A Family Business 4/6
Title: A Family Business 4/6
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. It’s all Kripke’s and the CW’s and blah blah blah. We all know who the real brain trust is around here.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: General for the series. Takes place in two time periods, one pre-series and the other situated at some point between 3x04 (Sin City) and 3x05 (Bedtime Stories).
Summary: The Winchesters never stay, and when they go they leave more than burned corpses behind them.
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
November 22, 1996
Lansing, MI
It was dark outside. It had been dark for hours. The lamp by her bed was on, the one she’d had since she was a kid, but it didn’t seem to make the room any brighter.
Gillian was trying to read but she could hear them talking downstairs. What no one ever seemed to realize was that the stairs made some sort of acoustic tunnel that echoed every conversation held on the main floor straight to her ears. She couldn’t understand every word that Grandma Dewar and Aunt Paula said, but she heard more than enough to get the gist of their conversation. They were talking about Mom. They didn’t think she could take care of herself, let alone her daughters.
They were planning everyone’s lives as if they had any say in the matter.
She pulled the pillow over her head and burrowed deeper under the covers. She didn’t want to hear anymore. She didn’t want to think. She wanted everything to go away.
The door creaked, and Gillian peeked out to see who was there. Freddy trotted through the opening he’d made with his nose, his stumpy, long-haired body just fitting through the small crack. He sat down next to her bed and stared up at her, his dark eyes large and mournful. He knew something was wrong and he wanted to help.
Gillian didn’t move. She lay on her bed and stared at him. He waited for her to make room for him to jump up, but she didn’t. She knew that if she let him jump up he’d make her feel better. She’d bury her face in his side and he would lick her cheek and start to take all of the pain away. But she didn’t want to feel better. He was the one who’d run away, who’d slipped out the back door in a blink and darted down to the woods. He was the reason why she and Dad had been down there. They’d gone to get him back and then Dad was dead. Freddy took them down there and now he was trying to act like nothing was wrong, that he hadn’t done anything.
She surged up out of her prone position.
“I hate you! I hate you so much!” Gillian screamed into his stupid, loving face. “It’s all your fault! Get out of here and leave me alone! Get!”
Freddy ran out of the room with a yelp. She leaped after him and slammed the door, sliding the lock shut with her other hand.
She turned and leaned her back against the door, its thin plywood shell bending under her weight. Her heart beat loud in her ears and her legs trembled. She slowly sank down, her shirt catching on invisible imperfections in the wood, until she was sitting on the floor.
She hadn’t meant to yell like that. She loved Freddy, she always had, ever since Mom and Angie brought him home from the Humane Society when he was just a tiny little thing. He’d always been her puppy, more than anyone else’s. It wasn’t really his fault. She’d been the one who’d opened the door and looked away. He’d only done what he always did. He was her responsibility.
Tears dripped down her face, but she didn’t remember when she’d started to cry. Maybe she’d never stopped. She pulled her legs up against her chest and sobbed into her knees. She was doing everything wrong and she knew it. Dad would be so disappointed in her. He’d want her to be strong and make everything better, but instead she was messing it all up. She couldn’t do anything right.
She didn’t know how long she stayed like that, huddled on the floor, buried in her grief. A soft knock that she felt more than heard brought her back to herself. She scrubbed at her face and shifted. Her lower back was stiff and her butt was numb.
“Are you okay?” she heard Angie cautiously ask from the other side of the door.
“Yeah.” Gillian rubbed her faced again and stood up. “Just a second.”
She unbolted the door and slowly pulled it open. Angie stood there, surprisingly small in a patterned flannel nightie. Her face was red and splotchy-she’d been crying, too-and Gillian hadn’t been there for her.
Gillian stepped forward and wrapped her little sister in a hug. Angie grabbed her tight and took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Don’t leave me too,” Angie whispered against her neck.
“Never,” Gillian fiercely vowed. She pulled back, but didn’t let go of Angie’s shoulders. “I’m going to make everything all right. I promise.”
Angie gripped her arms like a vice, hard enough to leave bruises. “Just don’t leave me.” Her eyes bored into Gillian with more sorrow and fear than Gillian had ever wanted to see in her. Gillian stood there and didn’t blink, she took it all in and hoped she’d be enough to carry all of this for both of them.
Angie’s shoulders slumped and she let go of Gillian. She seemed to grow even smaller. Gillian instinctively reached forward and smoothed down her long blonde hair like she had a million times in the past. Angie sighed softly and shivered.
“You should get some sleep,” Gillian whispered in the best ‘big sister’ tone she had. “It’s been a long day.”
Angie nodded. She gave Gillian another long, searching look. She searched for something in Gillian’s face, and Gillian stood still and let her find whatever she needed.
Angie finally nodded, seemingly content though a tear ran down her cheek. “Good night,” she said as she threw her arms around Gillian for another hug.
“Sleep tight.” This time Gillian didn’t want to let go. She pulled her sister closer and squeezed her eyes shut. She knew what she had to do and it scared her. But she’d promised Angie she’d make it all better and she would.
“I love you,” Angie sniffled.
“I love you too,” Gillian said around a sob. She took a deep breath and swallowed it all down. She had work to do and crying would only get in the way.
Angie sniffled again and finally pulled away. She slipped down the stairs to her bedroom, and Gillian didn’t follow her. Gillian waited until she heard Angie’s door close before turning back into her own room. She closed and relocked her door and then sat down on her bed and started pulling on her shoes.
Everyone would be asleep soon, and then she could sneak out. She had to go back down to the woods, it was the only way.
She wasn’t afraid anymore.
~~~
State of Michigan Library
Dean wanted to bang his head against the table. He should’ve known when he agreed to take Sam to the library that he’d spend the evening buried in newspaper. He didn’t even have the comfort of a cup of coffee or a bag of chips to help him out. He’d risked Sammy’s ire and taken a trip to the lunch room only to be stopped short by the librarian’s icy stare when he’d tried to bring his spoils anywhere near the books.
He shivered and glanced over his shoulder. The librarian was glaring at him again. She’d obviously decided that she had to protect the books from him. He turned back to his latest stack of research and carefully folded Monday’s Dewitt-Bath Review back into shape. He knew from past experience that there was nothing more dangerous than a librarian on a rampage.
“Did you get it?” Sammy’s eyes were bright and intense from across the table. “Was it there?”
Dean sighed. “Yes, there was an animal attack in St. Johns and no, there weren’t any teenagers mentioned in the article. But that doesn’t prove that it’s not a hellhound. For all we know, hellhounds might look like were-wolverines.”
“It’s not a were-wolverine.” Sam jabbed the book in front of him with his forefinger. “They’re animals that were mistaken for wolverines by English settlers. But Jesuit explorers wrote about, ‘ferocious beasts that stalked the northern woods,’ with mouths full of teeth and spines instead of fur on their backs.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got that the first time you showed it to me, but it’s not like the all-knowing book’s spit up a name for the damn thing.” Dean rolled his eyes, Sam’s tone was really starting to cheese him off. He might not be the Grand High Poobah of the Book Club, or whatever, but he wasn’t an idiot. “And doesn’t it also say that those, ‘ferocious beasts’ are only in the Upper Peninsula? How’d one of them end up on this side of the Straits?”
“Maybe it swam,” Sam glowered. “It doesn’t matter how it got here. And, anyway, you’re the one who picked up on all of those animal attacks that started in Cheboygan and went south.”
“Yes,” Dean said slowly. “But a pattern isn’t a monster.” Dean threw up his hands in reaction to Sam’s fierce look. “Hey, that’s what Dad’s gonna say.”
Sam slammed the book shut with a dull thump and started shoving notebooks into his backpack. “It’s this beast. I know it is. And Dad can just shove his hellhound idea.” He pushed away from the table with a clatter. “I’ll go down to that stupid park myself and prove that he’s wrong.”
Sam threw his bag over his shoulder and pounded out of the library. Dean scooped his own stuff up and hurried after him, the cold gaze of the librarian following them both. If Dean wasn’t careful Sam would march all the way across the city to those woods and end up getting himself killed. Dad’d be super-pissed if Dean let that happen.
“Dude, chill,” Dean said after they’d made it back out to the truck and the heater was blasting. Damn it was cold. “I think you’ve got a decent take on this whole thing. Let’s run it past Dad tonight and head down there tomorrow and scope out the territory.” He glanced over at Sam’s ramrod posture. “Okay?”
Sam just grunted in reply. Dean sighed again and pulled out of the parking lot. At least the brat hadn’t jumped out of the damn truck.
They drove home in silence. The only noises Sam made were to ask for a Big Mac and a chocolate shake when they drove through the Mickey D’s. The lights were on when they pulled up to the house. Sam let him take point when they went inside. Dean wasn’t sure whether that meant he was intimidated or he was putting the finishing touches on some genius argument that would have them both running laps till Hell froze over.
Dad had one of the weapon duffels stowed on the kitchen table and a disassembled shotgun laid out in front of him.
“Good, you’re back,” he said the second the door slammed shut behind Sam. “There was another attack this afternoon. We’re going down there tonight to take care of it.” He clicked the barrel back onto the stock and held it out to Dean. “Make sure all of the guns are loaded.”
Dean stepped forward and grabbed the shotgun. He immediately focused on the task at hand.
“I was right, it wasn’t a hellhound.” Sam’s words crackled through the dim room.
Dean looked up, his eyes narrowed. Apparently Sammy needed his pound of flesh on top of everything else.
“Are you trying to say something, son?” Dad stood up slowly. His voice was quiet but it echoed off of the close walls.
Dean shifted and set the shotgun carefully on the table. He didn’t know what was about to happen, but he wanted to be ready, just in case the shit finally hit the fan.
Sam’s entire body was a live wire. He stood there and he didn’t back down, his face frozen in an expression Dean had never seen before, some godawful combination of rage and loathing.
“Yeah, I have something to say. You wouldn’t even listen to me when I told you that you were wrong, and now look at what happened!” Sam got louder and shriller with every sound he made. “Someone else had to die because you think you’re so much smarter than everyone else that you won’t even listen!”
Dad took another step forward. His fists were clenched and he had a look on his face that Dean had only ever seen him throw at the worst kind of scum. Enough was fucking enough.
Dean jumped between them. He put his back to Dad and faced Sammy. Sam was breathing fast, his face flushed and his eyes bright. “All right Sam, I think Dad’s got the point. Why don’t you help me load up the shotguns.”
“No, he doesn’t get it.” Sam’s breath was only getting shorter but he still wasn’t backing down. “And why should I help him when he wouldn’t listen to me?”
“That’s all right,” Dad said over Dean’s shoulder, deceptively calm. “Sam wouldn’t be much help out there; he’d only be a liability.”
Sam’s mouth narrowed at Dad’s dismissal. “Well, I don’t want to risk my life like an idiot, anyway,” He snarled and threw his backpack across the room as he stomped out of the kitchen.
Dean immediately turned toward Dad, but he was already heading into the other room. “Finish loading up the guns. We leave in ten,” Dad said over his shoulder.
A door at the other end of the house slammed, and Dean flinched. He felt like he’d just run a ruck march and, fuck, there was more yet to come. Before turning back to the weaponry on the table, he pulled a notebook out of Sam’s discarded backpack. Having everything they could get on the damn monster probably wouldn’t hurt.
Dean mechanically pulled another shotgun out of the duffel and went to work. Hunting down some people-chomping monster was exactly what he needed right about now.
~~~
September 14, 2007
Hart, MI
Angela pulled her car up to the Mexican grocery and threw it into park. She didn’t even look at the guy sitting in the passenger’s seat. She’d stopped caring about him or what he was doing around the time she’d won the who-was-driving contest by merely getting into her car and starting the engine, almost leaving without him. She had turned up the radio and ignored the dirty look he’d sent her way. She didn’t have enough energy to worry about what he might be thinking.
He grabbed her arm just before she pushed the glass door open. Clear green eyes stared grimly into hers. “When we get in there, let me do the talking, Miss Van Doren.”
She roughly pulled her arm away. “My name is Angela Dewar. Ms. Dewar,” she emphasized with a very pointed look. “Getting my name right might make you look better in front of the locals.” She went through the door without bothering to listen to his response.
It was cooler inside than out, but it was only a matter of degree. The store smelled like she remembered, like it did when Gillian first brought her here, an earthy mix of nearly overripe produce and raw meat. Members of the Garces family stood by the cash register at the back of the main room, roughly grouped together by the two sheriff’s deputies flanking them.
One of the Garces women looked up from the intense family discussion and caught Angela’s eye. “Angelita,” she squawked, startled, and hurriedly closed the distance between them. “Where’s Gillian?”
Angela blinked and took a deep breath. She knew Luisa, had spent more than one evening watching and-if she was honest with herself-hating the easy camaraderie that existed between the woman in front of her and her sister. But she didn’t have time to indulge any of her own pettiness, not now.
“I don’t know where she is. That’s why I’m here. I heard the message on Gillian’s machine and came right over.” Angela was blunt and to the point. A disgust for pretty words and half-truths was one of the traits that both Gillian and Luisa shared.
Luisa looked over Angela’s shoulder. Her mouth flattened and her eyes went hard. “Who’s this with you?”
“I’m with the FBI,” the agent said before Angela could respond. He stepped around Angela and positioned himself to her left. “My partner and I are investigating the disappearances.”
“The FBI?” One of the deputies interrupted, his face screwed up in confusion. “We didn’t call the Feds. Who did you say you were?”
“I didn’t. I’m Agent Benson.” He whipped out his badge and tucked it back away in one smooth, practiced motion. “But you can call me Dean,” he said to Luisa in one of the smarmiest tones Angela had ever heard, and she’d been propositioned by more than one fratboy asshole at a kegger.
And it didn’t take a psych major to interpret the grim fuck-off-and-die look that Luisa gave him in response.
“Great, wonderful, so glad that’s out of the way.” Angela rode right over the pissing match she could see brewing a mile away. She turned back to Luisa. “Do you know what happened to my sister?”
Luisa frowned. Her eyes darted from one face to another, weighing options Angela couldn’t begin to decipher. Luisa’s frown deepened when she reached some kind of decision.
“When cousin Hector disappeared we called Gillian. She’s helped us with things like this in the past. Gillian said that she was already taking care of it and that we should call her if anything else happened. And then Hector reappeared.” Her voice was carefully modulated, a sure sign that there was a plethora of things she wasn’t saying.
“What does Hector have to say?” Dean asked seriously. His manner was entirely professional, as if the horndog had never existed.
“They won’t let anyone talk to him,” the deputy peevishly interrupted. “If a shopper hadn’t called 911 when he staggered into the store we wouldn’t even know he was back.”
“I told you, Andy, you can’t help us with this,” Luisa said mechanically, dutifully playing her part.
“Can I talk to Hector?” Angela asked before the conversation could spiral into some other realm entirely. “I need to know what he knows about my sister,” she continued in spite of Luisa’s stony expression.
“Gillian didn’t want you mixed up in her work,” Luisa grimly replied.
“I don’t care what Gillian wants. Hell, most of the time she doesn’t even know what she really wants.” She pushed between Luisa and Andy; her wire-thin patience had finally snapped. “Hector’s in the back, right?”
She didn’t wait for a response, just strode through the double doors that lead to the ‘employee only’ area. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised when Dean caught the door before it closed behind her.
The hallway was dim, the only illumination the thin sunlight that beamed through blocky windows on the right-hand wall. It was silent except for the dull hum of spinning motors somewhere further in the back.
They found Hector in the employee’s lounge. He was slumped in the couch on the far side of the room, a blanket pulled up to his shoulders. His face was pale and gaunt and his breathing was labored.
An older woman glared up at them as they entered. She set the mug and bowl in her hands carefully down on a table and then turned on them, hands planted firmly on her hips. She let loose a rush of words that Angela didn’t have to recognize to understand that their presence was unwelcome.
Luisa hurried into the room, her hands up in a conciliatory manner. She became the object of the older woman’s tirade and tried to placate her in the same language. The older woman eventually subsided, and her gaze went from hostile to intrigued.
The older woman addressed them and Luisa dutifully translated. “My grandmother says that you can’t wake Hector up, but she’ll tell you what he said before he collapsed.” She and her grandmother shared a long look before the grandmother haltingly began.
“Primo Hector said that the last thing he remembered before the forest was picking fruit for the Gleasons. Then music came out of the trees and he couldn’t stop himself, it called to him and he followed. After that there was only music until he saw your sister’s face and she told him to run and not look back. He did exactly that.”
“That’s what he said?” Angela whispered, her mind spinning in circles. Gillian had never told her about what she had seen when dad died, had never hinted at what kept her holed up in Uncle Dave’s cabin year after year, but she wasn’t as secretive as she thought she was. Angela had picked up clues here and there about the things that Gillian believed. Angela had never judged, had never wanted to face either possibility-that Gillian was crazy or that she was right. She’d turned a blind eye on all of the undercurrents and left Gillian on her own.
She left the room. She wasn’t blind anymore and she was going to find her sister. The Gleasons' orchard was only a couple miles north of Gillian’s cabin and, by God, she’d search every inch of the area in between.
She nearly ran past the people in the store, their shocked and confused looks bouncing off of her without impact. She was nearly to her car when a firm hand on her shoulder stopped her headlong dash and spun her around.
“You’re not going out there.” Dean’s tone was fierce and brooked no argument. “I know, I get it, she’s your sister,” he continued over her glare. “But you’re not going to help her if you run out there half-cocked, you’ll only end up getting yourself killed. We need to figure out what we’re up against before we can save your sister.”
“How are we going to do that? And why are you even involved?” She wanted to tell him to leave her the fuck alone, that she could handle it. She didn’t need his help or his pity.
“This is our job and we’re damn good at it. We’ll find Gillian.” He grinned, and there was something strangely reassuring in its cockiness. She reacted to his confidence and could feel her angry stubbornness begin to dissolve, the knots in her stomach and shoulders slowly loosen. She clutched at the hope that someone, anyone, could help her fix this.
His grin softened, the cockiness replaced by what looked like understanding “Let’s go back to your sister’s place and see what my brother’s got.”
She nodded silently and blinked back sudden tears. He squeezed her shoulder before turning towards the car. Angela took a deep breath and stood up straight. Dry-eyed she followed Dean's example.
~~~
Sam set the notebook down on the wobbly, paper-strewn table. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and then stretched, his shoulders cracking in release. Digging through all of the research would be easier if it had some sort of organizational logic but it looked like its compiler, the missing Gillian, he presumed, came from the Bobby Singer School of Library Science. She obviously applied a similar ‘throw it all in piles and heaven help the poor fool who tries to sort through it’ cataloguing method. He’d finally dug something up that looked promising but interpreting the personal code of abbreviations, in at least three separate languages, was slow-going.
He turned to the left and found the fridge easily within reach in the tiny kitchen. He pulled the door open and grinned; thank God for the universal predictability of hunters everywhere. He grabbed a cold beer and twisted the cap off, randomly flicking it into the other room to join an already sizeable pile of its mates. He leaned back and let all of the information he’d deciphered collate itself in his mind.
The door crashed open just as he was bringing the bottle up for another sip and he just missed spilling it all over himself. Angela plowed through the front room and slammed into the bathroom.
Dean followed more slowly, his mouth thin and his eyebrows scrunched together, sure signs that he was worrying at some bit of stubborn information. Sam reached into the fridge and grabbed another beer. Dean silently accepted the bottle, but it didn’t completely register with him-his gaze still stuck on something in the middle distance. His ring clinked rhythmically against the bottle’s glass in time with his thoughts.
Suddenly Dean snorted and looked down at the bottle in his hand, a side of his mouth curved up in sardonic amusement. “Just like the scotch,” he muttered to himself.
“What?” Sam responded, his voice laced with confusion and surprise.
“Remember back when we were kids and Dad worked that auto plant gig in Lansing?” Dean snapped off the beer cap and took a long, contemplative sip, his attention still focused on something inside his own head.
“Yes,” Sam drawled, not quite sure where Dean was going with this but willing to play along. The pathways Dean’s brain went down could be a little strange and obscure but they never failed to get the job done.
“Right before we left town that guy got mauled.” Dean looked at Sam with a raised eyebrow like he expected Sam to already know what he was thinking.
“Yeah, the were-wolverine. And the guy’s name was Dewar,” he finished with a roll of his eyes. Equating a name with malt liquor was such a Dean way to remember things. “But what does that have to do with-” He stopped abruptly and his eyes widened when the neurons in his brain hooked everything together. “Holy shit,” he breathed. So that’s why Dean was so morose.
“Yeap, pretty much,” Dean agreed.
They drank their beer in disbelieving silence. Sam stared at the piles of research on the table, seeing it with new eyes. He never would have connected the researcher to his vague memories of a mourning girl. It was surreal, weird in a way that he’d never experienced, notwithstanding a life that defined everyone else’s ‘weird’ as its daily norm.
The floor creaked, knocking Sam out of his shocked introspection. Angela stood at the far end of the table, hands braced on the back of a wooden chair. Her face was severe and faint worry lines spidered from the corners of her mouth. Sam ransacked his memory for some hint of familiarity, but there was nothing. If he’d ever known her the memory was lost in everything he’d done since.
“You’re not FBI agents,” she said, her voice haggard. “And don’t even try to tell me otherwise,” she continued before either of them could argue the point.
“All right, we won’t,” Dean replied, his hands raised at his waist, fingers spread in what could have been either defense or conciliation. He glanced at Sam, his intentions clear on his face.
For all the crap Dean gave him when they were kids he always broke for the truth first.
“You’re right, we’re not FBI,” Dean continued in his most sincere manner. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t help you find your sister. We help people with strange shit like this all of the time. Like I said, it’s our job, whether we’re official or not.”
“Like Gillian,” Angela whispered. Her eyes were fixed on her hands. They wrung the back of the chair with nervous energy.
“Yeah, kinda.” Dean shrugged. He glanced at Sam again, uncomfortable and looking for an out.
Sam easily took his brother’s non-verbal passing of the buck. He sat up straight, careful to not jostle the table, and gently set his beer bottle on the floor. It was showtime.
“So, luckily, Gillian had it pretty much worked out.” He spread a map out on the table and drew a circle around a particular area. “This isn’t the first time people have gone missing in that hunk of forest. Back in the 1800s at least three lumber companies reported strange disappearances. It got so bad that workers refused to cut that area. There were also reports of music in the woods, as if the trees were singing. Gillian also dug up Ojibwe legends from the area that referred to trees that would snatch you away.”
“So, what are we dealing with, some sort of land-based siren?” Dean leaned over the map like it was his whole world.
Sam shook his head and pushed over a notebook already turned to the appropriate pate. “No, it seems more like the spirit of a place. The Alongonquin believed that the earth has presence or personality and that some areas can either attract or repel. Some were even imbued with an almost godlike mystique.”
“Like that hotel in The Shining,” Angela said, her eyes glowing as she fell into the pulse of the investigation.
Sam blinked and grinned. “Sort of. More like Stonehenge or Mount Rushmore, places that attract monuments and crowds without any apparent reason.”
“But why now? If it’s always been like this then why did Gillian suddenly go into crazy research mode? Shouldn’t she have been ready for it?” Angela eyed the stacks of books and scattered papers in consternation. At least that meant that Gillian didn’t live this way all of the time.
“I don’t know,” Sam replied. “Maybe someone cut down one of the trees or performed a ceremony. Any number of things could have set it all off.”
“So I guess torching it isn’t going to get the job done,” Dean cut in, a little frustrated. Sam knew how much Dean preferred the tried and true methods for ending a problem. “Can’t really salt and burn the earth.”
“Probably not. Gillian had notes on protective symbols and warding techniques but I haven’t quite worked out which ones will be effective.” Sam grimaced. “Putting that together is going to take some time.”
“This might speed up the process.” Dean pulled an amulet out of his pocked and dangled it in the air. “I picked it up from the guy we just saw, the one who got out. I swiped it off of a table in the lounge,” he said in response to Angela’s quizzical look, his patented ‘it’s not my fault, I swear’ look stamped on his face.
Sam grabbed the amulet and felt everything fall into place as he squinted at the design. “So that’s what she decided on,” he muttered and grabbed a notebook off its precarious perch on the table. He opened it to a specific page and placed it carefully back down on another stack. Dean and Angela bent forward as Sam pointed at a specific illustration. “This is what we’ll need to go in there and get them out.”
Angela looked at him, her eyes swirled with emotions and at their root a grim determination that he recognized from his own mirror.
“Well then, let’s get this show on the road.”
~~~
Chapter Five
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. It’s all Kripke’s and the CW’s and blah blah blah. We all know who the real brain trust is around here.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: General for the series. Takes place in two time periods, one pre-series and the other situated at some point between 3x04 (Sin City) and 3x05 (Bedtime Stories).
Summary: The Winchesters never stay, and when they go they leave more than burned corpses behind them.
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
November 22, 1996
Lansing, MI
It was dark outside. It had been dark for hours. The lamp by her bed was on, the one she’d had since she was a kid, but it didn’t seem to make the room any brighter.
Gillian was trying to read but she could hear them talking downstairs. What no one ever seemed to realize was that the stairs made some sort of acoustic tunnel that echoed every conversation held on the main floor straight to her ears. She couldn’t understand every word that Grandma Dewar and Aunt Paula said, but she heard more than enough to get the gist of their conversation. They were talking about Mom. They didn’t think she could take care of herself, let alone her daughters.
They were planning everyone’s lives as if they had any say in the matter.
She pulled the pillow over her head and burrowed deeper under the covers. She didn’t want to hear anymore. She didn’t want to think. She wanted everything to go away.
The door creaked, and Gillian peeked out to see who was there. Freddy trotted through the opening he’d made with his nose, his stumpy, long-haired body just fitting through the small crack. He sat down next to her bed and stared up at her, his dark eyes large and mournful. He knew something was wrong and he wanted to help.
Gillian didn’t move. She lay on her bed and stared at him. He waited for her to make room for him to jump up, but she didn’t. She knew that if she let him jump up he’d make her feel better. She’d bury her face in his side and he would lick her cheek and start to take all of the pain away. But she didn’t want to feel better. He was the one who’d run away, who’d slipped out the back door in a blink and darted down to the woods. He was the reason why she and Dad had been down there. They’d gone to get him back and then Dad was dead. Freddy took them down there and now he was trying to act like nothing was wrong, that he hadn’t done anything.
She surged up out of her prone position.
“I hate you! I hate you so much!” Gillian screamed into his stupid, loving face. “It’s all your fault! Get out of here and leave me alone! Get!”
Freddy ran out of the room with a yelp. She leaped after him and slammed the door, sliding the lock shut with her other hand.
She turned and leaned her back against the door, its thin plywood shell bending under her weight. Her heart beat loud in her ears and her legs trembled. She slowly sank down, her shirt catching on invisible imperfections in the wood, until she was sitting on the floor.
She hadn’t meant to yell like that. She loved Freddy, she always had, ever since Mom and Angie brought him home from the Humane Society when he was just a tiny little thing. He’d always been her puppy, more than anyone else’s. It wasn’t really his fault. She’d been the one who’d opened the door and looked away. He’d only done what he always did. He was her responsibility.
Tears dripped down her face, but she didn’t remember when she’d started to cry. Maybe she’d never stopped. She pulled her legs up against her chest and sobbed into her knees. She was doing everything wrong and she knew it. Dad would be so disappointed in her. He’d want her to be strong and make everything better, but instead she was messing it all up. She couldn’t do anything right.
She didn’t know how long she stayed like that, huddled on the floor, buried in her grief. A soft knock that she felt more than heard brought her back to herself. She scrubbed at her face and shifted. Her lower back was stiff and her butt was numb.
“Are you okay?” she heard Angie cautiously ask from the other side of the door.
“Yeah.” Gillian rubbed her faced again and stood up. “Just a second.”
She unbolted the door and slowly pulled it open. Angie stood there, surprisingly small in a patterned flannel nightie. Her face was red and splotchy-she’d been crying, too-and Gillian hadn’t been there for her.
Gillian stepped forward and wrapped her little sister in a hug. Angie grabbed her tight and took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Don’t leave me too,” Angie whispered against her neck.
“Never,” Gillian fiercely vowed. She pulled back, but didn’t let go of Angie’s shoulders. “I’m going to make everything all right. I promise.”
Angie gripped her arms like a vice, hard enough to leave bruises. “Just don’t leave me.” Her eyes bored into Gillian with more sorrow and fear than Gillian had ever wanted to see in her. Gillian stood there and didn’t blink, she took it all in and hoped she’d be enough to carry all of this for both of them.
Angie’s shoulders slumped and she let go of Gillian. She seemed to grow even smaller. Gillian instinctively reached forward and smoothed down her long blonde hair like she had a million times in the past. Angie sighed softly and shivered.
“You should get some sleep,” Gillian whispered in the best ‘big sister’ tone she had. “It’s been a long day.”
Angie nodded. She gave Gillian another long, searching look. She searched for something in Gillian’s face, and Gillian stood still and let her find whatever she needed.
Angie finally nodded, seemingly content though a tear ran down her cheek. “Good night,” she said as she threw her arms around Gillian for another hug.
“Sleep tight.” This time Gillian didn’t want to let go. She pulled her sister closer and squeezed her eyes shut. She knew what she had to do and it scared her. But she’d promised Angie she’d make it all better and she would.
“I love you,” Angie sniffled.
“I love you too,” Gillian said around a sob. She took a deep breath and swallowed it all down. She had work to do and crying would only get in the way.
Angie sniffled again and finally pulled away. She slipped down the stairs to her bedroom, and Gillian didn’t follow her. Gillian waited until she heard Angie’s door close before turning back into her own room. She closed and relocked her door and then sat down on her bed and started pulling on her shoes.
Everyone would be asleep soon, and then she could sneak out. She had to go back down to the woods, it was the only way.
She wasn’t afraid anymore.
~~~
State of Michigan Library
Dean wanted to bang his head against the table. He should’ve known when he agreed to take Sam to the library that he’d spend the evening buried in newspaper. He didn’t even have the comfort of a cup of coffee or a bag of chips to help him out. He’d risked Sammy’s ire and taken a trip to the lunch room only to be stopped short by the librarian’s icy stare when he’d tried to bring his spoils anywhere near the books.
He shivered and glanced over his shoulder. The librarian was glaring at him again. She’d obviously decided that she had to protect the books from him. He turned back to his latest stack of research and carefully folded Monday’s Dewitt-Bath Review back into shape. He knew from past experience that there was nothing more dangerous than a librarian on a rampage.
“Did you get it?” Sammy’s eyes were bright and intense from across the table. “Was it there?”
Dean sighed. “Yes, there was an animal attack in St. Johns and no, there weren’t any teenagers mentioned in the article. But that doesn’t prove that it’s not a hellhound. For all we know, hellhounds might look like were-wolverines.”
“It’s not a were-wolverine.” Sam jabbed the book in front of him with his forefinger. “They’re animals that were mistaken for wolverines by English settlers. But Jesuit explorers wrote about, ‘ferocious beasts that stalked the northern woods,’ with mouths full of teeth and spines instead of fur on their backs.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got that the first time you showed it to me, but it’s not like the all-knowing book’s spit up a name for the damn thing.” Dean rolled his eyes, Sam’s tone was really starting to cheese him off. He might not be the Grand High Poobah of the Book Club, or whatever, but he wasn’t an idiot. “And doesn’t it also say that those, ‘ferocious beasts’ are only in the Upper Peninsula? How’d one of them end up on this side of the Straits?”
“Maybe it swam,” Sam glowered. “It doesn’t matter how it got here. And, anyway, you’re the one who picked up on all of those animal attacks that started in Cheboygan and went south.”
“Yes,” Dean said slowly. “But a pattern isn’t a monster.” Dean threw up his hands in reaction to Sam’s fierce look. “Hey, that’s what Dad’s gonna say.”
Sam slammed the book shut with a dull thump and started shoving notebooks into his backpack. “It’s this beast. I know it is. And Dad can just shove his hellhound idea.” He pushed away from the table with a clatter. “I’ll go down to that stupid park myself and prove that he’s wrong.”
Sam threw his bag over his shoulder and pounded out of the library. Dean scooped his own stuff up and hurried after him, the cold gaze of the librarian following them both. If Dean wasn’t careful Sam would march all the way across the city to those woods and end up getting himself killed. Dad’d be super-pissed if Dean let that happen.
“Dude, chill,” Dean said after they’d made it back out to the truck and the heater was blasting. Damn it was cold. “I think you’ve got a decent take on this whole thing. Let’s run it past Dad tonight and head down there tomorrow and scope out the territory.” He glanced over at Sam’s ramrod posture. “Okay?”
Sam just grunted in reply. Dean sighed again and pulled out of the parking lot. At least the brat hadn’t jumped out of the damn truck.
They drove home in silence. The only noises Sam made were to ask for a Big Mac and a chocolate shake when they drove through the Mickey D’s. The lights were on when they pulled up to the house. Sam let him take point when they went inside. Dean wasn’t sure whether that meant he was intimidated or he was putting the finishing touches on some genius argument that would have them both running laps till Hell froze over.
Dad had one of the weapon duffels stowed on the kitchen table and a disassembled shotgun laid out in front of him.
“Good, you’re back,” he said the second the door slammed shut behind Sam. “There was another attack this afternoon. We’re going down there tonight to take care of it.” He clicked the barrel back onto the stock and held it out to Dean. “Make sure all of the guns are loaded.”
Dean stepped forward and grabbed the shotgun. He immediately focused on the task at hand.
“I was right, it wasn’t a hellhound.” Sam’s words crackled through the dim room.
Dean looked up, his eyes narrowed. Apparently Sammy needed his pound of flesh on top of everything else.
“Are you trying to say something, son?” Dad stood up slowly. His voice was quiet but it echoed off of the close walls.
Dean shifted and set the shotgun carefully on the table. He didn’t know what was about to happen, but he wanted to be ready, just in case the shit finally hit the fan.
Sam’s entire body was a live wire. He stood there and he didn’t back down, his face frozen in an expression Dean had never seen before, some godawful combination of rage and loathing.
“Yeah, I have something to say. You wouldn’t even listen to me when I told you that you were wrong, and now look at what happened!” Sam got louder and shriller with every sound he made. “Someone else had to die because you think you’re so much smarter than everyone else that you won’t even listen!”
Dad took another step forward. His fists were clenched and he had a look on his face that Dean had only ever seen him throw at the worst kind of scum. Enough was fucking enough.
Dean jumped between them. He put his back to Dad and faced Sammy. Sam was breathing fast, his face flushed and his eyes bright. “All right Sam, I think Dad’s got the point. Why don’t you help me load up the shotguns.”
“No, he doesn’t get it.” Sam’s breath was only getting shorter but he still wasn’t backing down. “And why should I help him when he wouldn’t listen to me?”
“That’s all right,” Dad said over Dean’s shoulder, deceptively calm. “Sam wouldn’t be much help out there; he’d only be a liability.”
Sam’s mouth narrowed at Dad’s dismissal. “Well, I don’t want to risk my life like an idiot, anyway,” He snarled and threw his backpack across the room as he stomped out of the kitchen.
Dean immediately turned toward Dad, but he was already heading into the other room. “Finish loading up the guns. We leave in ten,” Dad said over his shoulder.
A door at the other end of the house slammed, and Dean flinched. He felt like he’d just run a ruck march and, fuck, there was more yet to come. Before turning back to the weaponry on the table, he pulled a notebook out of Sam’s discarded backpack. Having everything they could get on the damn monster probably wouldn’t hurt.
Dean mechanically pulled another shotgun out of the duffel and went to work. Hunting down some people-chomping monster was exactly what he needed right about now.
~~~
September 14, 2007
Hart, MI
Angela pulled her car up to the Mexican grocery and threw it into park. She didn’t even look at the guy sitting in the passenger’s seat. She’d stopped caring about him or what he was doing around the time she’d won the who-was-driving contest by merely getting into her car and starting the engine, almost leaving without him. She had turned up the radio and ignored the dirty look he’d sent her way. She didn’t have enough energy to worry about what he might be thinking.
He grabbed her arm just before she pushed the glass door open. Clear green eyes stared grimly into hers. “When we get in there, let me do the talking, Miss Van Doren.”
She roughly pulled her arm away. “My name is Angela Dewar. Ms. Dewar,” she emphasized with a very pointed look. “Getting my name right might make you look better in front of the locals.” She went through the door without bothering to listen to his response.
It was cooler inside than out, but it was only a matter of degree. The store smelled like she remembered, like it did when Gillian first brought her here, an earthy mix of nearly overripe produce and raw meat. Members of the Garces family stood by the cash register at the back of the main room, roughly grouped together by the two sheriff’s deputies flanking them.
One of the Garces women looked up from the intense family discussion and caught Angela’s eye. “Angelita,” she squawked, startled, and hurriedly closed the distance between them. “Where’s Gillian?”
Angela blinked and took a deep breath. She knew Luisa, had spent more than one evening watching and-if she was honest with herself-hating the easy camaraderie that existed between the woman in front of her and her sister. But she didn’t have time to indulge any of her own pettiness, not now.
“I don’t know where she is. That’s why I’m here. I heard the message on Gillian’s machine and came right over.” Angela was blunt and to the point. A disgust for pretty words and half-truths was one of the traits that both Gillian and Luisa shared.
Luisa looked over Angela’s shoulder. Her mouth flattened and her eyes went hard. “Who’s this with you?”
“I’m with the FBI,” the agent said before Angela could respond. He stepped around Angela and positioned himself to her left. “My partner and I are investigating the disappearances.”
“The FBI?” One of the deputies interrupted, his face screwed up in confusion. “We didn’t call the Feds. Who did you say you were?”
“I didn’t. I’m Agent Benson.” He whipped out his badge and tucked it back away in one smooth, practiced motion. “But you can call me Dean,” he said to Luisa in one of the smarmiest tones Angela had ever heard, and she’d been propositioned by more than one fratboy asshole at a kegger.
And it didn’t take a psych major to interpret the grim fuck-off-and-die look that Luisa gave him in response.
“Great, wonderful, so glad that’s out of the way.” Angela rode right over the pissing match she could see brewing a mile away. She turned back to Luisa. “Do you know what happened to my sister?”
Luisa frowned. Her eyes darted from one face to another, weighing options Angela couldn’t begin to decipher. Luisa’s frown deepened when she reached some kind of decision.
“When cousin Hector disappeared we called Gillian. She’s helped us with things like this in the past. Gillian said that she was already taking care of it and that we should call her if anything else happened. And then Hector reappeared.” Her voice was carefully modulated, a sure sign that there was a plethora of things she wasn’t saying.
“What does Hector have to say?” Dean asked seriously. His manner was entirely professional, as if the horndog had never existed.
“They won’t let anyone talk to him,” the deputy peevishly interrupted. “If a shopper hadn’t called 911 when he staggered into the store we wouldn’t even know he was back.”
“I told you, Andy, you can’t help us with this,” Luisa said mechanically, dutifully playing her part.
“Can I talk to Hector?” Angela asked before the conversation could spiral into some other realm entirely. “I need to know what he knows about my sister,” she continued in spite of Luisa’s stony expression.
“Gillian didn’t want you mixed up in her work,” Luisa grimly replied.
“I don’t care what Gillian wants. Hell, most of the time she doesn’t even know what she really wants.” She pushed between Luisa and Andy; her wire-thin patience had finally snapped. “Hector’s in the back, right?”
She didn’t wait for a response, just strode through the double doors that lead to the ‘employee only’ area. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised when Dean caught the door before it closed behind her.
The hallway was dim, the only illumination the thin sunlight that beamed through blocky windows on the right-hand wall. It was silent except for the dull hum of spinning motors somewhere further in the back.
They found Hector in the employee’s lounge. He was slumped in the couch on the far side of the room, a blanket pulled up to his shoulders. His face was pale and gaunt and his breathing was labored.
An older woman glared up at them as they entered. She set the mug and bowl in her hands carefully down on a table and then turned on them, hands planted firmly on her hips. She let loose a rush of words that Angela didn’t have to recognize to understand that their presence was unwelcome.
Luisa hurried into the room, her hands up in a conciliatory manner. She became the object of the older woman’s tirade and tried to placate her in the same language. The older woman eventually subsided, and her gaze went from hostile to intrigued.
The older woman addressed them and Luisa dutifully translated. “My grandmother says that you can’t wake Hector up, but she’ll tell you what he said before he collapsed.” She and her grandmother shared a long look before the grandmother haltingly began.
“Primo Hector said that the last thing he remembered before the forest was picking fruit for the Gleasons. Then music came out of the trees and he couldn’t stop himself, it called to him and he followed. After that there was only music until he saw your sister’s face and she told him to run and not look back. He did exactly that.”
“That’s what he said?” Angela whispered, her mind spinning in circles. Gillian had never told her about what she had seen when dad died, had never hinted at what kept her holed up in Uncle Dave’s cabin year after year, but she wasn’t as secretive as she thought she was. Angela had picked up clues here and there about the things that Gillian believed. Angela had never judged, had never wanted to face either possibility-that Gillian was crazy or that she was right. She’d turned a blind eye on all of the undercurrents and left Gillian on her own.
She left the room. She wasn’t blind anymore and she was going to find her sister. The Gleasons' orchard was only a couple miles north of Gillian’s cabin and, by God, she’d search every inch of the area in between.
She nearly ran past the people in the store, their shocked and confused looks bouncing off of her without impact. She was nearly to her car when a firm hand on her shoulder stopped her headlong dash and spun her around.
“You’re not going out there.” Dean’s tone was fierce and brooked no argument. “I know, I get it, she’s your sister,” he continued over her glare. “But you’re not going to help her if you run out there half-cocked, you’ll only end up getting yourself killed. We need to figure out what we’re up against before we can save your sister.”
“How are we going to do that? And why are you even involved?” She wanted to tell him to leave her the fuck alone, that she could handle it. She didn’t need his help or his pity.
“This is our job and we’re damn good at it. We’ll find Gillian.” He grinned, and there was something strangely reassuring in its cockiness. She reacted to his confidence and could feel her angry stubbornness begin to dissolve, the knots in her stomach and shoulders slowly loosen. She clutched at the hope that someone, anyone, could help her fix this.
His grin softened, the cockiness replaced by what looked like understanding “Let’s go back to your sister’s place and see what my brother’s got.”
She nodded silently and blinked back sudden tears. He squeezed her shoulder before turning towards the car. Angela took a deep breath and stood up straight. Dry-eyed she followed Dean's example.
~~~
Sam set the notebook down on the wobbly, paper-strewn table. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and then stretched, his shoulders cracking in release. Digging through all of the research would be easier if it had some sort of organizational logic but it looked like its compiler, the missing Gillian, he presumed, came from the Bobby Singer School of Library Science. She obviously applied a similar ‘throw it all in piles and heaven help the poor fool who tries to sort through it’ cataloguing method. He’d finally dug something up that looked promising but interpreting the personal code of abbreviations, in at least three separate languages, was slow-going.
He turned to the left and found the fridge easily within reach in the tiny kitchen. He pulled the door open and grinned; thank God for the universal predictability of hunters everywhere. He grabbed a cold beer and twisted the cap off, randomly flicking it into the other room to join an already sizeable pile of its mates. He leaned back and let all of the information he’d deciphered collate itself in his mind.
The door crashed open just as he was bringing the bottle up for another sip and he just missed spilling it all over himself. Angela plowed through the front room and slammed into the bathroom.
Dean followed more slowly, his mouth thin and his eyebrows scrunched together, sure signs that he was worrying at some bit of stubborn information. Sam reached into the fridge and grabbed another beer. Dean silently accepted the bottle, but it didn’t completely register with him-his gaze still stuck on something in the middle distance. His ring clinked rhythmically against the bottle’s glass in time with his thoughts.
Suddenly Dean snorted and looked down at the bottle in his hand, a side of his mouth curved up in sardonic amusement. “Just like the scotch,” he muttered to himself.
“What?” Sam responded, his voice laced with confusion and surprise.
“Remember back when we were kids and Dad worked that auto plant gig in Lansing?” Dean snapped off the beer cap and took a long, contemplative sip, his attention still focused on something inside his own head.
“Yes,” Sam drawled, not quite sure where Dean was going with this but willing to play along. The pathways Dean’s brain went down could be a little strange and obscure but they never failed to get the job done.
“Right before we left town that guy got mauled.” Dean looked at Sam with a raised eyebrow like he expected Sam to already know what he was thinking.
“Yeah, the were-wolverine. And the guy’s name was Dewar,” he finished with a roll of his eyes. Equating a name with malt liquor was such a Dean way to remember things. “But what does that have to do with-” He stopped abruptly and his eyes widened when the neurons in his brain hooked everything together. “Holy shit,” he breathed. So that’s why Dean was so morose.
“Yeap, pretty much,” Dean agreed.
They drank their beer in disbelieving silence. Sam stared at the piles of research on the table, seeing it with new eyes. He never would have connected the researcher to his vague memories of a mourning girl. It was surreal, weird in a way that he’d never experienced, notwithstanding a life that defined everyone else’s ‘weird’ as its daily norm.
The floor creaked, knocking Sam out of his shocked introspection. Angela stood at the far end of the table, hands braced on the back of a wooden chair. Her face was severe and faint worry lines spidered from the corners of her mouth. Sam ransacked his memory for some hint of familiarity, but there was nothing. If he’d ever known her the memory was lost in everything he’d done since.
“You’re not FBI agents,” she said, her voice haggard. “And don’t even try to tell me otherwise,” she continued before either of them could argue the point.
“All right, we won’t,” Dean replied, his hands raised at his waist, fingers spread in what could have been either defense or conciliation. He glanced at Sam, his intentions clear on his face.
For all the crap Dean gave him when they were kids he always broke for the truth first.
“You’re right, we’re not FBI,” Dean continued in his most sincere manner. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t help you find your sister. We help people with strange shit like this all of the time. Like I said, it’s our job, whether we’re official or not.”
“Like Gillian,” Angela whispered. Her eyes were fixed on her hands. They wrung the back of the chair with nervous energy.
“Yeah, kinda.” Dean shrugged. He glanced at Sam again, uncomfortable and looking for an out.
Sam easily took his brother’s non-verbal passing of the buck. He sat up straight, careful to not jostle the table, and gently set his beer bottle on the floor. It was showtime.
“So, luckily, Gillian had it pretty much worked out.” He spread a map out on the table and drew a circle around a particular area. “This isn’t the first time people have gone missing in that hunk of forest. Back in the 1800s at least three lumber companies reported strange disappearances. It got so bad that workers refused to cut that area. There were also reports of music in the woods, as if the trees were singing. Gillian also dug up Ojibwe legends from the area that referred to trees that would snatch you away.”
“So, what are we dealing with, some sort of land-based siren?” Dean leaned over the map like it was his whole world.
Sam shook his head and pushed over a notebook already turned to the appropriate pate. “No, it seems more like the spirit of a place. The Alongonquin believed that the earth has presence or personality and that some areas can either attract or repel. Some were even imbued with an almost godlike mystique.”
“Like that hotel in The Shining,” Angela said, her eyes glowing as she fell into the pulse of the investigation.
Sam blinked and grinned. “Sort of. More like Stonehenge or Mount Rushmore, places that attract monuments and crowds without any apparent reason.”
“But why now? If it’s always been like this then why did Gillian suddenly go into crazy research mode? Shouldn’t she have been ready for it?” Angela eyed the stacks of books and scattered papers in consternation. At least that meant that Gillian didn’t live this way all of the time.
“I don’t know,” Sam replied. “Maybe someone cut down one of the trees or performed a ceremony. Any number of things could have set it all off.”
“So I guess torching it isn’t going to get the job done,” Dean cut in, a little frustrated. Sam knew how much Dean preferred the tried and true methods for ending a problem. “Can’t really salt and burn the earth.”
“Probably not. Gillian had notes on protective symbols and warding techniques but I haven’t quite worked out which ones will be effective.” Sam grimaced. “Putting that together is going to take some time.”
“This might speed up the process.” Dean pulled an amulet out of his pocked and dangled it in the air. “I picked it up from the guy we just saw, the one who got out. I swiped it off of a table in the lounge,” he said in response to Angela’s quizzical look, his patented ‘it’s not my fault, I swear’ look stamped on his face.
Sam grabbed the amulet and felt everything fall into place as he squinted at the design. “So that’s what she decided on,” he muttered and grabbed a notebook off its precarious perch on the table. He opened it to a specific page and placed it carefully back down on another stack. Dean and Angela bent forward as Sam pointed at a specific illustration. “This is what we’ll need to go in there and get them out.”
Angela looked at him, her eyes swirled with emotions and at their root a grim determination that he recognized from his own mirror.
“Well then, let’s get this show on the road.”
~~~
Chapter Five