth is full of sticky peanut butter when he starts rambling about the research Dad set him to.
Boardwalk and dunes - Kiawah Island, Charleston.
* * *
One last shovel full of dirt and Dean finally hears the tell tale crack of a wooden coffin lid.
"About time." Dad grumbles and lowers a hand, dragging Dean out of the grave. He could have dug faster, but Sam was squatting at the edge of the hole with a rifle perched on his knees-just watching-sharp angles drawing Dean's eyes again and again.
It can hardly be called a graveyard, set deep on the old plantation grounds. Crude iron fencing barely two feet high, half-broken stones with initials and numbers rather than name and epitaphs. It's a crude step down from the beautifully landscaped, historically celebrated graveyards in downtown Charleston. They're relying on luck and old records to ensure they have the right grave, but with the way their hunts have been going, Dean thinks they might as well dig up and burn every corpse in here. Dad's got the salt and gasoline ready, poured on the old bones like some sort of baptism.
"Dem don wan t'go."
Sam springs up in an instant, rifle leveled at the voice masked by shadows. The match in John's hand burns down to his fingers, extinguishing in a hiss of skin and sulfur.
"Who the hell are you?"
Not a single leaf stirs, no crunch of grass or twigs snapping. Their voyeur stands motionless.
"Dem cawpses not nun ayuh bidness." At least it's an answer, though not a helpful one. "Dey 'f 'aid."
John steps out towards the darkness. "They're hurting innocent people."
The bodiless voice's accent is as heavy as the motel owner's and his wife's, only deeper. "Bin hurt. Dem n'gwanna let go."
There's old pain in the voice, scratchy to cover centuries of embattled history.
"They're not going to stop." John sounds perfectly rational, considering. Like he's explaining to a child. "Do you want more people to get hurt?"
Silence from behind the twisting oaks. Then: "honor de'grabes. Be done wit' dis place."
Resigned, but a clear warning. John calls something back but there's no further response. The silence lasts for five more minutes-all three Winchesters remaining still-until Dad throws another match in the grave and the old indentured bones light up.
Dean chalks it up to another bought of creepiness in an overly creepy city, and watches the flames rise.
Grave overtaken by nature and time - Charleston.
* * *
Bernard Chisholm, 28, dies in his sleep.
Bernard Chisholm, of Awendaw, passed away in his sleep on Tuesday evening. He was found by his wife, Natalie, at their home on Wednesday morning. Police have not yet ruled Chisholm's death as suspicious and investigators remained at the residence today. Chisholm is survived by his wife...
Sam hands the paper back to Dean.
"Still don't see anything suspicious about it, Sammy."
"A twenty-eight year old doesn't just suddenly die of natural causes."
"Doesn't mean it's our kind of case. He could have been poisoned."
Sam huffs.
"What?" Dean throws the Post & Courier on the floor. "You know something about it that you want to share?"
Sam shakes his head, floppy hair going bronze from the constant sunlight.
"Then what, Sam?"
"I just think we should look into it."
"You think?" Sam's stare doesn't budge and Dean just sighs. "Fine, I'll tell Dad about it, if he doesn't have it flagged already."
"No!" Sam's hand shoots out to grab Dean's wrist. "Just you and me." When Dean isn't convinced, Sam throws out an ace. "You've already tried to work a couple of cases on your own. Why not this one?"
The fact that Sam has picked out a hunt is enough of a mind-trip, but he seems excited. Dean almost Christo's him for kicks.
"What made you focus on this dude's death?"
Sam's eyes dart away, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know-I just thought.... Come on, Dean."
"All right, Jesus." The newspaper crunches under his boot when he stands. Dad's been gone since sunrise, checking out a haunted courtyard downtown. They've got nothing else to do to wile away the muggy hours besides sit on the beach, or sleep. "Grab the paper, let's check out this guy's house."
"What are we going to tell Dad?"
Dean ruffles Sam's hair when he passes; whatever he is, he's still Sam's big, obnoxious brother. Sam swats his hand, but does it with a grin, already filling his old backpack.
He takes a deep breath when Sam isn't looking. Dean keeps waiting for that moment, when teenage angst will overcome being brothers. When Sam will turn on him, on their family, and become some kind of monster. He's still Sammy now-Dean's little brother, Dean's world-and God if that's not the best thing Dean's felt in his up and down life.
"Let me worry about Dad." Dean slings his own bag over his shoulder. "You ready?"
When they go, the motel owner's wife is sitting outside the motel office, a broom propped against the wall behind her. Dean hurries Sam to the Impala before she can say anything.
* * *
Chisholm's house is a bust. Zilch on the EMF and the single story home is Stepford-normal, except for the fact that it sits ten feet above the ground on solid beams. Maybe Chisholm was expecting Noah's flood.
Whatever cops were left at the house to "investigate" are gone; it's no trouble for them to slip onto the porch and jimmy a window. Dean's tucking the EMF back into his bag when Sam calls him from the back of the house.
"I got nothing, Sammy," he starts, trails off when he sees Sam looking around the Chisholm's master bedroom. "You find anything?"
"No sign of a spirit, but can't you smell it?"
"I don't smell any ozone," Dean doesn't particularly want to sniff the air again, and tries to breathe through his mouth. "All I smell is-"
"Rotting meat?"
"Dead body."
"Nope." Sam grins and goes to open a window. Even that doesn't help the smell. "The guy was only in here twelve hours at most before he was hauled off. It's not decomposition. It smells more like," Sam shrugs again, "rotting meat."
"Smells like a rotting body." Dean backs into the hallway where the air is slightly fresher. "But why, does rotten meat mean anything to you?"
"Maybe." Sam may not be riding the full teenage hormonal roller coaster, but he's developed some annoying habits in the last few years. Like that infuriating smirk saying he knows something he's not telling Dean. And in a family of hunters, that doesn't fly.
"Sam."
"I'll tell you when we get back, okay? I don't think there's anything else here, anyway."
Pulling onto Highway 17, Dean wonders when exactly he became Sam's backup on a hunt. Sitting side by side in the Impala with a fresh case in their laps, it's not a bad feeling. He can almost forget they didn't come to South Carolina by choice.
Back at the motel, Dean showers off the sour smell from the house. For once, there's no need to conserve the hot water. That's pretty much all that comes out of the pipes-heat in the air permeating into the ground. It still feels good, a near-scalding shower in ninety-five degree weather. Sam is no where to be found when he comes out, but the beach is as good a guess as any.
Dean has always felt weird about the ocean. It's gorgeous, but it's just a piece of the coast where the rocks have been ground down to fine sand over the eons. Here on the Carolina shore, it's more like a tiny sliver of pristine white that hasn't yet been eroded by waves and hurricanes. But he gets to thinking about how deep the waters can run-fathomless in Sam's words-and so much of the unknown hiding beneath the choppy surface. It's more than a little off-putting; the thought has Dean taking a step back from the tide line.
The beach is empty-the other guests apparently are not the fun-in-the-sun types. He turns to walk back to the dunes when Sam appears on the boardwalk, holding two glasses of iced, amber liquid.
"Where the hell did you go?"
"Just around." Sam offers a glass to Dean before he can get pissed at the nonchalance. "Want some sweet tea?"
"Where'd you get it?"
"From Marietta." His brother takes a sip and smacks his lips, a percussive sound that makes Dean shiver.
"Marietta?"
"Henri's wife." Sam looks at him. "The guy who runs the motel?"
"Right." A second glance at the tea reveals nothing more sinister in the glass than a lemon wedge, but he hears Sam snickering. "Dude, shut up. I think she tried to curse me." Dean swallows a large gulp of the tea to cover his flush, syrupy-sweet coolness easing the sun's rays.
"I don't blame her," Sam mocks in the perfect little-brother tone. He laughs and spins away but Dean's quicker, catching Sam by the wrist and pulling him close. Tea sloshes out of both their glasses, landing with wet thunks on the sand.
Back to front, they stand watching each wave roll in before getting sucked back to sea. The condensation on the glasses makes them slippery, so Dean sets his in the sand and sits, Sam following. A soft crinkle catches Dean's ear when he brings his legs up to frame Sam's narrow hips.
"What d'you have there?"
Sam draws out a grayish-green piece of grass, a warm blush-definitely not just from the sun-tinting his cheeks. The blades of sweetgrass have been folded and twisted, shaped into the crude form of a rose. Dean recognizes the local trinket; children sell them to flocks of tourists downtown.
"Marietta made it for me." Sam folds back against Dean's chest.
"You two becoming best friends or something?" Dean snips a little petulantly, but the large woman has never come off as anything other than disturbing. The hell does Sam see in her?
"No, she's just nice."
"Bet she is," Dean doesn't really want to argue the point. There are better ways to spend his afternoon, such as the line of Sam's shoulder exposed by the loose neck of his t-shirt. His little brother's skin is so tanned and smooth, and radiates warmth even in the dead of night. It's the perfect spot for Dean's lips, tucked into Sam's neck. They relax almost simultaneously, another afternoon without Dad's awkward side-glances and mutterings.
"So what's the next move on your hunt, Sammy?"
"My hunt?"
"Mmhmm," Dean exhales, then breathes in the unmistakably summery smell surrounding Sam. "You found it."
"Okay." Sam leans into the touch. "Do you think you can drive me to the library downtown? They have a huge local history section, and there's a few things I want to look up."
"Sure," Dean agrees, but doesn't let go of Sam. "We'll grab some lunch on the way." And Sam doesn't move either, except to bend his neck so there's more dark skin for Dean.
This is as close to an ideal summer as Dean's ever gotten. With Dad occupied more often than not, he's left with Sam to do as they please. When he's not training, or trying to drag Sam to train with him, Dean just watches Sam. Growing up together, Dean had never taken the time to stop and look, really look, to see the changes in his little brother. Now, he can see just how much Sam has grown up. And Dean did that. He helped raise this kid, now a young man. When their relationship turned, there was the inevitable guilt, but then, epiphany compliments of Beam and a few melancholy metal ballads, he realized that he was so wound up in Sam, there was no getting out. It was the most terrifying-and at the same time, the most encouraging-feeling Dean had ever known.
People are willing to spend their entire lives in a search for their other half. Nearly a year ago, Dean figured out that his had been with him all along. That Sam seemed to feel the same way was no small wonder-something Dean would never take for granted.
A few minutes later, Dean notices that Sam's eyes are closed and his tea sits forgotten on the sand. He picks up the sweetgrass rose from where it's fallen on the dune, and tucks it back into Sam's pocket. They stay there, Dean drifting while Sam sleeps, until the sun passes its apex and the tide moves away.
* * *
Elizabeth Warner, 31, found dead in her apartment on Friday morning.
The article reads the same as Chisholm's. Mysterious, non-violent death of an otherwise perfectly healthy adult. Sam drops the paper in Dean's lap as soon as he's finished rereading.
"It's got to be the same thing."
"And we have no idea what." Dean doesn't bother scanning the short article again, nor does he try to say it's not a Winchester kind of case. He hasn't forgotten the putrid, inhuman smell in Chisholm's bedroom. "Anything from your research clinking here, Sammy?"
He gets a mumbled 'no.' Sam's concentrating on his notes from the Charleston Public Library.
"You want to stay here while I check out this chick's apartment?"
"Nah, I'll go." Sam hip-checks him when he stands, and Dean kind of wants to grab him and forget about the hunt for another hour. It's achingly hot and unappealing outside.
As if Sam knows the carnal path Dean's mind is wandering, he steps out of big brother's reach, smirking. So much for that diversion.
"Later, Dean."
When they step out of the room and into the heat, a broom clatters to the concrete.
"What the hell?" Dean bends, picking up the straw broom. "Did you see this here last night?"
"No," but Sam's contemplating. His eyes dart from the object in Dean's hands, out to the parking lot, and down the line of identical doors.
"Maid must have left it here." Like it's some kind of cursed artifact, Dean gingerly sets the broom back against the wall, wishing he believed himself. "Come on, let's go before Dad gets back."
The Sword Gate, as referenced in the local tale, The Sword's Gate Romance - Charleston.
* * *
"Maybe we should tell Dad."
"No way." Sam glances at the bathroom door; they can still hear the shower running. "This is ours, you promised."
Dean's got no memory of promising anything. "Fine, but we're no closer to figuring this out and now there are two victims."
"But we've got clues." His little brother's eyes are wide and earnest, sincere intention flushing his cheeks. "The smell was in Elizabeth's place too, and look!" He brandishes a tri-folded piece of paper. "She worked at the same law firm as Bernard."
"Seriously?" Dean's eyes scan the paycheck stub Sam had lifted from the apartment. Impressive, Sammy.
"She was a junior partner and Bernard was the firm's accountant. I saw one of his business cards when we were-"
The pipes clunk and shudder in the walls when the shower is turned off. Sam huffs and rushes to stuff his notes into his backpack.
"Guess we're checking the firm out on Monday," Dean takes a deep breath, getting to his feet just as the bathroom door creaks open, releasing vapor into the already steaming air. The air conditioning has a hard time coping with the mid afternoon hot spells.
Dad emerges from the steam, redressed and looking more awake that he had half an hour ago when he walked back into the room after a night spent keeping watch over his supposedly haunted courtyard.
"Any luck?"
"It was a bust," Dad rubs his face, already red from the hot water. "I swear, half of the stories in this place are made up, and the other half...it's like no one wants to get rid of the damn spirits!"
Dean has seen plenty of evidence of that downtown. Ghost tours, themed restaurants, and compilations of local lore-not to be confused with history-in every corner shop. In the Holy City, ghosts are a bankable attraction.
It looks like Dad wants to laugh. But then his expression hardens and his eyes narrow.
'I don't care what these wackos believe." He starts repacking weapons and rock salt. "Their star-crossed, god damned lovers'll turn violent eventually. Best to stop them now before anyone gets hurt."
It almost trails off into a question, but Dean doesn't bother nodding.
"You boys ready to head out?"
"Dad, you just got back." Sam's voice is cautious, trying so hard not to be confrontational. "Don't you think -"
"Been here long enough as it is," Dad cuts him off and doesn't notice when Sam's face falls. "But I got word of another hunt in the area that I wanted to check out before going back to the courtyard tonight, and I want you boys with me."
Dean wants to slide over and grab Sam's shoulder; his brother looks so pissed off.
"Apparently, there were some nasty pirate murders up the coast a ways, back in the eighteen-hundreds. And the bodies were never quite laid to rest. Sound interesting enough?" Dad adds sternly, reading Sam's mood from across the room. He doesn't wait for their answer, always assumed compliance, before walking out with his bag.
"Dean..." Sam hisses, an angry exhale of air.
"I promise, we'll get back to your case afterward, all right?" Dean arbitrates. "And besides, it's freakin' pirates, Sammy. Come on!"
* * *
Dad doesn't bring them to the courtyard later that night. He masks the decision with the excuse of 'better sleeping arrangements'. This way, Dean and Sam can sleep in the two queens, and Dad will sleep a spell during the muggy, still evenings. No one is relegated to the floor. In theory, anyway.
Dean's pretty sure there's another reason entirely, but he keeps quiet.
Sam's facing away from him, physical distance coupled with an emotional wall Dean is getting used to climbing.
"Still pissed?"
There's no answer for a few minutes. From the rhythm of his breathing, Sam is still awake, so Dean stretches out on the bed next to his brother. Muscle-relaxing routines help bleed the tension from his frame, or else sleep would be next to impossible.
"It feels like our vacation's ending," the quieter teenager finally mutters.
Dean's not really sure what that's supposed to feel like. Vacations are as foreign to him as bouillabaisse or a lobster dinner. But Sammy's tone is somber enough that Dean feels the regret and reluctance.
"But all we've done is go on hunts, or help Dad. That's not really a vacation."
"Yeah, but I'm hunting with you."
"There's a difference?"
Sam turns over then and Dean loses whatever answer he would have seen in his eyes.
* * *
Downtown Charleston
The Hatch & Davidson law firm's building sits behind an intricately designed wrought iron gate and a small entrance yard that's landscaped with impeccable detail. But the walkway isn't swept, and the tiny dark palmetto seeds from the trees above litter the brick.
Only Dean goes in. Thanks to Sam, he can pass as a college student hoping for an internship. Inside, the office isn't nearly the bright, cheerful place promised by the exterior. The receptionist, behind her sharp-edged steel and glass desk, has red, puffy eyes and no smile for Dean.
"Can I help you?" There's a wet sniffle in her voice that doesn't sound quite like a cold.
"My name's Jeff Lawson and I called last week about a possible fall internship?"
The petite brunette glances at a haphazardly stacked pile of notes to her left, and sighs. "Sorry, it's been kind of rough here since last week. What did you say your name was again?"
"Lawson, but hey," Dean pauses and throws the receptionist his most sympathetic look. "Is everything all right around here? You seem really stressed."
"The firm's had some really bad luck lately." She pulls a tissue from a nearby box and wipes at the corners of her eyes even though they're dry. "It's crazy, but maybe we're cursed."
"Well, it's not a totally crazy thing to say, but what makes you think that?"
"Two of our employees died last week, one was my really good friend." Then she laughs and the sound is part dry humor and part sniffle. "I thought it was only celebrity deaths that came in threes."
"Three?"
"Yeah, before Bernie and Liz, our boss Mr. Hatch passed away a few weeks ago. It's just horrible." She needs the tissues now, eyes finally starting to tear, trailing dark makeup to the corners of her eyes. "I mean, who has that kind of bad luck? I just - oh, I'm sorry. I don't mean to bother you with any of this."
"It's all right," Dean grins disarmingly, the same 'tell me everything' smile employed successfully by every therapist in the country. "My friends say I'm a good listener, I don't mind."
And like so many women have before her, she falls into the Winchester ease.
"Okay."
* * *
On to Part Two.