A Satellite of Sorrows: Part Two
They had just driven northwest out of Clarksville, Tennessee when Dean finally asked, “What’s the case?”
Sam glanced over at his brother, looking up from the paper he’d been reading, and replied, “Seems there’s a string of strange murders that Missouri caught wind of. She’s not sure what’s going on. That’s why she called.” Sam pretended that they’d not just spent the last eight hours not speaking.
Dean followed his lead and nodded, “So what’s the strange? Is it our strange or another case of humans gone wild?” He tried to keep the curtness out of his voice, but he knew it was unsuccessful when Sam winced.
Sam noticed the tense tone, but he knew they were good at ignoring tension, especially during a case. “She thinks it’s our strange. I’m not so sure.”
“What are you thinking?”
It was a loaded question. Sam wanted to answer it honestly. He wanted to say, I think you’re an alcoholic, Dean. I think you’re in pain and I think I have no idea how to help you. I think you’re mourning Bobby and Cas and even me, still, and you don’t know how not to feel this pain. I think I’m afraid you’re falling into a hole that’s deeper and darker than the pit I jumped into.
But Sam didn’t say any of this. Instead, he reviewed the details of the murders.
“Latest murder is Herb Mason, in Lawrence. His wife, Gerty, who according to everyone and their mother was the love of Herb’s life, didn’t alert the police to Herb’s murder for almost a week. And when they finally found the body lying out in the middle of the living room, she had basically no reaction to the fact that her husband of sixty-two years was brutally murdered. And as she watched, apparently. She’d just been going about her daily chores, as if it didn’t matter.”
“Huh, sounds almost like the plot of a Faulkner story.”
Sam raised his eyebrows.
“What?” Dean asked in mock offense. “How many times I got to tell you, Sammy? I do read.”
Sam shrugged and continued, “Anyway, it seems there have been three similar murders in the last six months. One in Wooster, Ohio. One in Darlington, South Carolina. And one in Norman, Oklahoma.”
“What do you mean by similar?”
“Well,” Sam considered the papers in front of him, “each murder was a ‘true love’ murder. The victim was one half of a well-known and loving couple. The epic kind of love couple. And each surviving partner apparently saw the murder but can’t identify the murderer. And get this -- each one of them is acting as if the love of their life barely existed at all.”
“So abuse, maybe? Skeletons in the closet? Perhaps the epic was epically bad behind closed doors?”
“I don’t know,” Sam chewed his lip. “I think it’s strange, but I can’t find anything that’d point to a demon or monster. There’s the timing and pattern, but that could be coincidence or another psychotic. And the reactions could be simply shock. But Missouri is convinced it’s something else. She said she’d tell us more when we got there.”
“Anything else?” Dean nodded toward the papers.
Sam shook his head, “Not that I see. But I’ll keep looking.” He flipped on the flashlight and continued reading. They fell back into the uncomfortable silence.
“Think he’s here?” Dean asked suddenly and Sam’s head snapped up. They both knew who “he” was.
“Don’t know. Maybe?” Sam’s lips turned down as he pondered aloud. He looked in the back seat, but it was empty. “Bobby?”
No response. Sam didn’t expect one. Bobby seemed to fade in and out. Sam remembered their own crossover and the energy it took to do the smallest thing. But Bobby was also showing more and more signs of rage, so who knew? He could be sitting there and they wouldn’t know it. He chose when to show up.
“It’s a little creepy, you know, thinking he’s watching over us and not knowing when and where.” Dean shifted his eyes to Sam and winked.
“You’re disgusting, Dean.”
“Just saying, Sammy. Be careful what you do. You never know who’s watching…”
Sam smiled tightly, “I’m not the one possibly giving him a show.”
Dean’s smile faded and he grimaced, “Shut up, Sam.”
“You brought it up.”
Dean glanced down at the dashboard, “We need gas and I’m hungry. We’ll pull over at the next exit.”
The change of subject made Sam snicker and his brother glared in response.
Lawrence, Kansas
Jasper Reynolds checked the meter again. The electric company sent him out to check on the old Winston place. The meter had been reading high for several days, at an alarmingly elevated level. And it still looked to be going like a bat out of hell.
He wiped his hands on his pants legs and stepped back, trying to follow the main line with his eyes.
“Hello, Jasper.”
He turned around, “Hey, Lettie, right?” The old Winston place had been bought up a few weeks ago by a large family. He’d seen the teenagers in town several times.
“Close enough,” the teen girl chuckled, the sound low and deep in her throat. Almost seductive. Her long blond hair shimmered in the sunlight and Jasper felt a twinge of lust, but he was old enough to curb such wayward tastes. He had a good family at home, he reminded himself.
“You guys have a lot of electricity going on in there,” Jasper noted, stepping back. The girl stepped forward again. “The light bill is going to be astronomical. You should tell your parents.”
“We require a lot of energy,” she replied, lifting her hands to his cheek. Jasper swore her eyes shifted shade, from dark blue to almost purplish black. Lights blinked and dimmed as she approached him.
“Stop,” an older girl, perhaps twenty, sprinted down the back stairs. She stepped next to the teenager, pushing the girl’s hand back to her side. “Stop it, now.”
The teenager pouted, “But it’s been too long.”
Her sister, Jasper guessed, sighed deeply. “Not part of the plan.”
“Fine,” the girl huffed and Jasper breathed in relief. His breath caught again as the older girl pushed him back and laid her own hand on his cheek. He saw a flash of light and gasped. Several moments passed.
Jasper looked up at the two girls blankly, “Hey, Lettie, right?”
The young girl nodded, “Close enough.”
“Well, look at you boys. You’ve gotten bigger and better-looking. How’s that possible?” Missouri’s voice was affectionate as she invited the brothers inside. “Come in, come in. I’m glad you came so fast.”
Dean stayed silent as Sam replied, “Well, we don’t have many old friends left, Missouri, so when one calls for help, we can’t ignore it.”
Missouri looked back and forth between the brothers, her eyes finally falling on Dean. “At least one of you can’t ignore it, you mean.”
Dean glanced down in shame, but then a moment later his eyes popped up in rebellion. “We’re here, right?”
The old woman shook her head, “So much like your father, it’s uncanny.” She led them toward the kitchen. “You boys want anything to eat? Drink?” She winked at Dean, “I’ve got homemade pie.”
Sam smirked as Dean’s eyes lit up. It was an automatic reaction, but then Sam remembered why it was so joyful and the smirk faded to a quiet frown. Mom fed Dean pie when she and Dad were fighting, when he needed to feel safe. Sam wondered if there was ever a moment in Dean’s life when he actually felt safe and secure. He doubted it.
Missouri placed two plates before them. The aroma of fresh apple pie wafted through the room. It was so homey it was almost noxious.
“What’s going on with Mason?” Dean asked around a mouthful of pie.
“Don’t eat with your mouth full, boy.” The older woman scolded.
“Sorry,” he muttered and she shot him another look. Sam’s plate remained untouched, so he asked, “What do you know about the Mason murder?”
Missouri straightened her back and folded her hands on the table, “I’ve known Gerty and Herb my whole life. They’ve been the most stable couple in this town for the last sixty-five years. High school sweethearts and all.”
“Yeah, I got that much,” Sam replied. He pulled his laptop from the bag and was about to open it when Missouri reached over, placing a firm hand on the lid.
“Not at the dinner table, Samuel.”
He winced, “Sorry.”
“You boys are no heathens, so enjoy your food and listen for a change, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Their voices echoed together.
“Now where was I? Oh, yes, so Gerty and Herb were like the perfect married couple, except they didn’t have kids. Shame, really. They’d have been good parents, but you know, God sometimes gives you children in other ways. And they took care of a bunch of the wild ones in town, including your daddy at one point.”
Both Sam and Dean looked up sharply at her. “Dad?” Dean asked, forgetting the pie that was still on his tongue.
“Dean Winchester, if I have to tell you again….” Missouri reproached.
“So,” Sam interrupted, “the Masons were well-known and respected? And they were the ideal married couple?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So what happened to change that?” he wondered aloud.
“See that’s the thing, Sam. Nothing. I saw them the day before the murder down at the grocer. They were still going on like teenagers. They always did.” she sighed, “It’s just not right.”
“So why do you think it’s something supernatural? Could it be dementia? I mean, they are up there in age.” Dean asked as he finished off the plate full of pie.
She tsked at him, “You don’t suddenly get dementia overnight, son. Gerty’s been volunteering at the local library and school for over fifty years. Every Saturday and Sunday she’s there helping the kids read, research, all kinds of stuff. We’d have all noticed if she was losing her mind.”
“You said there was something else, too, when we spoke.” Sam reminded her as he pushed his half eaten pie away.
“Yes, and that’s where you boys come in.” She took both plates and placed them in the sink. She turned back to them,
“There’s something missing in Gerty. I can feel it.”
“Missing? What d’you mean?” Dean leaned back in the chair, its two front legs lifting off the ground. Missouri stared at him and he let the chair fall back to the floor.
“I mean, Dean, that there’s something gone inside her. I can’t explain it, but what had been there the day I saw Gerty and Herb is now just gone, disappeared.” She played with the dish towel before adding, “And you know my powers are pretty good, but this? This is too powerful for me to see. I can sense it, but to see it? I just don’t have that kind of insight.”
A few moments passed before she said, almost wistfully, “I need your help. We need your help. I don’t want all those kids who’ve admired and loved those two old people to feel cheated. World’s a mess as it is. Sometimes all you can cling to are the stories, and Gerty and Herb? They were a good story in bad times.”
Dean and Sam looked at each other. Dean rolled his eyes and spoke, “We’ll see what we can find, but no guarantees. But we’ll enter Cocoon land for a bit.”
Missouri smiled at him, “I knew you’d do it.”
Dean rose and headed for the door, “We’ll go out to their place and look around.”
She followed them out. Just as they were leaving, she grabbed Sam’s wrist. “You need to let him go through this, Sam. But don’t let him fall over the edge, you hear?”
Sam shook his head, not understanding.
“You still have it in you, you know? It’s buried deep, in a dark place, and maybe that’s a good thing. Sometimes what we see is the sin we can never admit to. But your brother? He’s two bottles away from oblivion. There’s some powerful demons inside him, and they’re not the ones you hunt.”
“What’s still inside me?” He asked, not sure what she was talking about.
“You know, Sam.” She released his wrist. “You know. You may not want to know, but you do.”
“Hey, Sammy? You comin’?”
Sam nodded and called out, “Yeah!”
He glanced back at Missouri, whose pensive gaze showed her concern. He empathized with her, yet didn’t know why.
They’d been searching the Mason place for over an hour. The two-story house was still under police investigation, so they stopped by the department earlier, showing their fake federal I.D.s for access. They’d wanted to speak with Gerty, but she’d been moved to a nursing home that morning, and they were told to visit her the next day. Not wanting to waste time, Dean had suggested a once over of the home.
“Sam, look at this.” Dean called from the living room. Police tape was still up, so he bent down underneath it.
“What is it?” Sam peered over his brother’s shoulder.
Dean held up a business card. It had a picture of a sky and the name “High Hopes” emblazoned across its face. It was the name of Herb’s roofing company.
“Ironic, right?” Dean asked.
“So was that a clue or a random observation?” Sam stood up, “And by the way, that is not ironic. Look up the definition, Mr. I Read Faulkner.”
“Whatever. Sorry I missed that lesson in Dead Poet’s Society.”
Sam shook his head, ignoring his brother’s last comment. “I think this is a dead end.”
Dean smiled, “For Herb it sure was.”
“Dean,” Sam warned.
“What? I’m on a roll. Don’t mess with the flow.” He dropped the card back on the table. Glancing around the room, he took in the mess. Chairs were turned over and a table was broken in the corner. It looked to be an antique. Gerty’s knitting was thrown on the floor, bundled up against the sofa. Everything was a disaster. Even dust was accumulating in what he suspected had been an ultra-clean room.
“Huh.”
Dean looked at his brother’s familiar downturned mouth. It was his ‘thinking’ face as Dean liked to call it. Silently, of course. He followed Sam’s gaze and saw it.
“That’s awfully clean and shiny.” Dean murmured, walking toward the fireplace. They both stopped and studied the mantle.
Pictures were turned over, their faces lying on the dusty wood surface. A few knickknacks were scattered about, and in the middle of the chaos was a single ornament.
“What is that?” Dean asked as he leaned closer.
“An apple,” Sam responded. Dean listened to the snap of latex gloves as Sam put them on. His brother reached out and lifted the object. Its golden surface caught the sunlight and threw rays back into the room. It was beautiful and delicately engraved with artwork. The light caught the object and they could see what looked to be small figures across the surface. The figures moved as one through a series of life stages; the markings told the love story of a young couple as they grew old together. It was intricate and well made.
“Heavy,” he remarked as he showed it to Dean.
“And shiny. No dust or cracks. It weathered the storm well. Too well?”
Sam shrugged, “Don’t know. Interesting, though. Engravings remind me of those old Grecian urns.” He placed it back on the mantle.
“Let’s get back to the motel room and do some more research,” Dean said.
Back at the motel room, Sam pulled out the laptop and started researching the other murders, hoping he could figure out some pattern or something that would help them out.
In Darlington, the man who survived the attack, John Franklin, was married to his wife, Laura, for thirty-five years. He’d called the police to come get her body after three days. During that time he sat at the kitchen table and organized all his tools while his dead wife sat propped at the table, the single gunshot wound to the stomach leaking blood onto the stark white tile floor. The police were convinced John killed his wife and held him on first-degree murder charges. Their only child, Beth, died years ago, so it wasn’t clear if anyone was advocating for John. But it was almost the same exact story as Gerty’s - unsympathetic retelling of the murder while John watched. He can’t remember the assailant.
In Wooster, Darrin Roberts was killed while his wife of fifteen years watched. In that case, Charlotte was not a suspect. She was confined to a wheelchair and the manner of Darrin’s death, hanging from the couple’s twelve-foot ceiling, excluded her as a suspect. He’d been beaten beforehand and his body hung out like a piece of meat from their twelve foot ceiling. The only way the police were notified is when the local church noted the couple’s absence for two consecutive services and sent someone by the house. And like both John and Gerty, Charlotte could only recall vague details, nothing much to go on. And again, the stories about the couple mirrored the Masons and Franklins - no surviving children, well known as a loving and perfect pair. Some even described them as soul mates. Sam had to admit that it was odd.
Finally, the murder in Norman involved the death of Ross Parker, whose partner was one Trent Adams. The two men had been together for over ten years, and from all accounts, they were as in love the day before Ross died as they had been when they first met in their twenties. Trent was a photographer, and the eerie part of their case was that Adams had taken pictures of the crime scene aftermath because, according to the police report, “The play of light and dark on his prone and broken body was too artful not to capture.” The local police were still investigating the possibility that Trent had murdered his partner, but a local LGBT organization was convinced it was a hate crime and had set up a donation line for Adams’s defense fund.
The local media were running with the hate crime angle.
Sam rubbed his eyes and looked at his cell phone. He’d been researching for a few hours now. He glanced over at the bed where Dean was sprawled out on the bedspread and snoring. The sneaky little breaths escaped every few minutes, and Sam remembered how it used to grate on his nerves as a teenager, when they had to share a room. When he left for Stanford, it’d taken him months to sleep easily without that noise. Sam would never admit that to Dean, of course. That would just leave him open to his brother’s awkward ridicule.
“Dean. Dean, wake up, man.” He jostled his brother’s foot.
“Hmmm,” Dean opened his eyes slowly and stared up at Sam. For a split second Sam saw the young man he’d grown up with, the wide sleepy gaze somewhat innocent in its waking self-awareness. But it was gone almost immediately. Dean had learned to wear his masks well.
“Let’s get some dinner,” Sam suggested, throwing the jacket at Dean’s head. Dean pulled it off with a sharp curse.
“I need a drink,” Dean muttered as he threaded his arms into the soft denim material. “Two drinks, actually.”
“Leave it here.”
Dean looked down at the flask in his hand, fingers flexing around the worn leather cover. He glanced up at his brother. There was a hesitance in his eyes, but Sam shook his head.
“Leave it.” A few seconds passed and Dean laid the flask on the round table next to the door and followed his brother out.
They crossed the street and headed toward a cluster of restaurants, finally deciding on some healthy burger place. Of course, Dean thought, health food. They had recently fallen into a pattern of eating at healthy restaurants. It made Dean’s skin crawl.
“Someday we’ll eat like humans again,” he mumbled as they entered.
“They have burgers,” Sam looked back at his brother, rolling his eyes.
“Some of that organic, raised on alfalfa cattle or buffalo, you mean. I like my cows with chemicals. Gives ‘em spice.” He smiled a toothy, over-bright smile. The one that Sam resisted punching.
After they were seated, Sam took out his notebook. He’d made a series of notes, some of them posted on the motel room wall, but he excerpted the most important patterns and began reviewing them with Dean.
“So love gone bad stories? Do we got ourselves another rogue cupid?” Dean cringed at the menu. Friggin’ bison burgers. He just wanted cow. Good ol’ American cow, preferably Texan, but even a California cow would do. “”Cause if so, you’re chasing him. I still have nightmares about the last one.”
Sam didn’t look up from his notes, “You just don’t like being hugged by naked men.”
“Aw, Sammy. You ever gonna forgive me for that? You were sixteen and it was creepy.”
“Don’t even start. I was drunk and I thought you were Lydia. And remember, I’m not the one obsessed with Dick these days,” he side eyed him, before picking up the menu and choosing an item absently.
Dean glared at him and was about to retort when the waitress approached. Her bright, cheery smile matched her college blond ponytail and clean make up. She was young, fresh, healthy. Dean leaned back in the chair and smiled up at her, his eyes traveling up her body. She stopped for a moment, puzzled, and then smiled indulgently. “You look like my oldest brother,” she greeted Dean and Sam slapped a hand over his mouth, but not before a laugh escaped.
Dean straightened and grimaced at his menu, “First, I need a beer. A real beer, not a local brewery beer. Second, do you have regular burgers?”
“Sure!” She exclaimed and then spent the next three minutes going over all the types of burgers they had. Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the litany. He let her finish and said, “A regular burger, with fries. Fries that are actually fried.” He handed her the menu, “Thanks.”
She shrugged and turned to Sam, who of course ordered some weird vegetarian burger that would clean out the fullest city sewer pipe. “He’s trying to keep his girlish figure,” Dean told her. She glanced back and forth between them before sprinting away.
“You look like my oldest brother, too, if that helps,” Sam told him, grinning.
“Well, you look like an old brother, too,” Dean muttered. As soon as he said it, he knew it didn’t make sense, but he committed to it anyway. His defiant gaze dared Sam to respond.
Sam chuckled, “Oh, Dean, always with scissors and never with a good comeback. Don’t change.”
“So what else did you find out about the murders?” Dean changed the subject decisively. The waitress returned and set a glass of beer in front of Dean and water in front of Sam.
“That’s about it,” Sam laid the notebook on the table and sat back. “I’m not sure what’s going on. I know Missouri’s convinced it’s a case, but other than the weird emotional amnesia of the surviving spouses, I’m not sure there’s anything else to go on. The types of deaths are different. We have a beating, a gunshot, and a hanging. Mason was beaten as well, so there’s two similar murders.” He paused and opened up the notebook again, “But I just don’t know.”
“What about that ornament we found? Did you see anything similar in the other crime scenes?”
Sam shook his head, “I can’t access the photos. They’re all locked behind security firewalls. Let’s just say Homeland Security has hit the local level. And the journalists have stuck to the emotional impact of the stories, so most of the published photos are old family pictures and portraits.”
Dean lifted his hands and cracked his knuckles, “Well, lucky for us I’m a student of Frank’s. I’ll take a crack at it when we get back to the motel.”
Sam’s eyebrows rose in skepticism, “Sure, okay there, Mitnick. Let’s see you hack your way into those halls.”
“You doubt me, Sammy? I’m hurt.” Dean grinned. “I’ll get you photos and times and even numbers of close relatives, how about that?” He raised his glass of beer and tipped it towards his brother in salute.
After dinner the brothers made their way back to the motel. They walked into the room and were greeted by an irritated Bobby.
“Why’d you leave me?” He motioned toward the flask. Sam and Dean looked at each other before Dean replied. “We had a case to concentrate on and didn’t want you to pop up in public and scare the crap out of us,” Dean grabbed the flask and stuffed it into his inside pocket. “You’ve become Creeper Claus lately, man.”
“Very funny,” Bobby replied and sat down in the seat next to the window. “Where are we anyway?”
Sam didn’t look at either Dean or Bobby when he answered, “Lawrence.”
“What? Why?” Bobby seemed aghast. “What in bloody hell you doing back here, idjits?”
“Case,” Sam said quietly as he opened the laptop. He avoided answering the question further by bringing up the police station in Wooster. “So, Danny Ocean, you want to come over here and jimmy the locks on these sites?”
Dean nodded and walked past Bobby, being careful not to bump into him. Even though Dean was sure he’d pass through the older man, either way, touching or not touching a ghost Bobby freaked him out a little. He shoved Sam out of the way and began hitting keys. He remembered most of Frank’s lessons and applied them well. Fortunately for them, the information they wanted wasn’t highly prized or secret, just sensitive. He bit his lip as he worked.
“Ain’t he cute?” Bobby observed sarcastically. “We have our own little Matthew Broderick trying to stop World War III.”
“Shhh,” both Sam and Dean hushed him.
“Got it! Bingo!” Dean exclaimed as he turned the computer towards Sam. A series of photos loaded on the screen.
“You still have to show me that,” Sam mumbled as he started examining the photos.
Dean patted his brother on the head, “You’re just jealous that I have mad computer skills that don’t involve porn.”
Sam ignored him and went about looking at the photos as Dean considered Bobby.
“Where’ve you been?” Dean asked quietly as he sat opposite Bobby at the round table. The motel room was small and non-descript. The small table sat next to the window where the badly stained drapes hung over the now quiet air conditioner.
“Around,” Bobby responded. “Sometimes….I don’t know. I just come back? It’s weird, boy. It’s like I’ve been abducted by aliens and I got missing chunks of time. But then I’ll stay for days and…well, it’s just weird.”
“I remember. Being dead is weird. Being a ghost? That’s just supernatural,” he looked at Bobby carefully. “How you feeling?”
“What you mean to ask is do I still feel the Ed Wood version of roid rage for Dick Roman, right?”
Dean nodded, “Yeah, you kinda went vengeful spirit on him back in Chicago, man. It was a little scary.”
“Kinda?” Sam interrupted, looking at Dean unbelieving.
“He killed me, Sam! What’d you expect I’d do? Sit down and have tea with the son of a bitch once I saw him? Maybe bake him some cookies as we discussed what vitamins are best to take for monsters?” Bobby got up and paced the room. He shifted by Sam and Dean watched as Bobby’s hand moved through Sam’s body. Both he and his brother shivered.
“Hold up, Bobby. I’m not saying you have to play nice with Roman,” Dean got up as well and moved between Sam and Bobby.
“More than anything I want that bastard brought down in a blaze of glory, Old West style. But, man, you got to make a gut check here. You do anything stupid, like lead him to us before we’re ready to battle? Then we’re up a creek without a paddle.”
“I ain’t gonna do anything to endanger you boys. You know that,” Bobby’s voice was incredulous and strained as he looked at Dean. “You know that, right?”
“I don’t think you’d mean to,” Sam rose and turned to Bobby. “But I think you’re feeling a lot of things right now, and I’m not sure you’re thinking straight when it comes to Roman.” There, Sam thought, I said it.
“Oh, that’s great,” Bobby fumed. “I’m getting psychological advice from the former demon-blood addict?”
Sam’s head snapped back as if he’d been slapped. Dean stepped forward, “Hey, wait a minute.” He held up a hand, the other one instinctively lowering to Sam’s shoulder. “Bobby. Bobby. Listen to me, okay? You know Sam’s just concerned, as we all are, that Dick Roman get what’s coming to him and that we don’t screw it up.”
Bobby looked surprised at his own outburst. Shame and guilt settled in his expression as he looked at Sam, “Boy, I’m sorry. I didn’t…”
Sam shook it off, “It happens. Heat of the moment and all.” He sat back down at the computer.
“I’m sorry,” he turned to Dean. His gaze displayed his helplessness and Dean sympathized with him.
“Like Sam said, happens, right? If you can’t insult your family, then who can you insult?”
Bobby’s shoulders slumped and just like that he was gone.
“Bobby?” Dean called out, but empty space answered him. Dean sat back down at the table and fetched the flask from his jacket pocket. He held it between his hands, turning it over and over, The unconscious movement mimic his thought process as he considered what they were in. He couldn’t deny it - Bobby was becoming more emotionally unstable.
“He’ll be all right, Dean.”
Dean glanced up to find his brother staring at him, at the flask in his hands. He knew Sam was lying, trying to comfort him knowing that deep down inside this is what Dean wanted. He’d wanted so badly for Bobby to still be with them, to still look out for them. And like everything else in their screwed-up world, he got his wish; but at a price, it seemed.
“Will he, Sam?” He set the flask down on the table. He stared at it for a moment before grabbing his jacket. “I’m going out,” he announced.
“What?” Sam was pissed.
“Out? As in the opposite of in?” Dean threw the keys at his brother, who caught them effortlessly. “I’ll walk. If you need the car, just take it.”
“We have a case here, Dean.” Sam’s irritation was growing. He rubbed his palms down his thighs, the denim burning his skin.
Dean shrugged, “I got you into the system. Now it’s just a one-man job. Too late to interview anyone and too dark to go back out to the Masons’. And most importantly, I need a drink.”
“You don’t need a drink, Dean.”
“You’re right, I don’t. But I do want one, and as a big boy, I get to have what I want. See how that works?” He leaned over and patted Sam on the head.
As he opened the door Sam warned him, “Remember to fall into your own bed when you get back at ass o’clock in the morning.”
“Awwww, and here I thought you liked snuggling,” Dean winked and ducked out right before the pillow flew against the closed door.
Part Three